[Akira can't spare a thought to the discomfort of the floor or how he'll feel in the morning. What matters, all that matters, is how he feels now, with Shindou pressing against him in turn, each learning how best to guide their angles into fitting together. Once they settle, Akira is struck by the perfection of it. It's artless, maybe, and it's haphazard, but he realizes with whiplash clarity that right here is where he can and should fit. Shindou is breathing, and Akira can feel it right against him. Shindou noses at his neck, holds his chest with the spread of his hand, and pleas for a time to play tomorrow. Akira coos in response. He's never felt so warm, so happy to be warm, and so at ease to be such a pliant mess. When he falls asleep, right alongside Shindou, he's not much better than a pool of melted wax.
On any average night, Akira is a heavy sleeper. Once he's out, he's comfortably unconscious until it's time to get up the following day. The Akira sleeping now might as well be a sack of potatoes. The sunlight doesn't rouse him when it first comes glaring into the room, and the heat—god, the heat, with the space heater left on all night, so close to both their bodies—it just serves to further swaddle him. He could almost pass for comatose, until he finally starts to stir, and when he does stir, the first idea his brain comes up with is that maybe he stayed sleeping so he wouldn't have to deal with feeling so fucking awful. Akira doesn't know if regaining consciousness has ever hit him with such immediate misery.
He shifts onto his back, which, oh, that's so sore, and then he just lies there for a good minute or so. His eyes aren't open, but it's clear he must be awake just from the disgust splaying over his face. Then comes something from his throat, a sound, not very strong, but almost like a test. Just that much makes him wince...
He covers his face with both his hands.] Glass of water, [he says, husky in the worst way. He waits a moment, then groans, harsh and frustrated and then pained by it. Squirming away from Shindou proves to be a Herculean task; actually pulling himself upright is a feat of wonder extending far beyond even the greatest expectations laid upon the son of Touya Kouyou.
Akira feels like he might vomit.
But he's nothing if not the sum of his willpower, and at last, he's able to stand on his feet. His outer kimono is clinging to him only by the rumpled twist of his obi. Meanwhile, the innermost layer of his clothing is no longer crisp and clean; its silk feels like a mistake, after spending all night overheated. Even his hair looks exhausted, tangled together too much on one side... Altogether, even a glance tells well enough that Akira feels like crumpling back down onto the floor. He doesn't do that. He refuses, of course, to do that. Instead he's trudging, marching, like creeping through trenches, heavy and strong with the intent to survive at any cost, even if it means killing another man with his bare hands. Luckily for Shindou, the kitchen is Akira's target. His awful, heavy steps lead away to it, and then the kitchen sink can be heard running. It shuts off. Presumably, Akira is gulping a glass down.
That happens another two times. Sink on, sink off, then quiet. After that third glass, there's some quiet clinking from the kitchen, and then Akira is stomping through the house again. Really stomping, with a force like thunder... Somewhere, a little further away, a door slams. It likely rattles its frame. Moments later, a bath is heard being drawn. An interlude of peace, perhaps. But after just a couple minutes, the bathroom door opens back up, and Akira calls,] Make toast. [It's not a suggestion. Then he loudly shuts himself away again.
When he gets into the bath, Akira has it in mind to just stay soaking here all morning. (Is it even morning anymore? For god's sake.) It sounds physically beneficial, and spiteful in a showy way, both of which are appealing. Then it occurs to him Shindou might not wait around to let him exercise that spite. Shindou might just leave, slinking out of the house, retreating to his bedroom, maybe for god knows how long...
In the end, Akira doesn't stay in the bath for nearly as long as he'd like. He stomps over to his bedroom, instead, to get dressed in the loosest sweater and flannel pants he owns. When he finally emerges, it's in a state of dishevelment that would scandalize anyone else who knew him: dry eyes, discolored underneath, and the pinch of his brow probably set in stone by now. His hair, still damp, is pulled up off his neck, pinned high at the back of his head with a plastic claw clip. Touya Akira, so known for his ability to revolutionize, manages to take all of these qualities and distill them into exactly the properties of razor wire. (You know, it's used more to keep something safe and enclosed than anything else.)]
The bath is ready for you.
[It could be the tolling of that final bell, the quiet intonation of a stately shinigami, laden with finality. All he intends to do while Shindou is in the bath is park himself at his low dining table and take alternating swigs of water and black coffee.]
no subject
On any average night, Akira is a heavy sleeper. Once he's out, he's comfortably unconscious until it's time to get up the following day. The Akira sleeping now might as well be a sack of potatoes. The sunlight doesn't rouse him when it first comes glaring into the room, and the heat—god, the heat, with the space heater left on all night, so close to both their bodies—it just serves to further swaddle him. He could almost pass for comatose, until he finally starts to stir, and when he does stir, the first idea his brain comes up with is that maybe he stayed sleeping so he wouldn't have to deal with feeling so fucking awful. Akira doesn't know if regaining consciousness has ever hit him with such immediate misery.
He shifts onto his back, which, oh, that's so sore, and then he just lies there for a good minute or so. His eyes aren't open, but it's clear he must be awake just from the disgust splaying over his face. Then comes something from his throat, a sound, not very strong, but almost like a test. Just that much makes him wince...
He covers his face with both his hands.] Glass of water, [he says, husky in the worst way. He waits a moment, then groans, harsh and frustrated and then pained by it. Squirming away from Shindou proves to be a Herculean task; actually pulling himself upright is a feat of wonder extending far beyond even the greatest expectations laid upon the son of Touya Kouyou.
Akira feels like he might vomit.
But he's nothing if not the sum of his willpower, and at last, he's able to stand on his feet. His outer kimono is clinging to him only by the rumpled twist of his obi. Meanwhile, the innermost layer of his clothing is no longer crisp and clean; its silk feels like a mistake, after spending all night overheated. Even his hair looks exhausted, tangled together too much on one side... Altogether, even a glance tells well enough that Akira feels like crumpling back down onto the floor. He doesn't do that. He refuses, of course, to do that. Instead he's trudging, marching, like creeping through trenches, heavy and strong with the intent to survive at any cost, even if it means killing another man with his bare hands. Luckily for Shindou, the kitchen is Akira's target. His awful, heavy steps lead away to it, and then the kitchen sink can be heard running. It shuts off. Presumably, Akira is gulping a glass down.
That happens another two times. Sink on, sink off, then quiet. After that third glass, there's some quiet clinking from the kitchen, and then Akira is stomping through the house again. Really stomping, with a force like thunder... Somewhere, a little further away, a door slams. It likely rattles its frame. Moments later, a bath is heard being drawn. An interlude of peace, perhaps. But after just a couple minutes, the bathroom door opens back up, and Akira calls,] Make toast. [It's not a suggestion. Then he loudly shuts himself away again.
When he gets into the bath, Akira has it in mind to just stay soaking here all morning. (Is it even morning anymore? For god's sake.) It sounds physically beneficial, and spiteful in a showy way, both of which are appealing. Then it occurs to him Shindou might not wait around to let him exercise that spite. Shindou might just leave, slinking out of the house, retreating to his bedroom, maybe for god knows how long...
In the end, Akira doesn't stay in the bath for nearly as long as he'd like. He stomps over to his bedroom, instead, to get dressed in the loosest sweater and flannel pants he owns. When he finally emerges, it's in a state of dishevelment that would scandalize anyone else who knew him: dry eyes, discolored underneath, and the pinch of his brow probably set in stone by now. His hair, still damp, is pulled up off his neck, pinned high at the back of his head with a plastic claw clip. Touya Akira, so known for his ability to revolutionize, manages to take all of these qualities and distill them into exactly the properties of razor wire. (You know, it's used more to keep something safe and enclosed than anything else.)]
The bath is ready for you.
[It could be the tolling of that final bell, the quiet intonation of a stately shinigami, laden with finality. All he intends to do while Shindou is in the bath is park himself at his low dining table and take alternating swigs of water and black coffee.]