Chapter Text
Autumn is arriving in Tokyo; shorter days lead to longer nights, beckoning warmer clothes and food alike, and Akira spends his time passively living through the turn of seasons. It's not unpleasant, just as it isn't entirely pleasant, either. It just is. The late-day air is just hinting at that sweet bite of crispness, and Akira finds himself daydreaming in the breeze at a crosswalk.
He does that a lot – daydream. Often. Spacey, Takuto would call him, not unkindly. He’s not paying attention to where he’s going, half-stepping into the bike lane a moment too soon.
“HOLY SHIT!”
A screech of brakes. A yelp. A flash of yellow, like lightning. The sound of a body hitting — bushes? Akira snaps his head back up to reality, cold shock spreading through his veins.
The yellow bike is upside down, wheel still spinning, and long legs splay out from curbside bushes.
Akira panics, moving quicker than he can think to help the boy up. He’s conscious, at least. But his face sports a nasty scrape, and he looks incredulously at Akira as he’s helped out of the bushes.
“Are you crazy, man?” He asks, rolling his shoulders and checking his footing – one long leg, then the next. He’s wearing a red and white track uniform that Akira quickly recognizes is from Shujin Academy. His brown, fluffy hair is riddled with twigs and leaves. “I coulda killed you.”
“I’m so sorry,” Akira breathes, feeling helpless as the boy dusts himself off, straightens up and fixes him with a glare.
He’s saying something. He definitely is. His lips are moving pretty fast. He’s a yapper, that’s for sure. And he’s loud. But it’s all background noise, like Akira’s head has been filled with the rushing sound of the ocean as he locks eyes with…with…
“Do I know you?” he blurts out of the blue, interrupting what sounded like a really good tirade, honestly. He probably had a lot of good points.
“Huh?” the boy sounds out eloquently, leaning forward to inspect Akira. Their eyes linger on each other, and for a moment, they’re both frozen on the busy sidestreet of Shibuya. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. A sound comes out, then stops. Closes again. Then:
“Never seen you before. You go to Shujin?”
“No.”
“Kosei?”
“No. I’m… I’m homeschooled.”
The boy straightens up and fixes him with a grin that borders on condescending. “Guess you don’t get out much, huh. This is called a crosswalk, buddy. You gotta wait for the light before…”
He goes on talking again, something about you should really be careful and I could’ve effin’ bulldozed you, man but Akira just finds himself zoning out, focusing in on the sound of that voice.
“Uhh…hellooo? I was the one who got hit in the head but you’re actin’ like it was you. Earth to uh…what’s your name, anyway?”
“Akira,” he replies somewhat numbly, still staring at the boy like a puzzle. “Kurusu Akira.”
“Kurusu Akira, huh…” the boy sounds out, quirking a brow and looking skyward. For a moment, a passing cloud reveals the sun, bathing him in gold briefly. He looks back down with a grin. “I’m Ryuji. Sakamoto Ryuji.”
“Ryuji.” Akira repeats it slowly, wearing the name on his tongue. It’s heavy, the shape of it, like he’s saying a word he’s never heard before, in a language he does not know. It causes the boy – Ryuji – to squint.
“Seriously, man. You’re kinda weird. Not helpin’ the whole homeschooled stereotype.”
“Are you okay?” he ignores the comment, shaking his head. Then he gasps. “You’re bleeding.” A thin trail of blood trickles down the other boy’s temple, over the curve of his browbone. It’s entrancing. Akira doesn’t know why it suits him, only that it does.
“Am I–? Shit. Ugh. I’m gonna be late for practice.”
“I’m so sorry,” Akira says again. “I live around the corner. Can I at least patch you up? You’re probably busted up elsewhere too.” There’s a desperation to his voice, quiet in its cadence, though he himself doesn’t know why. Something claws from the depths of his chest and it says stay, stay, please, don’t go. He reaches out, grabbing Ryuji’s wrist. That earns him an odd look. He keeps getting those from this guy, but Akira doesn’t really care. It doesn’t seem to be scaring him away, anyhow. Not yet.
Warily, Ryuji eyes him, blinking away the blood. It smears against his lid, blooming from a trickle to a tiny splatter on his lashes, lush like a ripe summer berry. Akira thinks it’s beautiful.
Ryuji looks at his sports watch, then sighs. “I guess I prolly should get cleaned up. Coach’ll have a fit if I bleed on that new track.” Then he grins, something cocky. “ ‘Sides. If anyone can afford to be late, it’s me.”
Akira takes him home, a few minutes walk away. Ryuji walks side by side, his bike scraped but no worse for wear. He learns that Ryuji is a second-year at Shujin, a rising track star, already with scholarships lining up. He lives in a quiet neighborhood with his mom. He’s halfway to asking if Akira plays any sports when he stops dead in his tracks at the front door.
“Yo…this whole place is yours?”
“Well, mine and my husband’s.”
“You’re married?”
“Yeah.”
That doesn’t strike Ryuji as odd, and he shrugs. “Nice digs.”
It isn’t often Akira has guests. In fact, he realizes all at once in a panic, he’s never had a guest in the home once. At all. Ever. Takuto is at work, and suddenly Akira is aware of all the things in disarray. Ah, shit.
“Uhm,” Akira sounds out somewhat awkwardly, like an announcement, “follow me to the bathroom.” Foregoing a tour, he ushers Ryuji in, who is looking around a mile a minute, left and right, craning his neck and trying to figure out what question to ask next.
Instead, Akira has Ryuji sit on the toilet seat, still gawking at the custom tile, the large sit-in shower, the gleaming adjacent tub, the monogrammed towels, the recessed lighting. There’s blood drying on his lashes, as Akira hovers over him to assess the damage.
The first aid kit is under the sink, and he pages through the contents while Ryuji fills the silence with…incessant questions. Are you from Tokyo? Yes. I was born here. Have you always been homeschooled? Yes. Woah. Do you play sports? No. Do you play… video games? Yeah. Oh! Me too. What do you play? Overwatch, mostly. Nice, nice. Who do you main?
It goes on like this as Akira switches between squinting at Ryuji’s cuts and scrapes and peering back into the first aid kit. Once he takes out what’s needed: gauze, bandages, antiseptic spray, q-tips, he gets to work.
There’s blood and dirt and sweat and grass, everywhere. His track uniform is smeared with green and brown. His hair – short, and fluffy and brown – still has a twig in it. The cut at his browbone is caked with dirt. There’s a dirty scrape on his cheek and his nose.
“Man. You took one hell of a tumble.”
“Thanks to you, Mr Head in the Clouds.”
“I can’t apologize enough,” Akira says, brow furrowed as he gingerly cleans the wound area of dirt with the q-tip.
“Let’s just be grateful it wasn’t worse, yeah? For either of us.”
“You should wear a helmet.”
“You should look both ways before crossin’ the street! That’s like pre-school, man. Did they teach that at home?”
Akira leans back, blinking wide behind his glasses. He catches Ryuji’s eyes – stubborn yet well-meaning. And he laughs. Ryuji joins him. Their cacophony bounces off the neatly tiled walls of the bathroom, filling the stagnant air of this lonely home with life and youth Akira did not know he was missing. Akira sighs something close to contentment.
“You were on your way to practice, yeah?”
“Yup. But honestly it’s my off-day anyway. I was just tryin’ to get in some extra time, see if I can shave a half-second off my lap. Got a big meet comin’ up.”
“Can I watch?” Akira blurts out, without thinking. Ryuji blinks.
“Uh, sure. If you want. You don’t gotta.”
“I want to,” Akira says suddenly. It’s been ages since he’s felt like he’s wanted anything. “Time and place. I’ll cheer you on.”
Ryuji stares at him. Really, really stares at him. For a while, Akira thinks he’s the one daydreaming. And then suddenly he smiles. “Shujin, Wednesday, 8pm. See you there.”
Akira finishes patching up Ryuji. He wipes the blood from his brow, pressing, holding, breathing. It smells like alcohol and sweat.
Finally, the last bandage is put over the bridge of his nose, and he grins in the mirror. “Ma’s gonna think I got in a fight again.”
“Do you often find yourself in fights?” Akira queries.
“Not anymore. Hey–you have a cat!” He squats down as Mocha inspects the bathroom, reaching out a hand before Akira can warn him. The tuxedo cat strikes, and Ryuji hisses through his teeth.
“Damn, man! For real? Can’t a guy catch a break?”
Akira tsks Mocha out, laughing, and feeling, of all things, strangely, strangely bright.
—
Akira doesn’t know much about running, but the evening of October 8th is what he would consider perfect race weather. Not too hot, not too cold, a gentle breeze through the aluminum stands. The air is filled with anticipation, the chatter of Shujin students, the metallic thump of shoes on bleachers.
Next to him, Takuto munches on popcorn, offering some to Akira, who vaguely takes a bite. When he had told his husband about the new friend he’d made, Takuto’s reaction was…not entirely what Akira had expected. It wasn’t a positive reaction, but it wasn’t negative, exactly, either. Puzzling. And yet when Akira mentioned the track meet, Takuto had lit up.
“I’d like to go as well,” he said after a moment, and Akira didn’t say no. Why would he?
He finds himself staring off again into space, lost in the humdrum of Shujin’s home crowd. It fades into background noise as he zones out on the cluster of bugs swarming the track lights high above the turf.
“So,” Takuto breaks the silence between them, “this new friend of yours. Sakamoto. What’s he look like?”
Akira belatedly processes the question, and blinks away the glare of the lights to squint at the runners. It’s not hard to make out Ryuji’s form on the track. His legs are long, gangly, and he always rolls up his sleeves to his shoulders, revealing divots of well-defined biceps. He must hit the gym often, Akira vaguely wonders, before remembering he was asked a question.
“He’s that one, number 34.”
Takuto hums curiously. “I look forward to seeing him run.”
“Yeah?” Akira wonders aloud, looking over at his husband, but Takuto is only eyeing Ryuji from their vantage point with a curiosity in the glint of his eyes.
As the runners line up at their starting point, Akira watches Ryuji. Crouched before the starting line, there’s a quietness to him that belies the rowdy first impression he gave just a few days ago on that sunny crosswalk. For a moment, Akira forgets to breathe, and from their third-row seat, he can see the focused furrow of Ryuji’s browbone cast a shadow over his eyes that’s strangely…attractive.
The starting pistol cracks through the early Autumn night and Akira jumps in his seat, startled from his reverie. In the blink of an eye, Ryuji is far from where Akira was just daydreaming about the aching familiarity of his crouch, and is halfway down the first stretch of track.
Ryuji wasn’t lying.
He was fast as hell.
Akira isn’t aware that his jaw is hanging open in stunned awe until he goes to swallow and nearly chokes. Watching him run is breathtaking. No, really; he doesn’t so much as breathe as he watches his new friend tear up the distance beneath his sneakers, leaping into the air with a grace so furious that it borders on violent.
It’s beautiful.
And for the rest of the runners left in Ryuji’s dust, it’s embarrassing.
Akira jumps to his feet, shouting in unison with the other Shujin students, as Ryuji nears the finish line. It’s no contest. And when he runs past it, his breathless smile lights up the night, bright like lightning. Fast as it, too.
There’s an unbridled adrenaline-fueled joy across Ryuji’s face, chest heaving, rolled sleeves fallen over his biceps as his shoulders heave with brilliant exertion. He takes in the audience before him, cheering his name, and when he sees Akira, somehow his smile gets even brighter.
He waves. Akira waves back. And when he looks back down at his husband in the seat next to him, he notes the way Takuto claps in slow, methodical tempo. A small smile plays at his lips, and Akira knows it well, though he has never quite understood it; as though he were proud of himself.
Like many things about his husband, Akira doesn’t question it. His eyes just go back to Ryuji, who has foregone his cheering supporters in favor of dumping an entire bottle of water over his head. It falls from his dark hair like rain, soaking his white shirt.
“We should go,” Takuto says softly, and without waiting for Akira to respond, he takes his hand, and leads him away. "He shows great promise, doesn't he, Akira?"
Halfway out of the bleachers, Akira turns behind him to find curious brown eyes searching for his own in the crowd.
—
Takuto fucks Akira that night harder than he has since their honeymoon.
—
It’s getting colder. Late October creeps in with chilly tendrils that call for heavier clothes and bedding. Akira and Takuto spend their Saturday morning changing out their summer wardrobe for warmer things and grocery shopping in the early afternoon for the upcoming week.
They’re in the produce aisle when Akira gets a call. Which is odd, because the only person who ever calls him is right next to him. RYUJI shows up on the screen, and Akira’s brow furrows. Usually his friend just texts him. He’s never called.
“It’s Ryuji,” Akira explains to Takuto’s curious gaze. “Something might be wrong. Hello?”
“Hey man. Is this a bad time?”
Akira’s eyes shift to Takuto. Against his better judgment he says: “Not...really, why?”
“I’m screwed. Tomorrow’s my ma’s birthday and I totally forgot. I need help pickin’ out a gift for her. Was gonna hit the underground mall in Shibuya. Can you come with?” A beat, then: “I’ll buy you ramen for the trouble.”
Akira has to laugh. “I don’t know if I’d be much help.”
“Please? I don’t wanna be stuck at these girly shops all by myself, man.”
Humming, Akira tells Ryuji to wait a moment, before looking up at Takuto. “Ryuji needs help picking out a gift for his mom’s birthday. Says he doesn’t wanna be all by himself at those girly shops. Can I go?”
“We were supposed to make dinner together tonight.”
“I’ll – skip dinner with him, then. I’ll be back before that?”
“Hmm.” For a moment, a frown crosses Takuto’s normally bright, even features. Akira doesn’t miss it. Part of him wants to retract the question altogether, but he bites his tongue, holds his breath. Takuto looks deeply into his eyes, and for a moment Akira wonders what on earth needs this much consideration, before he finally relents. “All right.” Takuto smiles, kissing Akira on the cheek. He beams, bringing the phone back to his ear.
“I can meet you in an hour at the underground mall.”
“You’re a lifesaver, dude!”
Akira spends the rest of the grocery trip with a smile on his face.
He has a friend. Takuto’s hand is on his lower back on their way back to the car; his hand is on Akira’s when he drives; his lips are on Akira’s when he kisses him goodbye and tells him to be back by 6. That’s 5 whole hours with Ryuji. Akira grins. A friend.
A friend.
-
The underground mall is crowded on a Saturday afternoon, but Ryuji is easy to spot in his bright colors. Akira is finding himself repeatedly charmed by his new friend’s vibrant fashion sense; a mix of powerclashing and street style that he can’t tell is intentional or not. Whatever it is, he pulls it off, goofy grin and all as he waves Akira down outside a shop.
“Thanks again for comin’ all this way,” Ryuji says over the rumble of the crowd as they tuck themselves away from the commotion. “I’ll treat you to dinner.”
“Rain check on dinner, but I’m free til 6. And no problem,” Akira says, and he notices the brief look of deflation on Ryuji’s face before he wipes it clean with another grin.
“That’s gotta be enough time to find ma somethin’.”
“I’m sure she’ll be happy with anything.”
“Yeah but, I kinda wanna make this year special.” As they amble nowhere in particular, Akira follows Ryuji, leaning close to hear him over the current of people and music blaring from the different shops. “She got a huge promotion at work and has been tryin’ so hard for it. Staying up late, studying for certifications. Still managing to make it to my meets. She hasn’t missed a single one.” As he speaks about her, Akira watches Ryuji’s face, the softness it fades into, dreamlike and open.
He almost trips over his own feet staring. Ryuji doesn’t notice.
As they continue walking, something catches Akira’s eye. He stops at a storefront. Pausing outside, he stares at a collage of photos pasted from the inside, facing out.
Hairstyles. It’s a beauty supply store, boasting imagery of men and women alike in all sorts of vibrant haircuts and colors. Ryuji approaches, his shoulder touching Akira. He stares at the photos, tilting his head.
“Somethin’ catch your eye?”
“Have you ever thought about being blond?” Akira blurts before he knows what he’s saying. He turns to Ryuji, who blinks back.
“Huh? Me? Blond?” He laughs, quirking a brow. “The hell brought this on?”
“No, for real. I think it’d suit you.” Akira turns to face him, attention fully on his friend. He stares intensely at Ryuji, and Ryuji laughs again under the scrutiny. Without waiting a moment, Akira reaches out, and runs a hand through Ryuji’s brown hair. It’s softer than he thought it would be. He tilts his head, watching the short, fluffy strands between his fingers. The wedding ring is the only glint of gold throughout the chestnut tresses. Ryuji clears his throat.
“Um–dude? We’re in public. What’re you doing?”
“Can we do it?” When Ryuji stammers in response, Akira says, “Your hair. Can we bleach it?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“What if it looks bad?”
“It won’t.”
“How the hell d’you know?”
“Just trust me.”
“Wh–” Ryuji starts, but Akira grabs him by the wrist, and drags him into the store.
—
“Seriously, if this turns out whack, I’m gonna kill you.”
“And when it turns out dope, you can buy me more ramen.”
“Chicks dig blondes, right?” Ryuji asks, eyeing the register as the cashier rings up more and more and more products… “Right?”
Akira swipes Takuto’s credit card without a single thought, grabbing the bag and thrusting it towards his friend with a smirk. “You’re gonna be irresistible.”
Ryuji doesn’t look convinced, but Akira’s enthusiasm is enough to sway him. He takes the bag and shakes his head with a bewildered smile. “You’re such a weirdo, dude. Now c’mon, I gotta find ma a gift.”
—
“Uh. So…do you know what you’re doin’?”
“No,” Akira replies brightly, propping his phone up strategically between the sink’s soap-dish and the wall to properly display YouTube. “But how hard can it be?”
Ryuji sits on a stool, facing the mirror in his bathroom. He’d given Akira a tour, but it didn’t last long. The apartment is modest and perfect for two, bordering on cozy. His mother is working late tonight, leaving the two boys alone to their nonsense.
“Maaaan. This is gonna look so whack!”
“Have some faith in me, Ryuji.”
“You just said you don’t know what you’re doin’!”
Akira puts on the latex gloves with a flourish, waggling his eyebrows. Something giddy bubbles up in him when he’s around Ryuji. He acts goofy, and something light and warm always stirs in him when he sees his friend smile at his antics. Ryuji is wearing an old track meet shirt that he doesn’t mind messing up, and the bathroom fills with the scent of bleach. Eventually, they’re both coughing.
“Is it supposed to smell like that?”
“Probaby,” Akira responds, mixing it further until it’s a foamy, frothy blue. “Now sit still.”
Akira peers over Ryuji’s broad shoulder at the YouTube video on his phone, going through the motions of how to bleach short hair. It’s not that difficult, given the length, and Akira finds the minutia of it to be quite soothing, actually. Combing through Ryuji’s brown hair with the fine-toothed pick, taking care to saturate both sides, before moving onto the next one.
“You’ve got a lot of hair,” Akira says, eyes widening at the ground he’s yet to cover. Ryuji shrugs.
“You’re one to talk.”
“Touche.”
Distantly in the home, a door opens and closes. Ryuji shouts a greeting to his mom – you’re back way early! – and she pokes her head in the bathroom. Akira turns to her, half-expecting her to have a fit, but one look at her eases his nerves. She’s young. That’s the first thing Akira notices about Ryuji’s mom. The next thing is, she’s cool. Her hair is thoughtfully styled with curtain bangs and tossed over one shoulder. She’s still wearing her coat over her scrubs, and it’s a long leather duster. Her makeup, while minimal, accentuates her eyes, which crinkle as she smiles at them both.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asks, with no malice. She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t miss the smell of that stuff.”
“You ain’t mad?”
“Mad? I wish you’d just told me you were doing this so I could help. I only did this a billion times in my teens and twenties,” she says. Her eyes – brown, like Ryuji’s – catch Akira’s. “You must be the new friend my son won’t stop talking about.”
“Ma…” Ryuji whines, but Akira smiles.
“Akira Kurusu,” he says, offering a small bow. And then, “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Sakamoto. Ryuji told me your birthday is tomorrow. Happy early birthday.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. Are you staying for dinner?”
“He can’t,” Ryuji replies. “Got plans with his husband.”
“Oh,” Ms. Sakamoto replies, “another time, then. Let me take care of a few things and then I can come in and help.”
Ryuji’s mother takes her leave, and Akira stares at Ryuji’s reflection in the mirror. He looks ridiculous, half-covered in blue foam that has flecked down to his forehead. Akira takes some tissue and wipes it away, remembering the first day they met, and how it was blood, then, and bleach, now.
“Your mom’s cool,” Akira says. Ryuji exhales something fond.
“Yeah. She’s pretty neat.”
Akira continues to paint over Ryuji’s hair. He’s making pretty good progress. A timer goes off on Akira’s phone, and like a spell has been broken, his eyes widen. “Jeez. It’s that late?”
“Oh yeah. You had a thing at 6. It’s 5:30.”
“I gotta get back,” Akira sighs. His heart feels heavy, suddenly. The idea of dinner at Ryuji’s, video games and movies, sounded strangely nice. So, so nice.
“Or what, you’ll turn into a pumpkin?”
“Something like that. Sorry to bail. Your mom can take care of the rest, right?”
“Dude. For real? This was your idea!”
“All things considered, she’ll probably do a better job than me.”
“Someone needs to finish this damn job and it ain’t gonna be me!” Ryuji shouts, without malice, and that’s enough to summon his mother to the doorway again with a smile.
“No need to fret. You know I spent my teenage years in Harajuku, ‘Yuji. I can still bleach a fuzzy mop like yours,” she says fondly. Yeah, Akira was right. She’s too cool. She steps in and plucks the brush from Akira’s hand, and immediately gets to work, foregoing the gloves for quick fingers that simply don’t give a damn.
“But we have to work fast so it processes evenly,” she breathes, already flitting through the layers of his hair with what was left in the bleach tub. She grins at Akira. “It was lovely to meet you. Please come by again anytime, and stay as long as you like.”
“Yeah,” Ryuji says, and Akira believes every word.
“Send me a pic when it’s done?” Akira says on his way out.
“Only if it’s good!”
“And if it’s bad?”
“I’m deleting your number off my phone!”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Akira teases, not knowing where this cheeky nature is coming from, and why it makes itself known around Ryuji and only Ryuji.
An hour and a half later finds Akira at the stove, stirring thoughtfully as he ponders the day’s happenings with a smile. Behind him, the steady sound of Takuto chopping vegetables reaches his ears. The kitchen smells like garlic and tomatoes. His phone vibrates on the counter, a text from Ryuji. A photo message. Akira quickly types in his passcode, and nearly drops his phone in the pot.
It’s a selfie of Ryuji. He’s shirtless, hair wet, face wrinkled in a wink with his tongue out. His hair is gold. He’s making some rocker-type gesture with his hand. The text reads:
RYUJI:
U missed like 3 spots my mom had to redo lol
but tbh i kinda dig it???
what do u think??
Akira stares at the photo. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. There’s something there, within that face. That face. He thinks of the boy on the bike months ago, blood on his eyes, smile glinting white, a flash of yellow. He stares back at the boy now, hair awash with gold, like treasure, like a cache unearthed by pirate hands that want and take. He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until he saves the photo. He doesn’t realize he’s been standing in a trance until Takuto says, Akira! For the third time, louder than he usually speaks.
“Is everything all right?” Takuto asks. “You were really spaced out.”
Akira numbly turns off his phone, shaking his head and turning back to the pot. He stares down at the bubbling tomato sauce, feeling outside of his body, for some reason. He forgets to respond, until late that night, Takuto at his side. When he’s sure his husband is asleep, Akira turns his phone on, opens up the photo again, and stares.
There you are,
Akira thinks, though he doesn’t know why.
There you are.
His thumbs are still stuttering over the keys in his belated response that he sends close to 10pm. “Told you so.”
Akira doesn’t stop staring at the photo. He falls asleep with the phone held to his chest. He dreams of a lightning storm on the violent sea, tattered red sails, skeletons with their hollow eyes and knobby spines and broken legs, a morning star drenched in vantablack and gore, and sleeps more peacefully than he has in his life.
—
The next morning, face-down in the impossibly soft pillows as Takuto tenderly thrusts into him, Akira’s mind wanders.
What’s a second chance to a fool who doesn’t think twice?
—
Takuto keeps Akira close the following months. He barely has time for his daily walks, and often has turned Ryuji down for hangouts. It doesn’t feel great, but he’s just busy. And when he’s not, he’s fucking tired.
Weeks blend into months. December rears its frozen head, and Takuto is the one who turns busy lately. Late nights lead to early mornings, and he’s barely around for dinner nowadays. It’s been like this for a few weeks now, and Akira has grown lonesome.
Ryuji lately is often his only company, though even that is with its distance. Most of the time it’s just through the digital sphere – text messages, mobile games. Sometimes they hop in a voice chat and play Overwatch. When it comes to mobile games, Akira wants to play Words with Friends; Ryuji isn’t as into it, suggests Pokemon Go, but Akira just…doesn’t like to leave the house much. Takuto seems content with that arrangement, but Ryuji isn’t.
RYUJI:
Plzzzzz? It’s snowing n I bet some cool shit is out there to catch! Cmon mann I’ll buy us ramen
Akira looks at the time. It’s 8pm on a Friday, but that means nothing to Takuto, who works late no matter the day of the week. He tilts his head, and opens up his text chat with his husband.
AKIRA:
ryuji invited me out to play some pogo tonight. Can i go? If i’m back by midnight?
Despite his busy schedule, the text bubble pops up immediately, and Akira smiles. His husband always makes time for him; he’s truly spoiled.
TAKU:
that’s all right with me, though i’d prefer you’re back by 10. Please dress warmly. I dont want you getting sick.
Akira thanks his husband and assures him the curfew will be upheld, before texting Ryuji back.
AKIRA:
okay, you got me. Meet at 777 near Yoyogi Park and our infiltration will start there.
A strange throb nags at his head when he hits send, the word infiltration burning in the back of his eyes when he blinks it away. Weird.
RYUJI:
roger that, leader! TEAM VALOR SWEEEEEP
Something about that feels weird too, but Akira shrugs it away, puts on his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, and heads out into the brisk Tokyo night.
—
Somehow, the PoGo infiltration to establish a Team Valor sweep throughout Yoyogi Park devolves into an aimless amble throughout the freshly fallen snow. Akira looks up at it, entranced. It’s beautiful. The air is still, and the snow falls like powder, landing softly on his dark lashes.
So taken with the sight, he is oblivious to the not-so-subtle crunch of boots on the snow, creeping just far enough away from him to–
PLAP
A snowball hits Akira square in the back of his head, followed quickly by a whooping sound from his offender – none other than Ryuji, hiding behind a tree. He laughs. “Gotcha!”
Akira smiles, bending down to gather snow in his own hands, packing it into a ball. Ryuji wears a shit eating grin and bolts. Akira gives chase.
They’re both laughing and pummeling each other with snowballs, Ryuji ahead of him with quick, even strides; long, powerful legs that do not falter once on the snow. He’s hard to keep up with, until he slips, falling right on his ass. They collapse into shouts and laughter, two teenage boys in the snow. Akira cages Ryuji in his arms and shoves snow in his blonde hair, and Ryuji yelps in protest, but his smile is so big it lights up the night. A leg hooks cleverly around Akira’s, and then Ryuji rolls them over, pinning Akira under him and mashing snow into his cheeks on either side. They’re howling with shouts and jeers, soaking wet, and Akira yells truce, truce! And Ryuji relents, collapsing next to him in the snow, breathless and laughing.
They lay like that, two starfishes in a winter wonderland, chests heaving, hot puffs of air fading into the night. “You’re so fast,” Akira breathes, and Ryuji makes a triumphant sound through a grin.
“Shujin Academy’s best track star in a decade; Nothin’ can catch these legs, baby.”
“Except me.”
“You got lucky!”
They catch their breath again, fading into a companionable silence. The snow has stopped falling, and the sky is cloudless, a blanket of dark blue above them lit by Tokyo’s lights. Akira can’t stop smiling. “We forgot to catch pokemon.”
“Operation: Team Valor sweep will make a comeback another time.”
They turn to each other in the snow, grinning, and when Akira catches Ryuji’s eyes, his heart skips the strangest beat. Ryuji must sense it, because he pauses too, his smile fading into a thoughtful line.
“I swear, man. I–” and he stops, his brow furrowing. He shakes his head. “Nevermind.”
“No–” Akira says, almost too eager, desperate, even. “What?”
“Nothin’. It's just. I–” Ryuji sits up, leans on his knees, looks down at Akira with the strangest fondness Akira has ever seen. “I swear, sometimes it feels like I’ve known you in another life or somethin’. Or…we’ve been friends forever.” He laughs, and it warms Akira like the sun swathing another world in its light. “Pretty dumb, huh. Sorry.”
“No,” Akira breathes, motionless in the snow. He’s whispering, like he’s afraid someone else will hear, even though they’re alone. “I get it. I feel it too.”
Ryuji pauses. His eyes scan Akira’s face. They linger on his mouth. They linger on his hand, resting in the snow; beneath the glove sits his wedding band. His smile fades like the setting sun, still a beautiful thing, still exuding a summer heat. “We should probably get you home, huh.”
Akira feels like lead in the snow, but Ryuji holds out his hands, and Akira takes them. Ryuji is strong, Akira can tell with how easily his friend pulls him up, and then they’re standing face to face, flushed from exertion, eyes searching the other’s for both too long and never enough.
It feels so good to look at him, he doesn’t want to stop. Akira feels sick, suddenly.
"I have to go."
"Huh? I mean, I know. I was gonna walk you back."
"No," Akira shakes his head, hard, more at himself than Ryuji. That sick feeling keeps bloating in his stomach, expanding like he will burst if he doesn't run. "Just. I gotta go. Don't follow me, please." His own words feel like daggers.
The wake of their footprints in the snow, evidence of their friendly tussle, leaves uneven divots in the powder and he stumbles on it before sprinting off. Hot air puffs from his lungs under the streetlights lining the walkway. He hears Ryuji call his name. If he wanted, he could catch him easily.
Akira doesn't know why he wishes he would, only that he does, more than anything he's ever wished before.