it gets lonely to feel things all by yourself.

[protential]

(continued from here.)


[It wouldn't take more than a minute to get those directions. Two minutes at max. Touya doesn't have to stick around here if he doesn't want to. Hell, Touya could've just sent him the directions via email and wouldn't have had to come over here at all. It isn't the fucking Stone Age anymore; there are search engines where two addresses are all you need to figure out where you're supposed to go. Touya came here under a kind of ridiculous pretense, Hikaru thinks, now that he's thinking about it, but he isn't going to bring that up just yet. Touya relies on pretenses as much as anyone else, projecting purpose and aplomb even when he feels anything but. It took Hikaru a while to realize that most people never see the other sides of Touya for themselves. Go Weekly crows about his stupid stately manner every other week, which Hikaru reads about and has to roll his eyes at. Everyone wears masks, with one for pretty much every occasion... Touya's masks are just more convincing and firmly attached. But, right now, Hikaru can see why most people cringe when they're stuck between Touya and his destination. Touya has this freaky laser-sighted precision when it comes to doing what he set out to do. It's just, in this case...

In this case, Hikaru is the destination, and he's glad for the towel that's covering most of his face. Touya can't see his own reddened cheeks, or the half-opened state of his mouth, the restless shift of his tongue beyond his teeth. I came for your room, delivered in that aerial voice, might as well be, I came for you. Hikaru remembers something randomly, then, just a random phrase, as Touya ascends the stairs in front of him: Home is where the heart is. That's a very sentimental thing for him to think--it's pretentious, too. But it's what he's thinking as he follows Touya up to his bedroom.

It doesn't look much different from how it looked yesterday. His goban has been cleared of that final, unfinished game, however. Over in the one corner, his previously unremarkable desk is more visible, serving as a pseudo-filing cabinet for important paperwork. The smell of incense is completely gone, thanks to Touya's psychotic airing out of his confines. In its place, there's something fainter, gentler on one's sanity, resembling a waft of sea breeze at dawn. It can be traced back to the pale scented candle Hikaru placed on the windowsill at some point. And his bedding is just as fresh and clean, no longer a miserable hovel, in a cloudier shade of blue. Like a day at the beach in the middle of winter.

Letting the towel drape around his neck, Hikaru goes over to the desk to grab a pen and a yellow notepad for Touya to write the directions on. He also picks up a notebook of blank kifu paper, since he might as well record their game while Touya is here. It still feels so dreamlike that he wants to make sure he's remembering it right.]

Man, Touya, you make it sound like I'm completely helpless. I would've figured out where to go with or without him. [It might just have taken him another hour of wandering around to get there. He glances over his shoulder at Touya, then at his goban, then back to Touya...] Anyway, I'd give you the grand tour, but what you see is what you get. [He drops the pen and notepad in front of Touya, then sits down at an angle from him, not directly opposite. No defaulting to seiza when his knees still kind of hurt...

In general, the bath must have been good for him, because he doesn't look so exhausted, greasy, or grimy, or like he'd crumble to pieces at a single touch. Only his longstanding sleep debt is there in the bruises under his eyes (they're a darker green, a forest green, right now).

Dryly:] Are you impressed yet?

Comments

[ashlar]

[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.

[protential]

[One more purposeful tug--] I can't read your mind, Touya. For the love of god. You have to say... say what you mean to me, or it's just... [That's what it feels like it's coming down to. Touya says he said yes, when he really said something neither here nor there, and he thinks Hikaru should've been able to understand it anyway. Idiot. An idiot who's being so stupid. Just plain stupid and dumb and beautiful. Half of the time, they understand each other perfectly, like two hands operating from the same body, and then... the rest of the time, he doesn't know what the hell is going on. Maybe they should spend more time talking to each other. That's a reasonable solution. But it's so hard to talk about how he's feeling when he can't figure out how to put it into words. This is the first time he's ever tried to do that, a strong and honest try at it, and it still doesn't come close to describing the true state of things.

But any frustration he feels is sublimated when Touya deigns to join him down on the floor. Hikaru has some trouble arranging himself in the best way, but now his front is pushing against Touya's back, and they're aligned together, just like that. His arm has been thrown artlessly around Touya's waist; one of his legs is slotting in between both of Touya's, which seems natural to him. They're really close together. Even closer than they were when he was letting Touya dry his tears on that unreal, too-shrill morning. His breaths stir into Touya's hair like a warm breeze, slow, slower, slowing down. Touya smells like the slight electric tang produced by the space heater, and also the sake itself, and also, also, the shampoo he diligently used on himself. Hikaru presses his face into Touya's hair, somewhere around his upper neck. He might be happy with this.

Unfortunately:] We haven't played yet, [he mumbles, even as he's hearing good and keep doing that on repeat in his head.] You said you'd play me, you said that, but we haven't... [The floor has to the worst place to fall asleep, with no lumbar support to speak of. Touya's going to wake up with every muscle locked into place tomorrow, riddled with knots and kinks, and he's going to kill him tomorrow, for everything he's doing now. Hikaru's arm tightens stubbornly, his fingers spreading over Touya's chest. As close as possible. Closer than that.] Play me tomorrow, please, and I'll keep doing what I'm doing. Otherwise...

[Otherwise he's going to fall asleep, which he does, finally, all at once.

He wakes up first. It's bright in the sitting room, with natural sunlight splashed all over, and he intensely regrets opening his eyes and the fact he might be dying, actually getting ready to curl up and die, if the crushing-crackle of his head and his bowels is any indication. His mouth tastes like spicy curdled piss, putrefied, fucking diseased, and...

He's still holding onto Touya.

And, boy, oh boy, Touya is going to murder him. He remembers enough to be confident of that much.]

[ashlar]

[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.]

[protential]

[Hikaru's willpower can't get him to do much more than cup his own forehead and try, and fail, and try again--only to fail again--to wish away the headache that's consuming his brain stem. The difference in raw strength between the two of them has never been more apparent. It only takes a few minutes for Touya to get back on his feet, which is kind of unbelievable, if not godlike, in Hikaru's opinion. The room has an unnatural seafaring sway to it, and Touya is walking through it with no real difficulties. Hikaru isn't content to lie down here like a useless lump, laboring to breathe in and out, but he doesn't have the ability to do anything else. Touya's footfalls only produce a vibration at a certain terrible frequency that makes Hikaru's head hurt even worse. When he tries to say something about it, an ill-timed shut up, the words get stuck in the sludge at the back of his throat. Just as well. He stays quiet the whole time, ghoulishly jealous of Touya's three glasses of water.

It wasn't like this when he was staying over here prior to the Hokuto Cup. They were all on edge, really nervous, ready to assign blame, but Touya floated like a cloud from room to room, in his natural element. Touya wasn't trying to break the floorboards with his feet. He didn't sound like his own angry stampede. Even the swirly, unresolved memories of last night tell Hikaru all he absolutely needs to know. If not the whole getting drunk thing, then the stuff he said while they were drunk must have pissed Touya right the fuck off. Disgusted him, surely. Touya looked like he couldn't wait to get away from Hikaru, as far away as possible.

Touya calls to him, then, demanding toast, and that's the whip crack across his heart that forces him to sit up, wide-eyed, like he's expecting another strike. Then it's quiet again, aside from the running water in the other room. Hikaru nearly withers down to his roots, before deciding he can't give up so easily here. It isn't until he's crawled on all fours into the kitchen that he attempts to stand back up again. As he moves upward, his clothing sticks to him in odd places from sweat gone dry and also drags over and across him, all wet friction, from fresh sweat coming in. It's just too damn hot in this house, he thinks. More like a fucking sauna-- Opening the refrigerator feels like he's stepped across the world and arrived at the Himalayas. It feels incredible, wonderful; the stuff of legends. He sags against the door and basks in the wafting frost for at least a full minute.

The toaster itself looks like it's as modern as ever, thank god. He makes four pieces of toast without setting fire to anything. Then he realizes he has no idea if Touya wants butter or jelly or something on his toast, and he doesn't know if Touya will freak out if he doesn't get what he wants. Back in the fridge, he discovers it's pretty well stocked with all sorts of spreadables, so much so that he has to wonder if this is all the Touyas fucking eat. Probably admirers of Touya-sensei's from all over the world have sent them various things to try out. No coherent family could want strawberry and lychee and margarine and cream cheese and peanut butter all at the same time. There's even a canister of Vegemite that smells like black death when Hikaru checks on it. He very nearly throws up on the floor of Touya's kitchen.

Instead of trying to figure out what Touya likes, he just brings out a tray with the plate of toast and a dozen of the available spreads. He sets it down on the dining table and squints at it, thinking it looks more than a little insane, like he's having breakfast with the Mad Hatter. His blinding headache doesn't give him any better ideas, though. Now he's taken care of all of that, and Touya is still whiling away in the bath... He should probably get out of here. He should leave. But if he left right now, behind Touya's back, it'd probably be worse for him in the long run. Sometimes you just have to sit down and face the music. Some games you're just going to lose, no matter what you do. That's why he reaches for his backpack and retrieves his phone, powering it back on.

So, thankfully, nothing is on fire when Touya returns from washing up, dressed in clothing for comfort's comfort. Hikaru, though, is sitting in front of the table, his phone pressed to his ear, and his other hand grinding through his hair like he's trying to tear it out by the roots. The bent arc of his back makes him look, frankly, devastated. Just exhausted, beyond exhausted, but also like he has to carry something even heavier for another thousand miles.] I know, [he says, low and miserable, in the middle of what sounds like a root canal with no anesthetic.] I know, I know. I know he wants to talk to me when he gets home. I know that. I'm sorry. I'm... yeah, I know that. I'll apologize to them, too. I know they're--I know, Mom, you don't have to say it like that. I'm just-- [And the call seems to end there, because he doesn't say anything else. She hung up on him. That much of a guilt trip, and she's the one hanging up on him. Fucking whatever.

He avoids Touya's gaze while he picks up his backpack and quickly, quietly, drags it and also himself all the way to the bathroom.

It doesn't take him too, too long to finish up in there, even though he likewise wants to linger. He emerges from the fragrant steam in the pajamas he was supposed to wear last night, just a grey shirt on grey plaid for pants, monochromatic and unoffensive for it. With him, in a tense grip, he's carrying a bottle of aspirin that he found in their medicine cabinet. He sets it down beside Touya's elbow without saying a word. A peace offering, maybe. Or maybe it's common sense. Then he sits down a respectable distance from Touya, one hand already moving to shield his burning, bloodshot eyes from more sunlight.

Finally, the rattling of an old radio:]

No one should have that many jams and jellies in their fridge.

[ashlar]

[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.]

[protential]

[And Hikaru just sits there, waiting in grim silence, expecting to die at any moment. Either the hangover is going to finish him off, or Touya will close the distance between them and do it himself. Of course he's ready to blame Touya for going along with his foolhardy challenge, but it's still his fault that they're feeling like shit. The only good thing about getting drunk last night is the fact he had no dreams whatsoever. He didn't dream about lightless rooms, or the silken, vinelike stretch of Sai's hair. He didn't dream about how nothing and no one was going to be able to save him. But spilling all the secrets he did, and waking up to a migraine, and Touya's stomping footsteps, and his mother screaming at him... Overall, he feels like he fucked up pretty bad. A few hours of peace, swaddled in heat, in Touya's presence, doesn't balance that out.

For whatever reason, Touya asks him if he feels any better. His lips come part--and it's audible to his ears, that's how sensitive he is--even before he knows what to say. Then he says,] I feel like a truck ran over me, then backed up, then ran over me again. [Touya, on the other hand... even with his dry eyes, his discolored skin, his hair pulled up all slapdash and damp... even with all of that, he looks like he's ready to tackle anything. Hell, he could go sit for a match and still probably beat the poor bastard who has to deal with him.]

My mother...

[Hikaru starts to shake his head, but he can tell that's only going to give him motion sickness. He stops, sighs to himself, and then swallows the thought entirely. The last time his mother yelled at him like that, it was when he had crossed the road without her permission and almost got hit by a car. Six years old, if he remembers right. Additional proof he's always been an irresponsible piece of shit.

He sighs again and moves his hand away, looking down at the pieces of toast. He looks at them like they've personally wronged him somehow. Then, dubiously, he picks up one piece. He sets it back down.] I'm not hungry, Touya. [Then he picks it up again and starts nibbling along the crispiest edge. No spreads for him. No jams or jellies. Anything more flavorful than this would make his stomach fight its way out of his body.

Oh, that thought from before is bubbling back up his throat, as painful as a wash of stomach acid.]

She told me to apologize for... [How did she put it, again? Oh, yeah:] imposing myself on your hospitality.