[But that doesn't make sense. It would be very nice if every part of Akira were beautiful all the time, because—and only because—Shindou would, indeed, think he's beautiful all the time, and if that were the case, Shindou would be thinking of him, and would want to be near him, and would want him, or Akira's pretty sure that's how it would be going. Shindou calling him beautiful and Shindou desiring him are more connected than not. So, if... right... if all of that were true, Shindou would be wanting him at all times.
Akira's outer kimono has sunk down to his waist, by now, and his nagajuban is slipping down his shoulders—even the silken collar of the juban is in disarray, no longer a last bastion of propriety. It's loose enough to see that his flush meets the raise of his clavicle. In the midst of it, he looks lost.] I did say yes, [Akira insists, sounding faint and puzzled both. Didn't he do that? Shindou said, I couldn't tell if you were upset with me, or— And after that, Akira answered, No, I'm turned on, I promise you that. I want you all over me even though we are where we are. Didn't he say that?
No. He didn't, did he?
He's still frowning, yeah, but it's while he tries hard to think back, think deep.] I said... I meant... [But things aren't fitting together for him. At last, he says, exasperated,] I meant yes. Obviously. Obviously! [This is the first time he's been even a little riled up since having that third cup of sake.] I always mean yes. [Once again, he's not angry like he would be. As he bobs atop the surface of the alcohol, he just feels disheartened. Can Shindou really not know? Akira doesn't want to bully him into knowing. If Shindou doesn't want that badly enough to pursue it as his own idea, is it even worth having? (Too detail-oriented, always... this is its own perfectionism.)
The tugging, at last, is just too much. It's jostling, and a little bit annoying, but mostly gratifying for the neediness it shows. Akira likes that, and it doesn't occur to him to be ashamed of that, when he can be reveling in it instead. It's good to be grasped at, when Shindou is doing the grasping. Akira reaches down to find Shindou's tugging hand, and pries his fingers away a little less than gently. Then he's able to clasp their hands together, instead. His head is slipping away from his other hand: it's sliding lower and lower until his face is down against the tabletop all over again. The relief of this, of hearing Shindou say these things, every time, all the time, only—it could reduce Akira to complete pacific rapture.]
Oh, I'm so glad.
[It's a mumble, but heartfelt. Sounds like weight lifting far and away. It takes a moment to get into motion, but Akira does his best to peel himself away from the coffee table, so he can sink the rest of the way down onto the floor. It's tough to wriggle, sluggish as he is, but he manages to work his way into pressing his back up against Shindou. He doesn't know that he can do much more than this, so as a potentially final act, he takes greater hold of Shindou's hand, and then forcibly situates Shindou's arm over his waist. He's just commanded himself into being held.]
If that's what you're doing, good. Keep doing that.
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Akira's outer kimono has sunk down to his waist, by now, and his nagajuban is slipping down his shoulders—even the silken collar of the juban is in disarray, no longer a last bastion of propriety. It's loose enough to see that his flush meets the raise of his clavicle. In the midst of it, he looks lost.] I did say yes, [Akira insists, sounding faint and puzzled both. Didn't he do that? Shindou said, I couldn't tell if you were upset with me, or— And after that, Akira answered, No, I'm turned on, I promise you that. I want you all over me even though we are where we are. Didn't he say that?
No. He didn't, did he?
He's still frowning, yeah, but it's while he tries hard to think back, think deep.] I said... I meant... [But things aren't fitting together for him. At last, he says, exasperated,] I meant yes. Obviously. Obviously! [This is the first time he's been even a little riled up since having that third cup of sake.] I always mean yes. [Once again, he's not angry like he would be. As he bobs atop the surface of the alcohol, he just feels disheartened. Can Shindou really not know? Akira doesn't want to bully him into knowing. If Shindou doesn't want that badly enough to pursue it as his own idea, is it even worth having? (Too detail-oriented, always... this is its own perfectionism.)
The tugging, at last, is just too much. It's jostling, and a little bit annoying, but mostly gratifying for the neediness it shows. Akira likes that, and it doesn't occur to him to be ashamed of that, when he can be reveling in it instead. It's good to be grasped at, when Shindou is doing the grasping. Akira reaches down to find Shindou's tugging hand, and pries his fingers away a little less than gently. Then he's able to clasp their hands together, instead. His head is slipping away from his other hand: it's sliding lower and lower until his face is down against the tabletop all over again. The relief of this, of hearing Shindou say these things, every time, all the time, only—it could reduce Akira to complete pacific rapture.]
Oh, I'm so glad.
[It's a mumble, but heartfelt. Sounds like weight lifting far and away. It takes a moment to get into motion, but Akira does his best to peel himself away from the coffee table, so he can sink the rest of the way down onto the floor. It's tough to wriggle, sluggish as he is, but he manages to work his way into pressing his back up against Shindou. He doesn't know that he can do much more than this, so as a potentially final act, he takes greater hold of Shindou's hand, and then forcibly situates Shindou's arm over his waist. He's just commanded himself into being held.]
If that's what you're doing, good. Keep doing that.