Title: Pragmatics
Fandom: Togainu no Chi
Pairing: Keisuke/Akira
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex
Disclaimer: TnC belongs to Nitro+Chiral. I'm just playing in their sandbox.
Notes: Set between Togainu no Chi's ending and the epilogue on Keisuke's route.
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Pragmatics
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If there was anything Keisuke had learned in life, it was never to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Of course, he did not have a name to the concept until much later, but from the moment he approached the aloof boy with the piercing blue-gray eyes, who was sitting by himself on the swings in the backyard of the orphanage, with an offer of friendship (anxiously, tentatively, in—or so he remembered—a horribly squeaky voice) and the boy said, "Okay," he knew better than to ask any questions.
And now, squinting into the bright sunlight just outside the tunnel leading back into hell, and feeling Akira's hand still firmly wrapped around his... he was not about to start now. Because Akira was tugging lightly at his arm, pulling him away from the yawning darkness, and although neither of them had any idea where they would go from now on, Keisuke knew that this was as perfect as it could get.
.
.
The apartment they settled for was barely big enough for two people, with a bathroom that was more of an involuntary joke than a real bathroom, and a bedroom where having two futons side-by-side almost filled out the space entirely, and if you wanted to make it to the dresser in the pre-dawn gloom, you had to be careful not to step on the other person's limbs. The problem was solved by the fact that Akira always slept curled into a ball—Keisuke could not remember him ever sleeping in any other position—and was able to navigate the rooms in total darkness with the same grace and precision he used for everything else (except cooking, maybe, but Keisuke would never say that aloud).
The blinds were only working partially, so some light was always streaming in from the outside, and Keisuke felt a little guilty for promising to fix them and never quite getting around to doing it, because at ten o'clock sharp, the neon sign from the club on the other side of the street would go on and the light would hit Akira's face just so, and that never failed to make Keisuke stare. It was a bit embarrassing that he was losing sleep over this.
But it was just a little hard to stop staring when Akira was so close by. Keisuke had this urge to touch him, sometimes, their beds being as close as they were, and he knew he could, if he shifted to the far left side and just reached out with his arm, but he didn't because it didn't seem right. He could admit, if only to himself, that he was a little disappointed with the sleeping arrangements, because weren't they— hadn't they— but he understood that Akira wasn't one for touching and liked having his own space, and he had made do with much worse in the past.
(He didn't like to think about the fact that he used to spend alternate nights almost pressed to the paper-thin wall of his old apartment, hoping to hear Akira moving about in his sleep. He didn't like how that made him sound messed up, like those creepy stalker people on TV who break into somebody else's house to steal their underwear and leave them dead pigeons and wilted roses, and Akira would probably be weirded out if he knew. It was hard to say what would weird Akira out, but Keisuke was sure weirding himself out.)
It still made him worry, though; they hadn't, well, done anything since... not since that night, in Toshima, they hadn't even kissed, and that troubled him more than he liked to admit, because he had promised himself that he would wait for Akira to initiate things, which was perhaps a little foolish since Akira rarely initiated anything—even as kids, it had always been Keisuke who had pleaded and begged until Akira had given in and joined some game or another, it had been Keisuke who cajoled him into movie nights and occasional sleepovers. That unsettled him all the more, though, since these things had always involved pushing and getting on Akira's nerves, and that was a stupid thing to do in a relationship.
He was already afraid that Akira hadn't really wanted it, back then, that he had only given in because Keisuke was being pushy and desperate and he knew that Akira had been concerned for him, had been worried about losing him (he hated how that made him feel glad, so horribly disgustingly glad), and the thought that Akira had just rolled over and let him do things so Keisuke wouldn't do anything else stupid...
It made him feel sick to his stomach.
He knew that he had done things, horrible things, even if he didn't remember exactly what they were in places. The nightmares were giving him more than a fair idea, though, and that made him wonder how Akira could even stand to have him around anymore, but Akira did not want his guilt.
He would get up and get him a glass of water from the kitchen, and not say anything about the fact that Keisuke had woken him up with his screaming (again) at three in the morning (again), and would help him to drink it when Keisuke's own hands were shaking so much they would spill everything, and he would let Keisuke cling and cry until his shirt was a mess and Keisuke had developed a humiliating hysterical hiccup.
Keisuke was allowed to do all that, but he was not allowed to apologize. Apologies were the only thing that made Akira angry.
He had no idea if Akira was having any nightmares. It was hard to tell when he slept so still, with barely any sound, so that the only way you knew he was still alive was because he was breathing. Keisuke longed to ask, just like he was afraid to ask at the same time. He would have loved to offer comfort, even though he knew how hypocritical that was.
But out of the two of them, Akira had always been the strong one, the practical one, the one who faced up to challenges and mastered them one at a time (and it didn't matter if those challenges were the monsters hiding in the back of the walk-in wardrobe when they were kids, or the tournaments in Blaster, or Igura, or anything), while Keisuke had always been the one who followed, because there was no other choice.
.
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"This is boring."
". . ."
"Who needs this stuff, anyway?"
". . ."
"Ne, ne, Akira, let's go out and play, okay?"
". . ."
"Shut up."
Stricken, Keisuke did shut up. Satisfied, his companion stopped glaring at him from across the table, and went back to struggling with his book and pencil. The task was further complicated by the fact that the furniture was not really fit for doing homework on, especially not if one happened to be about four feet tall.
Silence for a while, filled only by the scratching of a single pencil, and then, "...Akiraaa...?"
The other boy gave him a piercing look, not quite a glare, but one that sufficiently conveyed his annoyance. "What now?"
"Can you do mine, too? I promise I'll make it up to you."
"No."
Biting his lip, Keisuke glanced down at his blank page. He hated spelling exercises. Matron was always getting upset at him for bad handwriting.
On the other side of the table, Akira heaved a sigh. "Stupid. How are you gonna learn to do it right if you don't practice?"
"But it's hard," Keisuke protested. "And I don't see why we need it."
The blank face told him he had just said something very stupid. "It's only, uh, everywhere?"
Keisuke looked sullen.
Another sigh. "If you don't learn how to write, how are we gonna pass notes in class?"
"Notes?" Keisuke asked, perking.
Instead of answering, Akira tore a page from his homework book, scribbled something on it and then spent a good minute folding it so demonstratively that it made Keisuke wonder whether he was trying to turn it into an origami bird. He barely caught it when the little note came sailing at his head shortly thereafter.
There was only one word written on the paper, square in the center, in a script so small and neat it would make Matron jealous.
'Write.'
For some reason, Keisuke felt that the single full stop was really six exclamation marks in disguise. And it was strange how that made him both happy and embarrassed, but Keisuke thought that this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
"Okay. But don't laugh if it looks ugly."
Once again absorbed in his own homework, Akira did not reply.
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Since then, of course, Keisuke had learned how to read and write properly. Akira's script was still much neater, tiny and tight on the sticky notes he tended to leave on the fridge in the form of shopping lists, reminders and phone numbers.
Keisuke would not admit to the small slip of paper with the single word on it, smudged and crinkly and a bit torn at the edges, tucked away in the depths of his wallet.
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At the moment, the biggest challenge in his job in the factory—besides seeing Akira in dirty coveralls day in, day out, cheeks smudged with grease—was learning to drive.
Neither he nor Akira ever had tried for a license, since there had never been any point to it. They had either walked or snuck on the subway without a ticket, and between neighborhood gang fights and surviving on odd jobs, owning a car had been the furthest thing on their minds. Now, though, the boss wanted him to learn to drive the truck, and the thought of maneuvering that monster through an obstacle course under the watchful eyes of an examiner was enough to make him quail.
Which was why he was currently standing in the kitchen, gesticulating wildly and yelling (he refused to think of it as "wailing") at Akira, who was still bleary-eyed, sleep-rumpled, not even on his first cup of coffee (today was his free day, which made it all the worse), and thus wholly unsympathetic to Keisuke's plight.
"...and I heard that they're going to expect me to park that monster blindfolded, and. I. can't. do this!"
"Keisuke," Akira said after three blinks and a sip of coffee. "It's going to be fine."
"No, it's not! I'll get fired if I fail."
"Nobody ever got fired for that," Akira pointed out reasonably, with an undercurrent of aggravation.
"I will if I total the truck!"
"You won't."
"You don't know that! What if—"
It took him a second to comprehend that the reason why no more words were coming out of his mouth was because Akira was kissing him. Then, it took him another second to wrap his mind around the fact that Akira was kissing him, a simple, close-mouthed kiss, and he had never received a good-luck kiss before and this was certainly the most disgruntled good-luck kiss ever, but it was Akira and before he could even think about kissing back, it was all over.
"Keisuke," Akira said, his eyes now clear and looking thoroughly unfazed by the fact that he had just sent Keisuke's mind into meltdown. "Shut up."
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Keisuke still did not know how he had managed not to crash the truck that day, as his mind had certainly not been on anything related to the obstacle course.
Akira didn't kiss him again, but when Keisuke came home and showed him the brand new license, he said, "Congratulations," with a tiny smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.
Keisuke was able to count the amount of times he had seen Akira smile with the fingers of both hands.
Since then, the kiss and that smile had eclipsed that frantic night in Toshima as the most wonderful thing in his memory—they didn't make that night any less wonderful, any less precious, but these were two things he was sure Akira had given willingly, for whatever reason.
The unanswered questions were tormenting him, though, because since then, three weeks had passed and Akira hadn't done anything else, hadn't said anything, and that made Keisuke afraid to ask. He didn't know, after all, why Akira had chosen to kiss him that morning, in between coffee and him acting like an idiot, whether it was because he wanted to or because he was taking pity on Keisuke.
It was pathetic, and crazy and unreal how much that memory was taunting him, how it was making him stare at Akira's lips in the most mundane of situations (they were pale pink except on that spot on his bottom lip which he tended to bite when he was thinking, leaving tiny reddish depressions, and sometimes his tongue would peek out and run over them and make them gleam—and gods, was he sounding like a creepy stalker yet?), how it made him remember certain details with unnatural clarity, like the tickle of mussed hair on his cheek and the taste of day-old coffee and the scent of sleep on Akira.
How it drove him to the bathroom on alternate nights, made him jerk off hurriedly with his forehead pressed against the tiles and his fist in his mouth, praying all the while that Akira wouldn't wake up.
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It was almost May by the time Keisuke had worked up the courage to ask about the sleeping arrangements.
He had been driving himself half-crazy those past weeks just thinking about kissing, and things had reached a point where anything could set him off, from the sight of Akira's fingers wrapped around a pair of chopsticks to Akira tying his shoelaces. He was now almost spending more time in the bathroom than at any point before Igura, and Keisuke realized that he had a problem when Akira frowned disconcertedly one day, inquired about a stomach bug while reaching over to touch his rapidly flushing forehead, and he just came in his pants.
Keisuke was pretty sure that the only thing that would help—aside from bashing himself unconscious for a few hours a day—was touching Akira a bit, keeping himself from going crazy about small things. He spent a long time thinking about what he was going to say, how he was going to phrase things so that Akira wouldn't think that he was cracking up or sex-obsessed (though he wasn't so sure about that, himself) and feel forced to relinquish his personal space.
He spent time practicing his request, mumbling under his breath, carefully laying out his reasons and his promises so Akira wouldn't have to be uncomfortable, but when they were lying on their futons that night and the neon light was making Akira's skin glow, all his eloquence was replaced by nervous stuttering and half-aborted sentences.
"Could we— I mean, do you mind if— um, can I sleep with you tonight?"
Dreadful silence, and Keisuke realized with a start how that had sounded, every bit how he had not wanted it to sound, and hurried to make amends, "I-I don't mean sleeping like sleeping, I mean. I. Just— just sharing, you know, because... um."
"It's gonna be crowded."
"Ah, yeah," Keisuke said, struggling to mask his disappointment. "You're right."
There was a rustle of sheets and then Akira was flipping back the blanket. "I didn't say I minded."
It took all his restraint not to scramble out of his own bed and under Akira's blankets. Predictably, the futon was not really big enough for two people, but they managed somehow without knocking knees or elbows together too many times. Akira curled up on his side again, his back towards Keisuke, looking warm and inviting.
"H-hey, Akira, do you mind if— I mean..." He shifted closer, his arm hovering over Akira's side. "Is it okay if I...?"
"Go to sleep," Akira said, not unkindly, and bridged the remaining gap, so that Keisuke's chest ended up firmly against his back, his nose almost buried in tousled locks. For a moment, Keisuke lay very still, inhaling, feeling the slow motion of Akira's chest under his arm, before moving his hips away so that he wouldn't make a nuisance of himself.
It had been a long time since he had last slept so well.
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When he had been about eight, he used to have a pack of cards. He didn't remember exactly where he got it from, or where he learned how to play poker (truth be told, he was not even sure whether it really had been poker or just a game he had made up on his own), but he remembered dragging Akira into it and using sweets or feathers or marbles as a prize, whatever happened to be at hand.
Soon, Akira became pretty good at it, and although he wouldn't smile when he won, his eyes would gleam with a certain light. Keisuke loved that, loved how it lit up his normally impassive face, and he loved giving things to Akira, anyway, so much so that he started rigging his own game to see that gleam more often.
Of course, he didn't go about it in a very smart way, and after a few days of winning every single game, Akira had him all figured out.
He still counted the week Akira had been mad at him as one of the worst times in his life, when Akira wouldn't play with him, wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't look at him. He did not even remember what finally caused Akira to forgive him, but it involved an embarrassing amount of crying.
They did not play poker again. Keisuke made up a new game, which Akira picked up with equal speed, and although he held fast to his tearful promises of never cheating again, the gleam never returned to Akira's eyes.
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Summer always used to be the worst time of the year for him, not because of thunderstorms (which he hated) or bugs (which just loved to bite him), but because the unrelenting heat would turn the apartment into a room-shaped cooking pot which the single ventilator could not hope to alleviate, and this meant seeing Akira sweaty and half-naked and with melon juice dribbling down his chin, and knowing that he was sleeping without any clothes on.
Which, in turn, meant regular trips to the bathroom.
This year was no different, except for the sunscreen. The glaring summer sun was murder for people with Akira's fair skin, so it really should not have surprised him to see Akira rubbing himself down with the stuff before work, except that it did and he stopped and stared like a voyeuristic pervert, until Akira looked up from his task and said, "What's wrong?", and Keisuke blurted out an offer to help do his back with the boldness of the desperate.
He had not really expected Akira to actually agree, but agree he did, with a blink and a mumbled, "Alright", thrusting the tube of sunscreen at a flabbergasted Keisuke.
Of course, the combination of staring at Akira's pale, smooth skin and touching Akira's pale, smooth skin (sweaty, trembling hands and all) led to a predictable result, which caused him to be late for work and earned him a dressing-down by the boss, but it was worth it.
Keisuke was not sure whether to curse or bless the day Akira came up with the sodas.
He was dozing on the couch, which was the only thing to do in thirty-five degrees of smoldering August heat, when the touch of a solid block of ice sent him bolting from his prone position with an unmanly yell.
"Soda," came Akira's amused voice from above, though it took Keisuke a moment to drag his eyes away from the pale jut of his hipbone over the rim of his shorts.
"Uh, thanks," he said belatedly, taking one of the two cans out of his hand. Akira plopped down beside him on the couch, and pressed his own frosted can to the side of his neck with a little moan of relief.
Keisuke's mouth went dry.
"Ngh," Akira said and dragged the can to the other side of his neck, rolling it over his throat, past his collarbone, across his chest, leaving fine trails of condensation.
Keisuke's can spontaneously exploded in a shower of fizzy, ice-cold soda.
"I'm sorry, Akira!" he exclaimed, quickly putting the damaged can on the coffee table where it continued to fizz and fume, and reaching for a leftover napkin.
"Hn. It's okay."
Akira regarded him for a moment, regarded the proffered paper napkin, and unceremoniously began wiping soda from his chest with his bare hand, licking it off his fingers. He only spared Keisuke a curious glance when he collapsed on the sofa with a frustrated whimper and did not move again until Akira was safely out of sight.
.
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For as long as Keisuke had known him, Akira had been an early riser. He woke up at an ungodly hour in the morning, even when there was nothing specific to do, every day and always at the same time.
When Keisuke, in one of his clumsy endeavors to learn everything there was to know about Akira, had asked him what he was doing up so early, he had frowned contemplatively, shrugged, and muttered, "...Things."
Similarly, Akira had always been an unusually heavy sleeper, at least around people he trusted. Keisuke simultaneously prided himself on being the only person Akira thought trustworthy enough, and felt guilty because he considered himself not trustworthy at all, for the countless times he had barely kept himself from intruding upon Akira, longing to hold, to touch, to kiss.
Now, though, something had changed, had been changing so slowly and gradually over the span of a few weeks that Keisuke only realized it in retrospect, after awakening one morning to the sight of Akira bathed in sunlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains, and still happily, obliviously asleep.
He was lying half on top of Keisuke, warm and heavy and not very comfortable, one knee wedged between Keisuke's legs, his elbow digging into Keisuke's stomach, a hand fisted loosely in his shirt. Keisuke could not see anything past the tousled hair tickling his nose, because Akira's face was half buried in his neck, soft exhalations leaving a damp, tingling spot.
Keisuke thought, if he held his breath for a moment, that he could feel Akira's heart beating, slow and calm compared to his own, which was trying to pound its way out of his chest. His body was starting to react to the sensations, and he carefully tried to edge away from Akira a bit, before they could end up in a potentially dangerous situation.
The only reason this had not happened already was because Akira had never moved during the night, and Keisuke did not want to imagine the horrible betrayal in his eyes when he woke up and realized what his best friend had been thinking about all along.
Akira grunted in displeasure at being jostled about, and then his eyelashes began to flutter, tiny rapid motions like butterfly wings against Keisuke's throat. He drew away, stretching slightly, the light catching for a moment on the pale tendons in his neck, and Keisuke thought a little too late of pretending to be asleep in order to allow Akira to preserve his dignity, because in the next moment, he was staring into those hazy gray-blue eyes.
"...Good morning," Akira murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
For a moment, Keisuke could do nothing but stare, until it occurred to him that a reply was probably in order. "G-good morning, Akira."
Akira blinked at his stutter, before taking note of the patch of sunlight they were lying in. "I overslept."
"Ah, sorry, Akira. I wasn't sure if I should, uh, wake you or... well."
Ignoring the apology, Akira simply reached out to grope for his wristwatch, squinting at the fluorescent numbers. "6:48."
"Oh..."
"You have anything to do?"
"No..." Keisuke said, completely bewildered as to why Akira was not already halfway to the kitchen.
"Okay," Akira said, letting the watch slip to the floor again, but leaving his arm draped across Keisuke's chest.
His pulse pounding in his ears, Keisuke wondered if Akira could feel the hammering in his chest the same way he had felt Akira's heartbeat before. If he was wondering about Keisuke's beet-red face, or if he had noticed the heat of his groin—and that should worry him, it shouldn't make him hotter, should it? He had the feeling they were on the brink of something incredible, something he wasn't sure how to name but which was important, and it made him half afraid that he could destroy it with a single wrong move.
If Akira noticed any of these things, though, he did not say anything. He simply sighed and closed his eyes again, drifting off to sleep, leaving Keisuke to wonder about what-ifs.
.
.
"Look, look, I caught one!"
"You're crushing it..."
"Am not!"
"Shh. You want Matron to hear us?"
"Sorry, Akira..."
Keisuke's cupped hands parted slightly to reveal the shape of a tiny black insect, barely visible in the darkness of the backyard.
"It's not glowing," he sighed, staring down at the firefly in dismay.
"It's scared," Akira observed matter-of-factly, also peering at it.
"I want it to glow."
"Let it go. It won't hold out in a glass, anyway."
"...Okay..."
Keisuke reluctantly opened his hands. The firefly turned in a slow circle, before taking flight, its soft green light blinking frenetically.
"We've got to make a wish now!" He closed his eyes. "I wish..."
Akira stayed silent, his expression unchanged.
"C'mon, Akira. Aren't you gonna wish for something?"
Akira stayed silent for a little while longer, the firefly rising up and disappearing among its innumerable companions. "I... don't know what I want."
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It had not been the last time Keisuke had heard Akira say something to that effect.
As a child, it had made him sad, because he had been secretly hoping they would share the same wish. He considered it more than a little ironic that years later, he had been the one ready to give up on it, while Akira had done everything in his power to make it come true, despite never knowing.
It made him somewhat uneasy not to know what Akira wanted, or expected, or wished for, if he had ever found something to want for himself in the first place. Whereas other people with no direction in life were plagued by unrest, though, Akira always remained calm, taking every day as it came, and despite his worry, this was also something Keisuke admired.
He had always been the one to want, moving from one thing to the next, desiring Akira's closeness, Akira's friendship, Akira's body, Akira's heart, Akira forever in and outside and around him, until he felt ready to explode.
He hated being so greedy.
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The only thing Akira was not very good at was cooking.
In fact, he was downright horrible at it, but Keisuke would never dare tell him that to his face, and felt guilty for even thinking it. For someone who operated with graceful precision in almost all other areas of life, Akira had never mastered the intricacies of fine cuisine, and was hopelessly lost in the jungle of measurements, cooking times, utensils, cooking methods, and the multitude of ingredients available. It seemed an incomprehensible concept to him that two food items that tasted good separately did not necessarily taste good together, and he was thus responsible for creations such as soba with coca cola sauce, boiled and salted marshmallows, and a dessert that included, amongst other things, pineapples and mustard.
Keisuke knew that it was partially his own fault that things had ended up this way—he had never realized just how much Akira's diet was dependant on Solid until he suggested taking turns at cooking dinner and doing the dishes, and Akira had agreed to it with a vague look of trepidation on his face.
He never quite found it in his heart to tell Akira that his creations were, in a word, awful, and refused to admit that a part of him was happy when Akira, upon discovering his involuntary mishap, frantically (in Akira-terms) tried to dissuade him from continuing to eat it, because that was a pretty messed-up way to feel.
Of course, nothing could have prepared him for the incident with the fruit salad.
His first clue that things were too good to be true should have been the fact that the kitchen was squeaky clean, and not at all comparable to the mess it usually became when Akira was in charge of dinner.
Akira carried a large bowl to the table and began heaping a colorful mix of fruit slices on two plates. Keisuke could not help the anxious glance at the servings, prompting Akira to say, a little self-deprecatingly, "I figured nothing could go wrong with a fruit salad."
Keisuke flushed guiltily and mumbled an apology under his breath, to which Akira did not respond.
His second clue should have been that there were, indeed, only edible fruit in the salad. None of them looked boiled, deep-fried or roasted beyond recognition, either, an innocuous congregation of apples, bananas, kiwis and strawberries. No suspicious sauces in sight.
Enthusiastically, Keisuke shoved a forkful into his mouth, chewed, swallowed... and made a desperate lunge for the water pitcher.
After gulping down two glasses of water, his mouth finally stopped burning long enough for him to register Akira's confused stare. "Is something wrong?"
"I... uh," Keisuke said, interrupting himself with a small fit of coughing. "I just didn't expect it to be... a bit spicy."
"Oh," Akira said, sounding a little relieved. "That's just the chili."
"Ch-chili?" Keisuke choked out.
"Mmm," Akira said, and blithely started in on his own serving.
Keisuke concluded that, as much as he loved Akira, his sense of taste was simply bizarre.
.
.
By nature, Keisuke considered himself to be a fairly easygoing person. Not easygoing in the sense that he was particularly relaxed (because really, he knew he had problems with nervousness), but easygoing in the sense that it was pretty hard to anger him. However, once somebody got him past that point, he could be very angry, and nothing got him angrier than people badmouthing Akira.
He was still livid by the time they got back home, furious at the boss for initiating that "outing" (glorified booze night, that's what it was), furious at himself for not putting up any resistance to going, furious at the two guys from packaging, and furious at Akira—yes, Akira—for keeping him from ripping them a new one.
Stomping up the stairs to their apartment was perhaps not the most mature thing he had ever done, but at the moment, he could not have cared less.
Akira had kept quiet on the walk home, allowing him to stew in silence. As soon as the door closed behind them, though, he spoke out, his voice as calm and low as ever, "Why are you letting this bother you?"
At any other time, the hot sting of shame would have caused him to deflate and relent, but not this time. "Why? Akira, they were insulting you!"
Akira shrugged. "They were drunk."
"That doesn't give them the right! They said—"
"People say and do lots of things when they're not themselves."
Those words felt like a punch to the gut, even though he knew Akira would never be so cruel as to deliberately bring up his failure in Igura—not like that, never like that, even though he had the right. But it hurt, it hurt to think that Akira would just excuse any abuse like that, would dismiss the crude comments of drunk co-workers the same way he had just accepted the things Keisuke had done, that they were the same thing to him, excusable, nothing, when he should never forgive, especially not Keisuke...
"So, if they hurt you, on those grounds, this is something you just forgive? You would just let them, you'd just—"
The sudden tug on his collar almost sent him staggering, bringing Akira's face into sharp focus. His voice was as soft as ever, barely betraying any agitation at all, but his eyes were blazing. "Do you think I'm weak?"
"What? No!"
"Do you think I can't defend myself?"
"No, of course not! Akira..."
"I don't fight unnecessary fights," Akira said simply.
"But—"
"In Igura, I lost a match. But... in the end, I won. We won."
"Akira... I—"
Akira's lips firmly prevented him from saying anything further. It was a lot like on that day almost a year back, when Akira had kissed him into silence in the middle of the kitchen: warm and close-mouthed, Akira's hand firm on his chin, and over before his brain could process the idea of actually kissing back.
"I said I was fine with having only one person by my side. That's why..."
There was nothing he could say in the face of those simple, artless words, no way to protest or deny; he might not have understood the reasons, but those were Akira's feelings. And if it was what Akira wanted, then that was enough, as it had always been.
"Akira..."
"Let's go to bed."
Keisuke blinked when fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling gently. Akira's face was betraying nothing of his thoughts, but he had averted his eyes slightly, the only sign of his embarrassment, and all of a sudden, Keisuke knew what he meant.
Gulping, he allowed himself to be led through the darkened apartment, the touch on his wrist unbearably hot, making his palms damp.
There was a terrifying moment when they reached the bedroom and Akira moved away, letting go of him, that maybe he had misunderstood, maybe Akira really just wanted to sleep, maybe he had only fantasized the gesture—before Akira pulled his t-shirt over his head and said, "Keisuke?"
He had never seen Akira blush before.
Even now, it was just a slight tinge in his cheeks, a fine shadow amidst the shadows cast by the bluish streetlight streaming in through the window, but somehow, the meaning was clear. Keisuke was sure that his own face was narrowly skirting simply bursting into flames, his entire body flushing at the thought that they would—that Akira was offering—
"A-are you sure?" He could not help the tremble in his voice, though he had to ask, couldn't not ask when there was a chance that Akira wanted to change his mind, that he didn't really want—
What he did not expect was for Akira to cross the room again, grab his arm and drag him over to the futons.
"Um."
Akira frowned a little as if thinking about what to do next, before reaching up to kiss him again. This time around, Keisuke was not quite as surprised and managed to respond in time, drawing closer, hesitantly resting a hand on Akira's back and feeling the small bumps of his spine, opening his mouth to taste—
He remembered kissing Akira on the floor of that rundown building in Toshima, remembered the aftertaste of sweat and artificial lemons, remembered the noises Akira had made and found himself wanting to hear them again, see what was still the same, see what had changed...
A sound of protest and Akira stiffening in his arms interrupted his exploration, and Keisuke drew away, bewildered. "What's wrong?"
It was embarrassing how breathless his own voice sounded, though it was somewhat reassuring that Akira seemed to be having similar problems. "...I don't like that."
"Eh?"
"When you put your tongue in my mouth," Akira said, frowning crossly. "It's weird."
"Oh. Sorry about that. Um..." Boldly, Keisuke leaned forward to kiss him again, less forceful and without tongue. "Like this is okay?"
"Mhm."
He would have to keep that in mind, Keisuke thought as Akira stepped closer, curling a hand around the back of his neck, he would have to be careful this time and pay attention to the things Akira liked—last time, he had been so glad, so very, very happy and elated to be allowed to touch, that he had scarcely been able to respond, to discover what Akira wanted or needed. He had felt ashamed for it, had thought of apologizing, but since the topic of sex had not come up after that—
At the contact of Akira's cool palm with the heated skin of his belly, he moaned loudly, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. Akira paused, studying him for a moment, before pushing his shirt up further, calloused fingers skimming over the planes of his chest. The touch was so unexpected, so new, and the way Akira was looking at him—curious, watching—sent a bolt of arousal sparking through his body.
Keisuke kissed him again, unable to get enough, hands trailing shakily down his back and over his chest, feeling the muscles jump at the contact, goosebumps rising under his palms. He loved touching that smooth skin, hearing Akira's sounds whenever he came across a sensitive place—a sigh when he pressed down between his shoulder blades, a small hitch of breath when his fingers grazed a nipple, a shaky moan when his lips found the curve of Akira's ear.
And then, quite suddenly, the world tilted, and they ended up sprawling across both futons in a tangle of legs and arms. Surprised, Keisuke managed to free one arm to raise himself up slightly, staring down at Akira, who seemed just as puzzled by the change in position. "Are you okay?"
"My legs gave out," Akira said quietly.
"Oh," Keisuke whispered, breathless and acutely aware of the fact that his knee was nudging right between Akira's legs. "Oh. That's alright, Akira. I'll just... get up and we can—"
Cool fingers brushed the rim of his belt, and he nearly jumped. "A-Akira..."
Akira paused for a second, his eyes large and electric in the blue-tinged streetlight, before deciding that Keisuke was not really objecting to this treatment, fingers dipping below his belt and into his underwear, curling around his cock.
"Like this?"
Keisuke nodded frantically, not trusting himself to speak. The strokes were curious and slow, so different from the way he usually touched himself (jerky, hurried, trying to get it over with before Akira could start asking questions about the time he was spending in the bathroom), and the thought that this was Akira doing this, staring at him like something out of his deepest, darkest fantasy, made him realize that he could not last long.
"Wait," he croaked, barely able to recognize his own voice. "Shouldn't we— I mean— do you—"
Wordlessly, Akira pushed his other hand down, almost impatiently, and Keisuke nearly lost it. He fumbled with the button and zipper on Akira's jeans, shoving his hand inside, and Akira screwed his eyes shut, his head falling back and his breath coming in fast, shallow gasps.
Keisuke would have loved to watch, would have loved to observe and memorize all the expressions transforming that beautiful face, but it was too much, touching, being touched, being so close, being allowed to—not a misunderstanding, no, not this time, Akira wanted this, Akira wanted, wanted him, he'd said so, he'd said—
He could hear his own voice, like a broken record, moans and hoarse, desperate pleas mixed with Akira's name, as he clung to him, hips jerking erratically, and it felt so good, the most wonderful thing, but what pushed him over the edge was feeling Akira come, blunt fingernails digging into his skin, back arching off the mattress, mouth opened in a soundless cry.
He followed only a short while later, face buried in Akira's sweat-soaked hair, almost sobbing with release.
.
.
Coming back to his senses meant coming back to reality; it meant frustration, regret, and, most of all, shame, an intense burning shame for using Akira for his twisted fantasies. The only time this had not been so had been in Toshima, where he had been too exhausted by everything, too overwhelmed by the events, to feel anything but blissful euphoria.
This time, though, the first and foremost sensation was something that did not come from the inside, but the outside.
There was a hand on his back, rubbing in gentle circles, once in this direction, then stopping, curling, relaxing again slowly, and then continuing in the other direction. It was the kind of soft, awkward caress Akira would bestow upon him after a nightmare, only now it was different—curious, exploratory, interspersed with careful pats one might give an unfamiliar dog.
The thought made him smile. "Thank you, Akira."
The hand on his back stilled momentarily. "Stupid. You don't thank people for things like that."
Lifting his head, he was confronted with Akira's slightly affronted expression, eyes darting away from him in vague embarrassment. He was starting to develop a secret fondness for seeing Akira fidget like that, as he was usually not shy about anything.
Keisuke's smile widened. "Okay."
Silence for a while, spent gazing at Akira's face in what was probably a silly moonstruck fashion, noticing the shine of sweat on his brow, the receding flush in his cheeks, the way his eyelashes were sticking together in damp little tufts. And Akira, staring back at him with large, dark eyes, silent and unmoving.
Idly, Keisuke wondered what he was seeing, but knew that he would likely receive a thoroughly pragmatic answer, if he would receive an answer at all. He decided it didn't matter, though. Just having Akira here, looking at him in this quiet, serious way, a hand still resting on his back, was enough to make him feel like his heart was about to burst.
"Hey, Akira... Can I kiss you?"
"Stupid. You don't ask things like that, either."
A smile. "Okay."
More silence, broken only by sounds lost in each other.
.
.
.
.
- FIN -
A/N: . That sums it all up, really. I was trying to cover a bit of their character development between their escape from Toshima and the game epilogue, which shows us a tremenduous jump in personalities - Keisuke is much more outspoken and carefree around Akira, and Akira also seems to have gone through changes, responding with exasperation and a bit of embarrassment at Keisuke's antics. How well I managed... I'll leave that up to you to decide.
So don't hesitate to tell me what you think. :)
Now for a bit of writing babble:
- Pragmatics is defined by Wikipedia as: "... the study of the ability of natural language speakers to communicate more than that which is explicitly stated. ... Pragmatics is regarded as one of the most challenging aspects for language learners to grasp, and can only truly be learned with experience." If that isn't fitting, I don't know what is. XD
- For anybody reading this who is not familiar with the fandom, Igura was a crazy-ass fighting tournament held in Toshima, the district, and Solid is a type of ration bar that comes in different flavors.
- And for the record, a fruit salad can actually taste very good with chili, as long as you only add a tiny little bit. But who knows how much Akira put in there. XD
- Keisuke may come across as hypersexed, but that's because he is. Seriously, the poor boy represses so much it's a wonder he doesn't spontaneously combust. He's got a guilt complex a mile wide, and a downright unhealthy obsession.
- Yes, I did a dreadful thing. I made Akira actually respond sexually. ((insert shocked and outraged gasps)) I refuse to believe he'd remain passive forever, if he's given the chance to develop an actual sexual interest instead of being jumped by psychos at every corner.