Self-reflection is important anyway, [Akira says thinly. He's not angry for it, just stringent, as if he's taking care to remind himself of an important thing.] It just happens that, sometimes, one... [He doesn't want to say I, myself.] ...reflects particularly brightly off another. [Even so, he must be transparent. He knows that. At times, he wishes Shindou's eyes would strain right through him and see everything, every single thing, all the particles that send Akira twisting or fuming. But during other times, he's terrified of being seen, as if defining what Shindou does to him will make Shindou stop doing it to him. In theory, that could be a blessing. Akira still doesn't want to be without it, though. Ideally, the limb isn't amputated just because the bones are broken.
Shindou's cool hand is more of a blessing in practice. Akira's fingers do remain stiff, but oh, thankfully, they've gone still. Though not domesticated, he's at least a little more tame.] No hints. You'll have to wait and see. [Akira doesn't want to encourage hinting. He doesn't quite approve. Shindou should get into the habit of telling Akira things outright, instead of nudging here and there and then letting Akira spend a solid week in fixated torment over an offhand remark. Well, that's not exactly Shindou's fault, but it feels like his fault, a little bit...
Finally, Akira squeezes Shindou's hand.]
I want to take you there, to the shrine. Get your coat.
[And he'll retrieve his own, a smooth-colored haori just as traditional as the rest of him. For a little extra warmth, he situates a fur stole atop his shoulders. It's fancy in a way that compliments the kimono, a vintage silhouette—but it's really fancy. That might be real fur. When he arranges it about himself, he does it with this intense determination: he does many things in this way, but it's the methodical intent of desiring some sort of result. A bird might do this when strategizing during spring.
The way to the shrine really isn't so far. The houses in this area are mostly old, and spaced a bit apart, but the road is straight—only one turn, onto another road, and then, soon, they'll reach where they're going. There are others out walking, too, little clusters here and there, almost nobody about by themselves. Taking these steps with Shindou is feeling different from how Akira thought it might. He's walked this way with his parents as far back as he can remember. Never before did he feel the need to tuck his chin into his rabbit fur and pray for the air to be colder so its bite might camouflage his cheeks. The nearer he settles at Shindou's side, the more he wants to hide his mouth.] Next time, [he says, while they walk, and even as he begins to speak, he knows he should have tried harder to hide it after all.] We could bring lanterns. It's nice to do that. [And when they get close enough to the shrine that his nerves can't take it, Akira reaches for Shindou's hand. When they walk throughout the shrine, buying charms, observing festivities, Akira finds special intervals during which to stroke the side of Shindou's hand with his thumb. It feels, all at once, invigorating, and like the earth is about to bottom out beneath his feet. At last, the bells begin to peal out from the shrine itself. They ring clear in the way you want the sky to be for the best spread of stars you could see. They're ringing over and over, and Akira stares unbroken at Shindou's face from the sixty-second bell to the last, the hundred-and-eighth, marveling at the sight and what it means. To witness Shindou awash in all these sounds is poignant in a way Akira is only barely beginning to understand. Once that last bell clears, Akira manages an actual murmur in Shindou's presence:] See, there, that's what it's like. [But that doesn't describe what it's like at all.
They wait in line to ring the bell at the altar, and with every second, Akira hopes Shindou doesn't take his hand away. He puffs out great clouds of steam, his lips feeling too cold for comfort, and when they've arrived at the front of the line, he hands the package he's been carrying over to Shindou. It's a bit more than modest in size, a box wrapped in paper colored like mother-of-pearl, and when Akira relinquishes it to Shindou, he snaps,] Don't open it yet, you're just holding it for a minute, [all full of suspicion. Then he steps forward. He rings the bell himself. Its chime fills him with a dread he can't explain.
Please, he prays, and he can't recall ever begging the gods in the way he does right now. Please, please, please... But he doesn't know what words should follow that. All he knows to do is picture Shindou's face, in a hundred different ways, wearing so many different smiles and frowns. He can only hope that whoever listens to his prayers right now knows what to do with these images.
When he steps away from the altar, and when Shindou is taking his turn, Akira wonders whether a weight has been lifted from him, or whether it's just been exchanged for another. But watching Shindou's back incites an even keener yearning in the side of Akira's chest.
He insists, with rote harshness, that Shindou open his gift first, as if he couldn't wait to give it, as if he couldn't wait for Shindou to receive it... as if he's been waiting far too long already. It's an album. Old-fashioned, and probably genuinely antique, all black lacquer shimmering with gold and silver maki-e. Delicate on its cover are curving branches, splaying leaves, and two cranes. One crane stands poised, with the other gliding in to meet it. The birds said to live for a thousand years...
If ever Akira has meant for his voice to be graceful, in speaking to Shindou, it's now. He only manages to some degree.] Our kifu... I want you to keep copies of them inside here. It doesn't have to be only that, though. Anything you... Whatever you feel belongs in here, it's for that. But for a start, please put copies of our games in this. I'm giving this to you, but that's what I'm asking for. From now on. [He tucks his hands into the sleeves of his haori, worried for what he'll do if they're free.] Starting this year.
no subject
Shindou's cool hand is more of a blessing in practice. Akira's fingers do remain stiff, but oh, thankfully, they've gone still. Though not domesticated, he's at least a little more tame.] No hints. You'll have to wait and see. [Akira doesn't want to encourage hinting. He doesn't quite approve. Shindou should get into the habit of telling Akira things outright, instead of nudging here and there and then letting Akira spend a solid week in fixated torment over an offhand remark. Well, that's not exactly Shindou's fault, but it feels like his fault, a little bit...
Finally, Akira squeezes Shindou's hand.]
I want to take you there, to the shrine. Get your coat.
[And he'll retrieve his own, a smooth-colored haori just as traditional as the rest of him. For a little extra warmth, he situates a fur stole atop his shoulders. It's fancy in a way that compliments the kimono, a vintage silhouette—but it's really fancy. That might be real fur. When he arranges it about himself, he does it with this intense determination: he does many things in this way, but it's the methodical intent of desiring some sort of result. A bird might do this when strategizing during spring.
The way to the shrine really isn't so far. The houses in this area are mostly old, and spaced a bit apart, but the road is straight—only one turn, onto another road, and then, soon, they'll reach where they're going. There are others out walking, too, little clusters here and there, almost nobody about by themselves. Taking these steps with Shindou is feeling different from how Akira thought it might. He's walked this way with his parents as far back as he can remember. Never before did he feel the need to tuck his chin into his rabbit fur and pray for the air to be colder so its bite might camouflage his cheeks. The nearer he settles at Shindou's side, the more he wants to hide his mouth.] Next time, [he says, while they walk, and even as he begins to speak, he knows he should have tried harder to hide it after all.] We could bring lanterns. It's nice to do that. [And when they get close enough to the shrine that his nerves can't take it, Akira reaches for Shindou's hand. When they walk throughout the shrine, buying charms, observing festivities, Akira finds special intervals during which to stroke the side of Shindou's hand with his thumb. It feels, all at once, invigorating, and like the earth is about to bottom out beneath his feet. At last, the bells begin to peal out from the shrine itself. They ring clear in the way you want the sky to be for the best spread of stars you could see. They're ringing over and over, and Akira stares unbroken at Shindou's face from the sixty-second bell to the last, the hundred-and-eighth, marveling at the sight and what it means. To witness Shindou awash in all these sounds is poignant in a way Akira is only barely beginning to understand. Once that last bell clears, Akira manages an actual murmur in Shindou's presence:] See, there, that's what it's like. [But that doesn't describe what it's like at all.
They wait in line to ring the bell at the altar, and with every second, Akira hopes Shindou doesn't take his hand away. He puffs out great clouds of steam, his lips feeling too cold for comfort, and when they've arrived at the front of the line, he hands the package he's been carrying over to Shindou. It's a bit more than modest in size, a box wrapped in paper colored like mother-of-pearl, and when Akira relinquishes it to Shindou, he snaps,] Don't open it yet, you're just holding it for a minute, [all full of suspicion. Then he steps forward. He rings the bell himself. Its chime fills him with a dread he can't explain.
Please, he prays, and he can't recall ever begging the gods in the way he does right now. Please, please, please... But he doesn't know what words should follow that. All he knows to do is picture Shindou's face, in a hundred different ways, wearing so many different smiles and frowns. He can only hope that whoever listens to his prayers right now knows what to do with these images.
When he steps away from the altar, and when Shindou is taking his turn, Akira wonders whether a weight has been lifted from him, or whether it's just been exchanged for another. But watching Shindou's back incites an even keener yearning in the side of Akira's chest.
He insists, with rote harshness, that Shindou open his gift first, as if he couldn't wait to give it, as if he couldn't wait for Shindou to receive it... as if he's been waiting far too long already. It's an album. Old-fashioned, and probably genuinely antique, all black lacquer shimmering with gold and silver maki-e. Delicate on its cover are curving branches, splaying leaves, and two cranes. One crane stands poised, with the other gliding in to meet it. The birds said to live for a thousand years...
If ever Akira has meant for his voice to be graceful, in speaking to Shindou, it's now. He only manages to some degree.] Our kifu... I want you to keep copies of them inside here. It doesn't have to be only that, though. Anything you... Whatever you feel belongs in here, it's for that. But for a start, please put copies of our games in this. I'm giving this to you, but that's what I'm asking for. From now on. [He tucks his hands into the sleeves of his haori, worried for what he'll do if they're free.] Starting this year.