[The trouble lies in figuring out whether Akira is actually angry. This trouble lies there for himself. Is he angry, and if so, why, and with whom, and... he massages his temples in hopes of dislodging any of these answers. It's nowhere near that easy, of course. So, step by step: he feels like total shit. That's what he knows for certain, before anything else. He woke up feeling like shit, which, by itself, would put him in a bad mood. So couldn't it, feasibly, just be that?
But he's been particularly harsh so far, upon waking, hasn't he. Shindou looked cowed by him, which maybe, might have been the goal? But Akira didn't feel good about it. There was no satisfaction to be had in seeing that Shindou feels so awful. Shindou may be an irresponsible idiot, pushing the both of them too far with the sake last night, but anything after that was...
All Akira knows is he fell hard into dreams all hot and sticky, dreams where he said outrageous things to Shindou, dreams where Shindou told him things that made him feel like moaning. He can only be relieved that neither of them would ever have said things like that out loud for real. Akira can remember hearing himself talk, but not what it felt like coming out of his mouth, so... dreams, all hot and sticky. He rubs his face.
While Shindou is in the bath, Akira eats two of the pieces of toast, and then the other two. He makes four more, and eats one of those slices, too. While he's in the kitchen, his hand passes over a bowl of oranges on the counter, but he thinks he'd be sick if he tried to eat one of those.
Close to half of the various spreads have been uncapped, when Shindou returns from washing up. Akira sets down his coffee, his mug hitting the table a little too hard, as if startled. Jams and jellies. Akira doesn't have an answer for that. He just doesn't know what to say to it. He purses his lips, and then he rubs at his face again, more harshly this time... he sighs into his palms, too, a big rush, shoulders dropping.
Finally, he sets his elbows on the table, and settles his hands at either side of his face, his fingers pushing up into stray strands of hair. He looks across the way to Shindou, regret and remorse dimpling one corner of his mouth.] Do you feel any better? [Thankfully, he sounds less like a vengeful killer. Very tired, throat dry, but not reaching for a knife. Then, although he doesn't want to, he says,] Your mother must have been worried.
[He means that—must. As in, he'd like to demand it of her. He kept her son out all night, well into the next morning, no calls, no... he couldn't hear what she was saying, but he did hear her voice, from over the phone. That's how loud she was. Shindou had looked like a pressing of flowers: thinned out, lacking life, and squashed between too many heavy things. Akira exhales thinly, pushing one of his hands up against his forehead, his bangs in disarray.]
Eat some of this.
[He was supposed to say, "I'm sorry," but he's pushing the plate of toast toward Shindou, instead, before he reaches for the aspirin.]
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But he's been particularly harsh so far, upon waking, hasn't he. Shindou looked cowed by him, which maybe, might have been the goal? But Akira didn't feel good about it. There was no satisfaction to be had in seeing that Shindou feels so awful. Shindou may be an irresponsible idiot, pushing the both of them too far with the sake last night, but anything after that was...
All Akira knows is he fell hard into dreams all hot and sticky, dreams where he said outrageous things to Shindou, dreams where Shindou told him things that made him feel like moaning. He can only be relieved that neither of them would ever have said things like that out loud for real. Akira can remember hearing himself talk, but not what it felt like coming out of his mouth, so... dreams, all hot and sticky. He rubs his face.
While Shindou is in the bath, Akira eats two of the pieces of toast, and then the other two. He makes four more, and eats one of those slices, too. While he's in the kitchen, his hand passes over a bowl of oranges on the counter, but he thinks he'd be sick if he tried to eat one of those.
Close to half of the various spreads have been uncapped, when Shindou returns from washing up. Akira sets down his coffee, his mug hitting the table a little too hard, as if startled. Jams and jellies. Akira doesn't have an answer for that. He just doesn't know what to say to it. He purses his lips, and then he rubs at his face again, more harshly this time... he sighs into his palms, too, a big rush, shoulders dropping.
Finally, he sets his elbows on the table, and settles his hands at either side of his face, his fingers pushing up into stray strands of hair. He looks across the way to Shindou, regret and remorse dimpling one corner of his mouth.] Do you feel any better? [Thankfully, he sounds less like a vengeful killer. Very tired, throat dry, but not reaching for a knife. Then, although he doesn't want to, he says,] Your mother must have been worried.
[He means that—must. As in, he'd like to demand it of her. He kept her son out all night, well into the next morning, no calls, no... he couldn't hear what she was saying, but he did hear her voice, from over the phone. That's how loud she was. Shindou had looked like a pressing of flowers: thinned out, lacking life, and squashed between too many heavy things. Akira exhales thinly, pushing one of his hands up against his forehead, his bangs in disarray.]
Eat some of this.
[He was supposed to say, "I'm sorry," but he's pushing the plate of toast toward Shindou, instead, before he reaches for the aspirin.]