[The third cup is a turning point for Akira, too. His body stops wanting to shudder, once he swallows the last of that cup; he holds it, letting it spread down and then throughout his chest, back tight while he does his damnedest to keep from shivering into the acrid body of hard alcohol. Then it hits his bloodstream. Having subsisted more off of tea than anything else, today, Akira's metabolism welcomes that alcohol with joyful acceptance. Once it meets him, strong and pleasant, it's like...
You know, it's fine. That's fine, says his brain. There's really no reason to be so locked up, to frown or hold a spine made of surgical steel. There's no problem. And what would also be fine, what would really be all right, is if Akira were just to relax, to rest his cheek against the coffee table, to watch his surroundings quietly, instead of with hawk-like alertness throughout every moment. Akira is not, perhaps, unraveled, not sanded down, nothing done to him—instead he simply feels the ability to lay down arms. He considers calming down for the first time in forever, and he's even able to tell himself, I never feel like this, do I? Once he passes this point, he doesn't need to drink so quickly, so furiously. He can just take slow mouthfuls, no pressure, only thinking it's an okay thing to do, not even minding the taste, anymore.
It's really not so bad, he's realizing. It. Anything. Everything's more all right then he's been making it out to be, in all this time. He watches Shindou's movements, everything he does, but he hasn't enough clarity to commit every motion to memory. Remarkably, this doesn't frighten him. Even that much is fine. The sake's gone, now. Well, that's not bad, either. It just is. It just is the way things are, and Akira exists with that, and it's...
Whatever...]
Mmmhmm, [he says, a gentle response to Shindou's whining, its murmur like moss. A moment later, he lifts his head up from the coffee table, and looks down to find Shindou reclining right next to him. They stare at each other, both overshadowed by eyelashes gone heavy, and for once, for once in his life, Akira's stare isn't set against the backdrop of a war zone. He's just watching Shindou, his eyes moving from feature to feature on Shindou's flushed face, like a feral cat miraculously domesticated.
He pushes his hand into Shindou's hair, finally, and how nice to feel all of that, soft and pleasant and just so good to have. His thumb rubs a soothing gesture against Shindou's ear, before he settles into stroking Shindou's hair with all his fingers, slowly, very slowly. Just that much is taxing, and he barely has the energy for it; he lays his head back down against the table.]
If you're looking for an easily victory, [he says softly,] I think I could still do pretty well. [And, wonder of wonders, his voice is perfectly fine. That's what's unusual. He doesn't sound scraped raw, windblown, or like his throat is buckling beneath stress. There's no urgency coming out of him. Absolutely none. He remembers to start stroking Shindou's hair again, his hand having gone still. Then, thoughtfully, belatedly, he corrects himself:] An easy victory. If you want to, you can get the goban out of my bedroom and bring it here. I'd like to play you, too. But I'm not getting up right now, so if we're playing, you'll need to go get it yourself.
[His words are like deliberate steps taken across stones above a pond. He's content, comfortable, but each thing he says takes an extra half a second to be produced from his word bank by a brain gone murky. Meanwhile, his hand brushes across Shindou's forehead, warm benevolence. Akira is all flushed, too. He's shrugged out of the top half of his kimono's outer layer; it's fallen down his shoulders, having gathered at his elbows. The second layer, a nagajuban colored like a high tide on a rainy day, is coming loose, no longer arranged neatly across his chest. Only the last layer, the juban, is still done up properly: its silk looks sleek, in a fresh, clean white. Frankly, the silk has come to feel too stifling, but Akira is simply too sleepy to do anything about that...
His eyes are closed, his bangs fallen away from them, his cheek still resting on the cool surface of the table. But he's awake enough to say,] Yeah, we can play. [He thumbs gently at Shindou's temple.] My goban is... um, I think I have it on next to my desk... [He pauses. Once more, a casual amendment:] On the floor next to my desk, so... yeah, it's fine. Will you please bring me an orange from the kitchen, too? And will you please peel it for me...
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You know, it's fine. That's fine, says his brain. There's really no reason to be so locked up, to frown or hold a spine made of surgical steel. There's no problem. And what would also be fine, what would really be all right, is if Akira were just to relax, to rest his cheek against the coffee table, to watch his surroundings quietly, instead of with hawk-like alertness throughout every moment. Akira is not, perhaps, unraveled, not sanded down, nothing done to him—instead he simply feels the ability to lay down arms. He considers calming down for the first time in forever, and he's even able to tell himself, I never feel like this, do I? Once he passes this point, he doesn't need to drink so quickly, so furiously. He can just take slow mouthfuls, no pressure, only thinking it's an okay thing to do, not even minding the taste, anymore.
It's really not so bad, he's realizing. It. Anything. Everything's more all right then he's been making it out to be, in all this time. He watches Shindou's movements, everything he does, but he hasn't enough clarity to commit every motion to memory. Remarkably, this doesn't frighten him. Even that much is fine. The sake's gone, now. Well, that's not bad, either. It just is. It just is the way things are, and Akira exists with that, and it's...
Whatever...]
Mmmhmm, [he says, a gentle response to Shindou's whining, its murmur like moss. A moment later, he lifts his head up from the coffee table, and looks down to find Shindou reclining right next to him. They stare at each other, both overshadowed by eyelashes gone heavy, and for once, for once in his life, Akira's stare isn't set against the backdrop of a war zone. He's just watching Shindou, his eyes moving from feature to feature on Shindou's flushed face, like a feral cat miraculously domesticated.
He pushes his hand into Shindou's hair, finally, and how nice to feel all of that, soft and pleasant and just so good to have. His thumb rubs a soothing gesture against Shindou's ear, before he settles into stroking Shindou's hair with all his fingers, slowly, very slowly. Just that much is taxing, and he barely has the energy for it; he lays his head back down against the table.]
If you're looking for an easily victory, [he says softly,] I think I could still do pretty well. [And, wonder of wonders, his voice is perfectly fine. That's what's unusual. He doesn't sound scraped raw, windblown, or like his throat is buckling beneath stress. There's no urgency coming out of him. Absolutely none. He remembers to start stroking Shindou's hair again, his hand having gone still. Then, thoughtfully, belatedly, he corrects himself:] An easy victory. If you want to, you can get the goban out of my bedroom and bring it here. I'd like to play you, too. But I'm not getting up right now, so if we're playing, you'll need to go get it yourself.
[His words are like deliberate steps taken across stones above a pond. He's content, comfortable, but each thing he says takes an extra half a second to be produced from his word bank by a brain gone murky. Meanwhile, his hand brushes across Shindou's forehead, warm benevolence. Akira is all flushed, too. He's shrugged out of the top half of his kimono's outer layer; it's fallen down his shoulders, having gathered at his elbows. The second layer, a nagajuban colored like a high tide on a rainy day, is coming loose, no longer arranged neatly across his chest. Only the last layer, the juban, is still done up properly: its silk looks sleek, in a fresh, clean white. Frankly, the silk has come to feel too stifling, but Akira is simply too sleepy to do anything about that...
His eyes are closed, his bangs fallen away from them, his cheek still resting on the cool surface of the table. But he's awake enough to say,] Yeah, we can play. [He thumbs gently at Shindou's temple.] My goban is... um, I think I have it on next to my desk... [He pauses. Once more, a casual amendment:] On the floor next to my desk, so... yeah, it's fine. Will you please bring me an orange from the kitchen, too? And will you please peel it for me...