[Akira accepts the pad of paper from Shindou's hands, and it feels good to accept something from him. It feels unexpectedly good to have something passed in between them: there is a stream, a rhythm, from one to one. Yet he's frowning, sour—completely helpless? Well, Shindou, you don't exactly—ahh. He decides to frown at the blank lines on the paper, instead. The tip of the pen meets the start of that first line, presses against it, pauses for pressure and deliberation...
By the time he abandons the pen completely, he's looked all around the room, the broad focus of the gifted, his eyes as search lights. Trinkets, and stickers, and signs of life. This is a colorful, charismatic place, just like Shindou is colorful and charismatic. Akira's gaze does yet another slow sweep across the bedroom, as if he's still not satiated by all these details, before he lingers on a bookshelf off to the side. Here, again, that focus. He rises enough to shuffle over on his knees.
His index finger skips against the spines of issue after issue of Weekly Shounen Jump. His examination lasts until he tugs one volume away from its shelf, and then he's flipping through its pages.]
I wasn't expecting to be impressed.
[It would have been kinder if Akira said he wasn't looking to be impressed, and ultimately, in his heart, they mean the same thing. But the moderation of his words can be inconsistent. His elaboration, too, isn't exactly clear cut...] But it's nice. It reminds me of you. [Even as it leaves his mouth, he stops to consider what he's just said. Thoughtfully, he's looking toward the ceiling. Then he drops his eyes back down to whatever random page of manga.] I mean, it's very much like you. It's very much...
[He shakes his head. Turns the page.]
I just wanted to see everything.
[He isn't the only one who's seen these things—certain individuals have seen much more, and for much longer. It's not fair that it took this long for Akira to be able to see it, too. It's not fair that familiarity belonged to someone else. And it's not fair, who it belonged to. What's so good about your bedroom? Yeah. Well.
Akira looks up from beneath the line of his bangs. The Jump issue is loose in hands gone idle.]
Thank you for having me, [he says, belatedly. He should have said it while he was standing in the doorway of the house.]
no subject
By the time he abandons the pen completely, he's looked all around the room, the broad focus of the gifted, his eyes as search lights. Trinkets, and stickers, and signs of life. This is a colorful, charismatic place, just like Shindou is colorful and charismatic. Akira's gaze does yet another slow sweep across the bedroom, as if he's still not satiated by all these details, before he lingers on a bookshelf off to the side. Here, again, that focus. He rises enough to shuffle over on his knees.
His index finger skips against the spines of issue after issue of Weekly Shounen Jump. His examination lasts until he tugs one volume away from its shelf, and then he's flipping through its pages.]
I wasn't expecting to be impressed.
[It would have been kinder if Akira said he wasn't looking to be impressed, and ultimately, in his heart, they mean the same thing. But the moderation of his words can be inconsistent. His elaboration, too, isn't exactly clear cut...] But it's nice. It reminds me of you. [Even as it leaves his mouth, he stops to consider what he's just said. Thoughtfully, he's looking toward the ceiling. Then he drops his eyes back down to whatever random page of manga.] I mean, it's very much like you. It's very much...
[He shakes his head. Turns the page.]
I just wanted to see everything.
[He isn't the only one who's seen these things—certain individuals have seen much more, and for much longer. It's not fair that it took this long for Akira to be able to see it, too. It's not fair that familiarity belonged to someone else. And it's not fair, who it belonged to. What's so good about your bedroom? Yeah. Well.
Akira looks up from beneath the line of his bangs. The Jump issue is loose in hands gone idle.]
Thank you for having me, [he says, belatedly. He should have said it while he was standing in the doorway of the house.]