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Your hands are sweating, and it’s not something that you’re used to. It reminds you of the days when you sat in the bench of the locker rooms, seconds after everyone headed to the court, and you clasped your hands together and told yourself that you were going to win, because there was no other choice for someone who had already done everything posible to assure it.
It’s unnerving, looking at him right now and wondering if he’ll find out, if he’ll know. How could he not, not only have you spent years together by now but nothing escapes his meticulous eyes, as if the dual colors came with some sort of super power that made it impossible to hide anything from him.
So far, he hasn’t asked, but that glint in his eyes betrays him half the time, and you know he won’t be able to hold out much longer; handing out excuses prematurely would only magnify the strangeness of the situation, and in passing commentary make sure to add how much work you’ve had lately and how busy the hospital has been, he peers at you over the large newspaper sheet he’s fixed on and nods, as if accepting it. It’s only natural to assume as much.
The topic, however, is all but forgotten, as one late afternoon over dinner he brings it up, and it blind sides you because you think you’ve done good enough in trying to cover it all up with just work, so when it comes, in a stern voice, “Is everything alright at the clinic?” your hand freezes mid-air, with the chopsticks on the way to your mouth, and you nod before you can react.
“Everything’s fine,” you manage, and eat away – the food in your mouth reassuring you that the topic will be dropped, not as if you can answer any more. Your relief is short-lived as he presses on, “You seem distracted lately. Stressed,” and you gulp down your food, placing your chopsticks down and look up, “Do I?” and it comes out innocent enough.
He says nothing and serves himself the last piece of tofu, and you wonder since when did your silences become so unnatural, perhaps what you thought was for the best was only going to be detrimental. You push that thought away, you’ve made up your mind.
The next morning is as if things have returned to normal, though you’re pretending not to notice the burning stare he gives you from the bed as you hop into the shower. You’re quick, remembering that you agreed to meet early today because there was no way to make time later on today, you change fast, and stop at the doorway remembering you left your phone.
Your steps are quiet, and it’s not like you mean to hide what you’re coming back for – but if he already knows something is up, then you clinging to your phone will definitely be a sign. You go into your study, open the drawer and fetch it, but as you’re on your way out you bump into him. Towel around his shoulders, and striding into the kitchen. “You forgot something?” and you pocket your phone, and unconsciously adjust your frames, “I got it now,” and you dart out of your apartment.
Your phone rings, as you hail a cab, and the screen flashes with Takao’s name. “Hey, I’m already here, Shin-chan, are you coming or what?” the impatience in his voice isn’t hidden and you clear your throat. “I’m on my way,” you reply, and end the conversation quickly, hanging up as his voice is still roaring on the other side.
You’ve thought about bringing up the subject, about how to say it but you can’t find a perfect moment. You remember Takao, who told you that there wasn’t such a thing and that it was better to just bring it up, Akashi was bound to found out and why not let it be by your lips rather than his acute deductive skills.
“Where to, Sir?” the cab driver asks, and you reply with the address.
**
You mess up one day, because all this doubt and hesitation that has been growing in your mind has minimised the sharpness of your mind, and trusting on Akashi’s later arrival you’re all but ready to go, putting on your coat, when the door swings open and he’s there.
He opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to the punch. “Emergency at the hospital,” you mumble and stop when your hand is on the door handle. “Sorry,” you say (though it would seem more to yourself than to him) and close the door behind you.
Whether it’s your self defence mechanisms or admitting faults in him, you begin to feel a tinge of anger at the fact he doesn’t trust you. Though admittedly, you’re keeping something from him, but why couldn’t he just trust and accept something sometimes.
You think about this, reassuring yourself that you’re in the right and he’s most certainly not in the right as well. You should be given, if anything, the benefit of the doubt shouldn’t you? Surely, the years by his side had gained you as much, and you wanted to handle this situation on your own terms, so what if you were keeping things, they weren’t going to be so secret anymore, so why couldn’t he just wait.
You stop for a moment, and smile to yourself, shaking your head, wonder when did that idiot Kise’s influence rub on you this much that you’ve ended up lying to yourself so much that you actually believe what you’re spouting and are feeling offended at Akashi’s suspicious attitude. If that’s what it takes to get through these days, then that’s fine.
Wondering how you’ll break the news to him, you manage to return home after a few hours and running the proper errands, and that’s still on your mind – the scenarios and possible outcomes when he talks first.
“You left your pass,” he accuses, because it’s clearly an accusation and not a question. In a moment of disbelief, you pat the back of your pants where you usually keep the cards and swiftly undo the gesture – as if pretending it didn’t happen, but it doesn’t go past him. You still offer an excuse.
“A colleague of mine swapped me in, ” is your firm reply, and your voice leaves no room for discussion – though that doesn’t mean he won’t try. You feel tired, and his red and scarlet eyes haven’t moved from you, and you can feel the interrogation simply in the way he looks at you.
“Stop that,” you grumble and you can feel the indignation rise if you – offended that he wasn’t buying your lies, and you acknowledge yourself that this is cynism at it’s finest but you haven’t had a proper argument in days and you’re tired, and anxious and hesitant and so be it.
He feigns innocence, and it Angers you even more – because this time it’s as if he’s playing you for a fool, like you wouldn’t notice as much as he notices you. Like you weren’t the person that knew him best from his other self. He breaches the subject by admitting that the facts don’t match up to what you say and he hits the nail in the head and really, you could back down and come clean – but the way the words slide off his mouth almost arrogantly, and he adds that it’s nothing personal when he does this to you… it’s enough to blow your lid (and that certainly has to be an admirable tasks since your days in middle school).
Your replies, though well formed and assertive make no effort to hide how hurt you are, and you begin to wonder if it’s not about this argument at all but the fact that you’ve always had this creeping sense of being watched and known and measured in the past few years, something you never really touch upon because you know it’s not personal, you know it more than anyone.
You know his deductions are not meant to hurt, and his words are not meant to offend, and the way he speaks is not meant to doubt, you know it all because it is why you’re together and why you complete each other in the way you do. Because you understand all that, but for a moment you are caught up in your anger and your lies and you forget it all.
You remember days of the past, where he felt so distant and far away – and remember refused hand shakes, and your strive to show him defeat, and how that had been taken from you but it had helped him either way, and you feel as if you’re not standing in the same stage, and remember an emperor’s burning stare who was in a way meant to state who was clearly at the top, but that’s not him and you’ve forgotten it for a moment.
“How insulting it is to be told that my devotion towards you is ignorant. It's true I can't assess you in the way you assess me, but you give faith too little credence,” the words come out before you can stop them, though you made an effort to formulate them even in this state that is beside yourself.
He pulls back, and hi slips are parted, because what you said has probably hurt and you can see it now, clearer than ever, that that has never been his intention from the start. Not with you. Not after all these years, not when you remember the shy yet decisive first kisses, and the trembling hands that wouldn’t stop touching you, and the time he picked you up for dinner and took you to a fully furnished apartment and proclaimed that that was yours, and his, new home.
Silence befalls, and though it’s seconds it does feel like hours. You are not sure how to trace back, because your pride burns brightly and how can you apologize. Fumbling, you dig into your front pocket, and take out the small leather box, your thumb digging into the red material, and you put it in his hands. You push the thought of what a superb view the sparkling gem mounted on the band in his delicate fingers would be.
The words you say next , still meaning to defend yourself, as you admit that a man should be allowed his secrets. He stays quiet, and you go into the bathroom, after spending an unnatural amount of time in the bathtub you wonder if he’s asleep now and it’s okay to come back out.
You can feel the red in your cheeks, and it’s not from the heat of the wáter, it’s from the embarrassment you feel at doing what you did in the worst possible way. Even though it seemed like something that would fit you both. You step out, and dry yourself, sneaking into bed as if you were a thief, and notice he’s s gone out of the room, you fall asleep wishing tomorrow would come faster but not without hearing the delicate thud of the box being set on the night stand and the lamp being turned off.
The next morning, still remains with a sense of odd serenity, as you both dig into your breakfast without much spoken. You’re trying to find the moment to apologize and make it clear, that you were serious though your execution had been anything but proper, when he once again speaks first.
An apology that is almost too proper for lovers who are sitting across from each other and the admittance that he needs you in his life, because it is as you say that he is not always right comes next. You know there’s nothing to forgive, and you make sure to let him know as much.
“It’s not the way I wanted to do it,” you finally admit and not even parting goodbye from your basketball senpais was as embarrassing as this, not even explaining to Mother and Father why you were going to move in with Akashi had caused your heart to beat as loud.
You can see it in his eyes, his answer, and you wonder why it feels like your stomach is empty even though you’ve just devoured your breakfast. His words are the queue you need to fetch the ring, because it’s true when he says that there was no other way he needed it to be.
His eyes this time are fixed on your own fingers, and he mumbles something about how beautiful they are, how even though you don’t tape your hands anymore or take obsessive precautions, they are still your livelihood as a surgeon. It’s a tender moment, to have the hands that have saved lives do this for me, and it’s like poetry being mumbled into your ear as you’re bending down to slide the ring into his finger.
Flickering thoughts of the times you had spent at every jeweller, hours sitting waiting for the right diamond to come by. Endless afternoons, with Takao’s bantering as you both chose correctly. Favors and favors owed to Kise for introducing you to the foreign designer who had finally crafted something after you had told him about Akashi.
It was all worth it when you could see the ring slide into Akashi’s smaller but slender finger, it was but a sign of something that had already started years ago. A simple confirmation, a statement, and maybe a trip you’d have to take to San Francisco too.