[He doesn't say thank you when Shindou gives him that next cup, but he means it. When he brings it to his mouth, when he closes his eyes through that first drink, it means his gratitude. The flutter of his eyelashes should be demonstrative... Well, Touya Akira is not known for expressiveness, nor for communicating well with colleagues. He inhales through his nose just before he takes another drink, and after that, he can open up his eyes again. The coffee, and the smell of the coffee, and the encroachment of air cooler than his nighttime cocoon... Yes, he's thankful. His soft sigh should say that just as much.
When his eyes are open again, it's to catch Shindou's farewell of a silhouette. But there's more to it than that. Akira watches with his mouth fallen open just enough to see him mesmerized. Shindou, brushing his hair... Shindou's hand, those strokes, the bending of his wrist. If Shindou were to brush Akira's hair—look, he's not trying to sound crazy—if Shindou were to do that, he might say, "It's missing a tooth, let me get another one," and Akira might reply, "Leave it as it is; run it through my hair," and they would know, the both of them, that Akira desires the stroke of this comb, missing tooth and all, because the tortoiseshell comb, its lacquer, and the simple branch flowering across it were pressed into Akira's hands on a quiet night before Shindou was sent away from the capital for a fortnight. Akira waited, and prayed, and the night Shindou returned, he combed Akira's hair beneath the moonlight. Every moon that can look upon this comb in Shindou's hand is a good moon, a fortuitous moon, in Akira's blessed opinion. ...But that would be nonsense, and when Akira recognizes the mystified feeling in his own face, he breathes in and shuts his mouth—surely it was just for a few seconds. He couldn't have been agape for too long; his eyes couldn't have been so sparkly. The silence couldn't have billowed out of him like stretches of silk shining with embroidery. There were no plum blossoms blooming out of his quiet, open mouth.
His pin-straight hair works against him, in the morning. It stubbornly holds its shape, which means the left side of his hair is aggressively flattened against his head, and the right side is blown out as if having suffered a swell of wind. His bangs bob out like the plume of a rooster's tail. They bob a little more when he tilts his head, perplexed, and it's then that he realizes the state of himself—a lock of hair dipping into his line of sight, and then the feeling of being wholly rumpled, and then the feeling of being rumpled before the person to whom you want to shine in a specific way. Akira first claps his hand over his mouth, maybe to keep from saying something, before covering his mouth with the rim of Shindou's cup instead. Shindou, brushing his hair, dressed for the morning, probably smelling of toothpaste and something fresh—you know, sometimes, when he brisks by without looking at Akira, Akira catches the wake of him, that air current trailing behind him. It leaves Akira with just enough to wonder about Shindou's detergent, his soap, whatever deodorant, and...]
Good morning, [Akira blurts, horrified by it even as he says it. It's the first polite thing he's said thus far, and he bites the styrofoam rim of the cup in his surprise.] Oh—you're ready... [For the day, it looks like, generally. Akira makes a face, somewhere between bewildered and irritated, and he turns his face away. He presses the pad of his thumb to his lips—it's still sweet from what Shindou brought him. He's thinking; his eyes are moving left, then right, since he doesn't have stones before him to settle on. But he's definitely thinking.
He sets the cup down. Then he stands. He pats his hair down as best he can, which isn't very well, before he gives a quarter bow from his waist.] I am deeply sorry to have troubled you with such requests. Thank you very much for the accommodations. [The lingering sugar in his mouth doesn't help that rug burn quality to his voice. He straightens from the bow. Less deliberately formal,] ...You could have said no.
no subject
When his eyes are open again, it's to catch Shindou's farewell of a silhouette. But there's more to it than that. Akira watches with his mouth fallen open just enough to see him mesmerized. Shindou, brushing his hair... Shindou's hand, those strokes, the bending of his wrist. If Shindou were to brush Akira's hair—look, he's not trying to sound crazy—if Shindou were to do that, he might say, "It's missing a tooth, let me get another one," and Akira might reply, "Leave it as it is; run it through my hair," and they would know, the both of them, that Akira desires the stroke of this comb, missing tooth and all, because the tortoiseshell comb, its lacquer, and the simple branch flowering across it were pressed into Akira's hands on a quiet night before Shindou was sent away from the capital for a fortnight. Akira waited, and prayed, and the night Shindou returned, he combed Akira's hair beneath the moonlight. Every moon that can look upon this comb in Shindou's hand is a good moon, a fortuitous moon, in Akira's blessed opinion. ...But that would be nonsense, and when Akira recognizes the mystified feeling in his own face, he breathes in and shuts his mouth—surely it was just for a few seconds. He couldn't have been agape for too long; his eyes couldn't have been so sparkly. The silence couldn't have billowed out of him like stretches of silk shining with embroidery. There were no plum blossoms blooming out of his quiet, open mouth.
His pin-straight hair works against him, in the morning. It stubbornly holds its shape, which means the left side of his hair is aggressively flattened against his head, and the right side is blown out as if having suffered a swell of wind. His bangs bob out like the plume of a rooster's tail. They bob a little more when he tilts his head, perplexed, and it's then that he realizes the state of himself—a lock of hair dipping into his line of sight, and then the feeling of being wholly rumpled, and then the feeling of being rumpled before the person to whom you want to shine in a specific way. Akira first claps his hand over his mouth, maybe to keep from saying something, before covering his mouth with the rim of Shindou's cup instead. Shindou, brushing his hair, dressed for the morning, probably smelling of toothpaste and something fresh—you know, sometimes, when he brisks by without looking at Akira, Akira catches the wake of him, that air current trailing behind him. It leaves Akira with just enough to wonder about Shindou's detergent, his soap, whatever deodorant, and...]
Good morning, [Akira blurts, horrified by it even as he says it. It's the first polite thing he's said thus far, and he bites the styrofoam rim of the cup in his surprise.] Oh—you're ready... [For the day, it looks like, generally. Akira makes a face, somewhere between bewildered and irritated, and he turns his face away. He presses the pad of his thumb to his lips—it's still sweet from what Shindou brought him. He's thinking; his eyes are moving left, then right, since he doesn't have stones before him to settle on. But he's definitely thinking.
He sets the cup down. Then he stands. He pats his hair down as best he can, which isn't very well, before he gives a quarter bow from his waist.] I am deeply sorry to have troubled you with such requests. Thank you very much for the accommodations. [The lingering sugar in his mouth doesn't help that rug burn quality to his voice. He straightens from the bow. Less deliberately formal,] ...You could have said no.