[Other than setting up the rice cooker, Hikaru decides it's best if he stays out of Akira's way for what's left of the cooking. He wanders over to the kitchen table and sits down, dropping his head onto an open palm, still watching Akira from here. He's been watching Akira for a long time already--maybe he's an idiot, such an idiot, but he's not so much of an idiot that he'd miss out on Akira's ascension. Still, Hikaru has to acknowledge he wasn't watching for the things he should have been watching for all along. He was too late to stop the bright gleam in Akira's eyes, or the steel wool texture of his voice, or how he holds himself like he's getting ready to bring down a battle axe on some hapless fool's head. Akira is the tip of a spear right now, just looking for an excuse to strike, both determined and agitated. When this first started happening, Hikaru thought Akira's tetchy moods were a byproduct of his teenage years: a flood of hormones, a changing body, old priorities being thrown out of whack. He thought it was inevitable that Akira would be upset with him, would want to put some distance between them... but it's more like Akira wants to be closer to him than anything else. He knows he made Akira upset, and it's got to be over the pizza, or whatever the pizza represents. He remembers what it felt like when every little thing would just get blown out of proportion in his head. It was pretty tiresome, wasn't it?
If not for the clatter of the bowl, Hikaru would've dozed off again, his thoughts going around and around in an aimless loop. He sits up straighter, then, blinking hard, all too aware of the saliva in his mouth. Leaning back, he watches as Akira douses the rice in fresh tea and then pours a glass of wine, which he's probably doing because he's still upset. Hikaru could apologize for the pizza, or whatever the hell, but he sighs instead and quietly thanks Akira for the meal. Then he reaches for a pair of chopsticks he has in the long wooden box at the center of the table.
It isn't too surprising--it's annoying, but not surprising--to hear Akira talk about breakfast like he's planning to spend the night. As a small child, Akira had next to no say about where he'd spend the night, especially on a school night, so giving him that freedom has made him so greedy. Hikaru can't really escape the mental image of a tiny Akira clinging to his leg and telling him not to leave, as obstinate as a barnacle, eyes big and shiny and pleading. He shakes his head a little and pokes at the scrambled eggs, these perfectly cooked scrambled eggs, not at all like Hikaru's burnt attempts at them. Having meals like this might be why it wouldn't be so bad if Akira did stay over more often, if he's going to be alone otherwise, with his parents jaunting off to India or wherever it is right now. Akira is a very spoiled kid to begin with, but that doesn't mean Hikaru wants him to be alone and lonely when he doesn't have to be. Hikaru chews through a mouthful of rice and eggs, turning over how he can say that and not sound like he's desperate himself in saying it...
Hikaru finally opens his mouth--only to get cut off by Akira, who has to be right about everything, all the time, forever. Frowning vaguely, he just watches as Akira makes his well-placed jab and then retreats to the wine; he doesn't say anything about the wine, not when he's learned how to avoid speaking his mind at every opportunity. His Go is still violent, still highly aggressive, but it has these eerie moments of calm, of introspection, like water receding before a tsunami. He's good at keeping himself calm when his heart is squeezing itself into a tight, painful ball of anxiety. Akira is drinking red wine, that red wine, on purpose, which is its own sort of challenge, yeah.
Before too long:]
I need to go to the grocery store to pick up some things. If not tomorrow, then... sometime this weekend, I guess. [He's been sipping from his own glass of wine, an intermittent concession, but now he takes a real swallow of the stuff. It spreads across his tastebuds in luxury.] If you're going to cook for me, you should come along and pick out whatever you want. Like, enough for a week's worth of meals, or... however long you feel like staying over. [It's easier if he phrases this like he isn't making the decision for the two of them, like he isn't going ahead and asking Akira to stay here with him. It's easier if he phrases this like it's a temporary arrangement, too. A trial run at best. So, keeping his hand steady, he shoves one of the pickled plums into his mouth.] This is a lot better than another pizza, [he admits, as a capstone.]
no subject
If not for the clatter of the bowl, Hikaru would've dozed off again, his thoughts going around and around in an aimless loop. He sits up straighter, then, blinking hard, all too aware of the saliva in his mouth. Leaning back, he watches as Akira douses the rice in fresh tea and then pours a glass of wine, which he's probably doing because he's still upset. Hikaru could apologize for the pizza, or whatever the hell, but he sighs instead and quietly thanks Akira for the meal. Then he reaches for a pair of chopsticks he has in the long wooden box at the center of the table.
It isn't too surprising--it's annoying, but not surprising--to hear Akira talk about breakfast like he's planning to spend the night. As a small child, Akira had next to no say about where he'd spend the night, especially on a school night, so giving him that freedom has made him so greedy. Hikaru can't really escape the mental image of a tiny Akira clinging to his leg and telling him not to leave, as obstinate as a barnacle, eyes big and shiny and pleading. He shakes his head a little and pokes at the scrambled eggs, these perfectly cooked scrambled eggs, not at all like Hikaru's burnt attempts at them. Having meals like this might be why it wouldn't be so bad if Akira did stay over more often, if he's going to be alone otherwise, with his parents jaunting off to India or wherever it is right now. Akira is a very spoiled kid to begin with, but that doesn't mean Hikaru wants him to be alone and lonely when he doesn't have to be. Hikaru chews through a mouthful of rice and eggs, turning over how he can say that and not sound like he's desperate himself in saying it...
Hikaru finally opens his mouth--only to get cut off by Akira, who has to be right about everything, all the time, forever. Frowning vaguely, he just watches as Akira makes his well-placed jab and then retreats to the wine; he doesn't say anything about the wine, not when he's learned how to avoid speaking his mind at every opportunity. His Go is still violent, still highly aggressive, but it has these eerie moments of calm, of introspection, like water receding before a tsunami. He's good at keeping himself calm when his heart is squeezing itself into a tight, painful ball of anxiety. Akira is drinking red wine, that red wine, on purpose, which is its own sort of challenge, yeah.
Before too long:]
I need to go to the grocery store to pick up some things. If not tomorrow, then... sometime this weekend, I guess. [He's been sipping from his own glass of wine, an intermittent concession, but now he takes a real swallow of the stuff. It spreads across his tastebuds in luxury.] If you're going to cook for me, you should come along and pick out whatever you want. Like, enough for a week's worth of meals, or... however long you feel like staying over. [It's easier if he phrases this like he isn't making the decision for the two of them, like he isn't going ahead and asking Akira to stay here with him. It's easier if he phrases this like it's a temporary arrangement, too. A trial run at best. So, keeping his hand steady, he shoves one of the pickled plums into his mouth.] This is a lot better than another pizza, [he admits, as a capstone.]