[Whether Hikaru is frowning or making better faces, he's easy to read. Even if he doesn't say every single thing anymore, Akira has been watching him long enough to see what he keeps close, to see every inch of change. Gradual or not, Akira can still remember the exact angles of Hikaru's mouth from two years ago—from five years ago—Akira still knows the light and temperature of him from the first of his own blushes. It all adds up. There's no point in Hikaru hiding his equations from Akira. Hikaru does not have a single part Akira isn't watching closely.
And if Hikaru as a whole is bright and open-faced like sunflowers—and he is, whether his eyes match up to their leaves or their seed heads, whether or not other people can find him in a field—Akira holds fast as the dark, tight blooms of wolfsbane. He grows persistently. He grows stubborn and with roots that linger. Freedom isn't all that's made him greedy. He is greedy for more things to admire in Hikaru, and he's greedy for things to make himself more admired. He follows Hikaru and drinks his wine, blooming tightly, and the taste on his tongue demands that Hikaru recall the taste just as well.
But it's really easy for Hikaru to make Akira light up.
Akira nearly bites the rim of his glass in his excitement, moving it from his mouth, and he's taking a short, deep breath right away. He does bite his bottom lip, as if to tuck away a smile, but that doesn't last long. His smile shows up, determined to be seen. A week's worth, or however long he feels like staying. Akira bites his lip again, but it's not to hide his smile. It's a joyful nip while he casts his eyes down at an angle. Bashful. Not embarrassed, but in awe of his own happiness.
That doesn't last long, either. He keeps his eyes on Hikaru as much as he can. When he is watching Hikaru again, there's gratitude in the shine of him. But, instead of saying thank you, he says,] Of course it's better. We'll need to do the shopping tomorrow. I have study hall on Saturday, and makeup work on Sunday. [Hikaru has bought himself a moment of docility, and Akira quietly eats a little of his ginger, as if to temper his own sweetness. Beneath the table, he crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and then crosses them in the other direction. Then he swallows his food.]
You'll pick me up on Saturday? Did you have something else planned? [The questions are a courtesy, and he doesn't mean them as inquiries. He's letting Hikaru know it's what he wants. But he's just a bit less like the steel wool when he does it, and maybe the wine helps with the creak of his throat. Maybe the warmth of sharing dinner can sand down the edges of his voice even a little. But he's still tired, and that always makes him tense. (He's usually tired.)]
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And if Hikaru as a whole is bright and open-faced like sunflowers—and he is, whether his eyes match up to their leaves or their seed heads, whether or not other people can find him in a field—Akira holds fast as the dark, tight blooms of wolfsbane. He grows persistently. He grows stubborn and with roots that linger. Freedom isn't all that's made him greedy. He is greedy for more things to admire in Hikaru, and he's greedy for things to make himself more admired. He follows Hikaru and drinks his wine, blooming tightly, and the taste on his tongue demands that Hikaru recall the taste just as well.
But it's really easy for Hikaru to make Akira light up.
Akira nearly bites the rim of his glass in his excitement, moving it from his mouth, and he's taking a short, deep breath right away. He does bite his bottom lip, as if to tuck away a smile, but that doesn't last long. His smile shows up, determined to be seen. A week's worth, or however long he feels like staying. Akira bites his lip again, but it's not to hide his smile. It's a joyful nip while he casts his eyes down at an angle. Bashful. Not embarrassed, but in awe of his own happiness.
That doesn't last long, either. He keeps his eyes on Hikaru as much as he can. When he is watching Hikaru again, there's gratitude in the shine of him. But, instead of saying thank you, he says,] Of course it's better. We'll need to do the shopping tomorrow. I have study hall on Saturday, and makeup work on Sunday. [Hikaru has bought himself a moment of docility, and Akira quietly eats a little of his ginger, as if to temper his own sweetness. Beneath the table, he crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and then crosses them in the other direction. Then he swallows his food.]
You'll pick me up on Saturday? Did you have something else planned? [The questions are a courtesy, and he doesn't mean them as inquiries. He's letting Hikaru know it's what he wants. But he's just a bit less like the steel wool when he does it, and maybe the wine helps with the creak of his throat. Maybe the warmth of sharing dinner can sand down the edges of his voice even a little. But he's still tired, and that always makes him tense. (He's usually tired.)]