stealhearted | are you hurting the one you love?

[He hums again, stepping up alongside him and leaning their shoulders together, largely trying to ignore the easy contact.] Something... fruity. [He's had mostly coffee and water, he wants something obscenely saccharine. He digs into his pocket with his free hand, claiming some of the money he'd pulled from his book-safe, and then turns to look sidelong at Akira.]

What are you getting?

Orange juice. [ It's a healthy option, given that Akira's blood is 80% caffeine by volume at this point. When he sees Akechi going for his money, Akira doesn't bother to grab his -- he's fairly certain Akechi would only shoo it away anyway, for the sake of not feeling so indebted. ]

[He snorts at that, startled by the simple way he says it, by the almost childish innocence in the claim.] Orange juice. Are you a toddler? [But he feeds the bill into the machine and taps a bottle of orange juice, followed by a white peach soda after a moment's deliberation. He ducks to claim them, hooking his thumb and forefinger and ring and little finger around the caps of both bottles to extract them one-handed, and angles his wrist to face the orange juice toward Akira. He sets his bottle down to claim his change, pocketing it before claiming the bottle and standing again.]

Nah. Toddlers drink apple juice. [ Akira says it very matter of factly, accepting the juice and drinking it. Truthfully, he's just not big on carbonation late at night. He might be an elderly man in the skin of a youthful thief. Hard to say. ]

Don't tell Sojiro, he thinks I live off coffee.

Do they now, [He offers, pinning his bottle to his side to unscrew the cap and drinking it. Ah yes, sweet, sweet sugary rot.]

[He snorts, luckily having now had a mouthful of carbonated drink at the time, screwing the cap back on and tugging Akira by his hand back toward the cafe.] I'll keep your sordid affair with orange juice secret.

Thanks. It'd be the highest betrayal. [ Akira isn't sure he's seen Sojiro drink a beverage that wasn't coffee, like. Ever. Not even once. Does Sojiro drink water? No one can say.

He follows back to the cafe, though, and when they get to the door he tucks the bottle of juice between his arm and side so he can unlock it without letting go of Akechi's hand. ]

[He thinks, at this point, he's starting to get high on the contact. He's not used to much making him feel giddy, other than plans going how they ought to or like, brutally murdering a shadow because it irritated him, so he's not entirely sure what to do with the jittering excitement thrumming under his skin. He manages not to laugh, but only barely, and is stunned by the near-response enough that he brings his hand, soda grasped at the neck, to his mouth to hide the way the lower half of his face is pulled funny. He's not smiling, either-- not quite, but he can't figure out what his face is doing and it's an obviously positive thing, so he opts to just hide it.]

[Because, you know. Being happy was dangerous and terrifying.] Me telling him, or you not living on a constant IV drip of his coffee?

Both, probably. [ Akira waits until the door is closed and locked behind them and they're standing alone in the dark cafe. The light is on in the attic, and between that and the streetlight there's enough to see each other by -- just enough, dim and shadowed.

So he steps a little closer and looks at Akechi in the darkness. ]

Can I kiss you?

[He doesn't shy away from Akira stepping into his space, but his eyes jump up to him at the question, catching the light and looking about as molten as they are alarmed. He keeps his hand where it is, because the giddy sensation of bubbles in his stomach is unrelenting and he still wants to fucking smile.]

[He hesitates, trying to keep his expression schooled, and winds up looking down and away from him again, back up, and away, three separate times trying to figure himself out before he steps forward himself, reaching past Akira to set his soda on the counter. Uncertainly, he breathes a very quiet "Yes," before he stands close enough that Akira is a blur of pale skin in dim lighting, wishing the fluttering sensation in his everything hadn't wholly taken any confidence he may have had to initiate the gesture himself.]

[ Akira watches it, the entire thing playing out on Akechi's face in the light. Akira's stomach twists and he wants to be able to reassure him: it's okay, I love you, you're allowed to want things and have things.

He doesn't say it, because they've both been lied to so much that words don't hold much water even when they're honest. So he kisses him, once Akechi breathes out the agreement; he leans in and kisses him softly and gently in the shadows, reverent and careful. It's nothing like the hot, biting kiss they'd had earlier -- that life- affirming desperation, that demand that had to be fulfilled. It's slow and easy and Akira tries to communicate: It’s because I want you like this, too. He wants this shy Akechi who doesn't know how to get his footing and flinches like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop at any moment. He wants every Akechi, really, all the different sides of him, and he hopes he can get it across eventually, that he likes Akechi regardless. That he won't change his mind.

That Akechi is allowed to believe him. ]

[The gentleness of it is almost worse, somehow. His fingers curl in Akira's almost immediately, and he feels his eyes get hot despite having been literally giddy with the energy of having spent time just aimlessly traipsing around talking about nothing like someone his age should be. So while he presses into the kiss, hesitant and fearful of Akira's reverence, a tiny tremor starts from his core and vibrates outward until he's tense and shaking, still adamantly pressed to Akira's lips.]

[ Akira doesn't kiss him long. He can feel the shaking, and he lets his hand move back, dragging down to hover gently at Akechi's lower back. It's not a push, just a steadying movement, like he can support Akechi even when Akechi can't do it himself.

He wants to be that kind of support, at any rate.

Akira pulls back, slowly, just enough that his eyelashes brush against Akechi's skin. ]

It's okay.

[As soon as his mouth isn't occupied he's breathing in that awful shallow gasping way he does when he's trying to not go absolutely catatonic, but he stands very still with Akira's support. It's like knowing he put it there makes him incapable of actually relaxing into it, even if he appreciates it in some dull sense because with the way his knees are locked he will have to force himself to move eventually or he'll probably just knock himself out. He swallows a few times, blinking away the dampness at his lashes and shaking his head.]

I can't breathe. [He doesn't mean it literally, and he doesn't mean it in the sense that he wants Akira to crowd him less. He doesn't fully understand what he means, really, but Akira seems to be pretty good at figuring him out when he can't, so he says it anyway.]

Are you afraid? [ It doesn't have any heat to it -- it's not teasing or mocking, but it isn't concerned, either. It sounds almost like he's talking about something routine, like the weather. He aims it that way because he isn't sure, and Akira doubts that Akechi is that good at unraveling his emotions yet. He thinks it would be more overwhelming for him, if he hadn't known he'd wanted it for so long. ]

I've got you. [ Literally, metaphorically, emotionally. Which is probably contributing to the way Akechi shakes, honestly, because when was the last time someone had him in a way that wasn't horrendously traumatizing? Everyone in Akechi's life seemed content to accept him at face value or use him. ]

I'm-- [He wants to denounce that, wants to laugh it off. What the fuck does he have to be scared of, at this point? He's died twice. He's come back to life twice. But the question gives a word to the fear in his bones, like his head hadn't figured out he was until Akira suggested it, so the shaking gets worse and he wheezes out a thin sound, barely a whisper, and then actually forgets how to breathe.]

[He's not taking in enough oxygen, too busy approximately hyperventilating, and he can't quite seem to access the rational part of his brain to kick himself back into sanity, so he just folds forward to put his forehead against Akira's shoulder.] Sorry, this. This is disproportionate.

It's not. You've never really let yourself feel anything for everything you've been through, right? You just pushed the feelings down and kept moving. [ Akira says it because he does the same thing. When Akechi died -- both times -- when Akechi had tried to kill him -- Akira had pushed the feelings to the lowest point of his chest, bound them up as tightly as he could and smiled like nothing was wrong.

He never had time to mourn. ]

But you're safe, now, and you don't know what you're working towards. It's all going to come out.

[The hand not already tangled in Akira's comes shaking to his side, instead, tapping his fingers there for a moment before curling around the fabric of his shirt. He grits his teeth, shaking his head, hating more than anything that the sharp intake of breath he tries to fill his lungs with catches, and he makes a horrible little sound.]

Don't encourage that, God. Y-you think I want to be this way? I am, [He swallows, trying to keep another stupid tremor out of his voice.] Far from the only person on this earth with problems.

Most people have therapists that don't try to take over the world. [ Akira says it very dryly, because he's aware that even if Maruki hadn't been Maruki, it's not like he could get Akechi to go to therapy short of an apocalypse, but Maruki certainly didn't help matters any. ]

I think you've gotta let it out or it just festers inside of you. So at least do it with me.

[He barks a sharp sound, vaguely laugh-like, in the way he would sometimes make unhinged howling sounds that resembled laughter in the Metaverse. He wants to think of Maruki Takuto as little as humanly possible, the mere mention of him making the anxious nausea in the pit of his stomach roil, and he closes his eyes eyes, forcing himself to take one solid gasp of air.]

I think I am past festering, I'm decayed and rotten. [His tone is quiet, wobbly and when he picks his head up to lean away his face is blotchy and red and his eyes are damp, but he's managed to not tip himself fully into sobbing meltdown number 346.] I need to sit down.

Come on. Let's go upstairs. [ Akira steps away, but he still doesn't quite let go of Akechi's hand. Especially not now, when Akechi is so jagged around the edges, his emotions too raw and open. He looks... vulnerable, and it makes Akira feel a strange combination of affection and the desire to protect Akechi at all costs, which he can never tell Akechi, probably. ]

You're not rotten. You're fermented. Or maybe pickled? Like an umeboshi.

Your viewpoint is biased, [At least he can still snark back? He withers when Akira steps back, his grip on their joined hands shifting so that his arm is held stiff, like it's helping to keep him upright, but he nods anyway.]

[As they move toward the stairs, he remembers to grab his soda, somehow.] Though I suppose umeboshi works well enough, they tear your mouth up if you eat many of them at once.

They're a strong taste that grows on you, right? I used to put them in onigiri whole. [ Akira, once, was a terrible cook, but mostly he's going to tease Akechi about being a vinegary substance that Akira still absolute enjoys. Because -- honestly, it's a pretty apt metaphor.

The attic, at least, is brighter than the cafe was, lit up by the lamp and made a little more homey by all the decorations, the stars on the ceiling glowing gently. ]

I forgot to take the seeds out once.

One of my foster brothers hated them, he'd barter with me that he'd give me his umeboshi if I gave him some of my rice, because I didn't eat much and liked them. [He manages a weak chuckle at Akira forgetting to take the seeds out of his umeboshi once, nodding.] I never even tried cooking until after I met you.

[A beat.] ...it didn't go well, so I stopped about immediately. [He pulls Akira by their joined hands over to the couch, staggering a bit as he goes and sitting, only to immediately curl over sideways and grasp the edge of the cushion with his free hand.] I regret allowing my body to remember how to have emotions.

I'm glad you did, if it means you can like me. [ Not tolerate or enjoy Akira's company as a rival or whatever, but like him, as someone that enjoys holding hands and kissing under the moonlight. ] That might be selfish.

[ Akira's not really sure anymore, but he sits down regardless. Akechi's always been quick to flinch at extra contact when it's unexpected, so Akira makes sure he can see his hand well before it settles down on Akechi's shoulder, rubbing in a soothing sort of circle. ]

I can teach you to cook. Or just cook for you.

It's so much at once, like a constant migraine. [He doesn't mind Akira being selfish about it, though-- not that he says that. He watches his hand warily but allows it, closing his eyes and relaxing a little in his awkward curl on the couch, slowly figuring out how to breath like less of a hummingbird.]

I don't want to set Leblanc on fire.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject