[This deference sets a mirror before Akira's face. He's listening to that retreat, the way Shindou thinks of stepping back, and he's listening to the cotton quality of Shindou's voice, which swaddles Shindou's words. But what he sees is himself gone glacial, a face hardened and opaque, layering over dark washes of deep blue, cold as cold can get. And he wonders how he came to be this way. If he looks behind that mirror of an iceberg, he sees himself much younger, with full, bright eyes, and a smile genuinely sweet. He could listen to himself speak delicately. These days, delicacy feels like a pair of shoes, too tight. He walks in respectful circles, taking respectful, rounded steps, and the people walking with him are rounded in that same way.

And Shindou came running into his life like muddy boots over tatami mats. It was horrifying. It was mystifying. Infuriating, insulting, exhausting. Shindou pinched a special thread inside of Akira, with two fingers, and snipped it soundly. Akira forgot how to whisper, whenever he saw Shindou's face. He's thinking, now, how good it can be to whisper. He's thinking he should have given much more of it to Shindou, who is no less captivating than he is infuriating. Akira wants to watch his face, not the top of his head while he bows.]

Shindou, you don't have to... I'm not angry. [Shindou is capable of making Akira more angry than he thought possible, but right now... right now, Akira leans in to settle his hand on the floor between them. Peace offering. Position of hope. He tries to keep it looking lax, not tight under stress.] I would like to say it's... I'd like it to be for good reason. But, Shindou, do you know what? [His fingertips press firm against Shindou's floor. Even now, Akira is just bad at being lax.] I just get worried.

[His other hand is resting atop the binder's glossy face, the curve of his fingers almost protective. He tries to be soft like the sleep aid, like the yield, wanting his voice to meet Shindou's in the middle.]