[The haori, and Akira's layered kimono, only go so far in keeping him wrapped away from the cold. Even then, he thinks he wouldn't mind if they were thinner. If he could feel just a little more of the heat that stays close to Shindou's body, a little more of that body's shape, he wouldn't mind. He wants to lean in. If they could walk with their sides aligned, pressed further together, that would be nice. But, above all else, Akira is scared that Shindou will take away his arm. If Akira moves, or shifts in place outside of taking steps, maybe Shindou will think he's trying to get away (and maybe Shindou won't care to chase after him). So he tries to be content with where his shoulder touches Shindou's, and he keeps his spine from wavering.
He ends up with a kink in his back from keeping so straight and still, in walking. It's worth it.
It's the lingering sensation of Shindou's arm about his waist, perhaps, that brings Akira to present the sake. He wants so badly to be impressive, which is typically a humiliating desire: the defenselessness of that, feeling at the mercy of somebody's attention... But he'd polished this ceremonial tableware already, hadn't he? Earlier in the day? He worries—always, about something—but if he doesn't show all these things to Shindou tonight, he might not get another chance. Maybe there's no reason to fear that, but the conviction in it has been growing all throughout the day.
In the end, it seems to be less impressive by itself. Akira would have been content to sit here and sip, together with Shindou, warm tastes of sake guiding them towards sleep. (Would he have been content, though? How rarely does that happen?) Of course, Shindou's smirk shakes him out of any measure of peace. As usual. Akira's look grows more like a needle by the second, thin, direct, and bringing a sharp pinch.]
You're not— [As always, it doesn't take much to get Akira riled up. A baby, Shindou calls him. That's a stupid insult in any context, not even worthy of inciting offense. And yet, Akira doesn't think he can bear Shindou thinking he's a baby.] You're not supposed to feel something! You drink it just a little, it isn't for gulping down like a barbarian, it's just what you do before going to bed... [But he looks down at his own cup, its cloudy contents, both fragrant with spice and too pungent with alcohol. He's glowering at Shindou again soon enough.]
You don't normally do that sort of thing in good company! [he scolds, a genuine admonishment, but it's not like he's putting his foot down against the challenge. That's undoubtedly what it is, he knows. Shindou, after all, is already a full cup ahead. So Akira shuts his eyes tight, steeling himself, and then he knocks back his own cup, tilting back his head, practically dumping it down his throat. He's never taken in an entire mouthful of alcohol; he's just sipped it during special occasions, politely. The picture of him now is anything but polite. His scowl has that familiar quality of old iron, strong and capable of spearheads, and he has to use the back of his bare wrist to dab at his bottom lip, catching too-hasty sake. Then he sniffs, belligerent, and whips back the fold of one of his wide sleeves. It slides up to his elbow; his forearm shows all pale and sturdy; in the rest of this smooth motion, he smacks the bottom of his cup back down against the lacquer tray. It claps down like a warning. Right away, he's refilling his own cup, and he does it with a flourish, bringing the pot first low, near to his cup, and then raising it high and away so the sake falls in a long, thin stream. It's smooth. Once more, he lifts his cup, sleeve flowing in a fluid gesture, and then he's gulping it back again.
This time, he gasps when his mouth leaves his cup. It's sharp, high, and immediately followed by a stern huff while he tries to gather himself.] If you're going to guzzle all my sake, you'd better pour it for yourself. [He wants that to smart on Shindou's nerves, but it's not how he intended: Akira sounds closer to ductility, like gold, instead of all wrought iron. Maybe a little bit easier to melt. But, as it stands, he's two cups to Shindou's one. He's determined to circumvent the astringent shock to the whole of his mouth, the cringing in his jaw and throat, and instead stares Shindou down, back straight, shoulders hiked high. He's lost any of the delicacy he wore when he stood, pristine, in the winter cold. His fur has been set aside, and now that he looks peeved, it's easier to notice how his eyes are absent of the affectionate refraction of light they held before. Instead he's just bright with bluster.]
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He ends up with a kink in his back from keeping so straight and still, in walking. It's worth it.
It's the lingering sensation of Shindou's arm about his waist, perhaps, that brings Akira to present the sake. He wants so badly to be impressive, which is typically a humiliating desire: the defenselessness of that, feeling at the mercy of somebody's attention... But he'd polished this ceremonial tableware already, hadn't he? Earlier in the day? He worries—always, about something—but if he doesn't show all these things to Shindou tonight, he might not get another chance. Maybe there's no reason to fear that, but the conviction in it has been growing all throughout the day.
In the end, it seems to be less impressive by itself. Akira would have been content to sit here and sip, together with Shindou, warm tastes of sake guiding them towards sleep. (Would he have been content, though? How rarely does that happen?) Of course, Shindou's smirk shakes him out of any measure of peace. As usual. Akira's look grows more like a needle by the second, thin, direct, and bringing a sharp pinch.]
You're not— [As always, it doesn't take much to get Akira riled up. A baby, Shindou calls him. That's a stupid insult in any context, not even worthy of inciting offense. And yet, Akira doesn't think he can bear Shindou thinking he's a baby.] You're not supposed to feel something! You drink it just a little, it isn't for gulping down like a barbarian, it's just what you do before going to bed... [But he looks down at his own cup, its cloudy contents, both fragrant with spice and too pungent with alcohol. He's glowering at Shindou again soon enough.]
You don't normally do that sort of thing in good company! [he scolds, a genuine admonishment, but it's not like he's putting his foot down against the challenge. That's undoubtedly what it is, he knows. Shindou, after all, is already a full cup ahead. So Akira shuts his eyes tight, steeling himself, and then he knocks back his own cup, tilting back his head, practically dumping it down his throat. He's never taken in an entire mouthful of alcohol; he's just sipped it during special occasions, politely. The picture of him now is anything but polite. His scowl has that familiar quality of old iron, strong and capable of spearheads, and he has to use the back of his bare wrist to dab at his bottom lip, catching too-hasty sake. Then he sniffs, belligerent, and whips back the fold of one of his wide sleeves. It slides up to his elbow; his forearm shows all pale and sturdy; in the rest of this smooth motion, he smacks the bottom of his cup back down against the lacquer tray. It claps down like a warning. Right away, he's refilling his own cup, and he does it with a flourish, bringing the pot first low, near to his cup, and then raising it high and away so the sake falls in a long, thin stream. It's smooth. Once more, he lifts his cup, sleeve flowing in a fluid gesture, and then he's gulping it back again.
This time, he gasps when his mouth leaves his cup. It's sharp, high, and immediately followed by a stern huff while he tries to gather himself.] If you're going to guzzle all my sake, you'd better pour it for yourself. [He wants that to smart on Shindou's nerves, but it's not how he intended: Akira sounds closer to ductility, like gold, instead of all wrought iron. Maybe a little bit easier to melt. But, as it stands, he's two cups to Shindou's one. He's determined to circumvent the astringent shock to the whole of his mouth, the cringing in his jaw and throat, and instead stares Shindou down, back straight, shoulders hiked high. He's lost any of the delicacy he wore when he stood, pristine, in the winter cold. His fur has been set aside, and now that he looks peeved, it's easier to notice how his eyes are absent of the affectionate refraction of light they held before. Instead he's just bright with bluster.]