Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not uncommon for Ryuji to bring up Anne in conversation. Akira isn’t dense— he can tell Ryuji has more than just a friendly interest in Anne— but today it hurts just a little bit more than usual.

“So, these summer uniforms,” Ryuji drawls out, giving Akira a sideward smile.

He’s certainly not naïve either, but Akira finds himself acting so around Ryuji for the sake of his heart. “What about them?” Another answer disguised in innocence.

“What about them?” Ryuji parrots back, incredulous. He throws Akira a scolding look. “C’mon man. Legs. Legs for days…” He sings the words with such worship, it could have been a hymn. Akira stifles a giggle, despite himself. “Well,” Ryuji continues, capturing Akira’s attention, “what’s your take on Anne? Without leggings?”

Akira can tell what Ryuji’s opinion on that matter is simply from the expression on his face— criminally tilted lips, a playful glint in his eyes. Akira turns away, keeping his eyes trained on the uneven ground in front of him. “I think she must get cold in the classroom,” he responds with practiced composure.

Definitely not the response Ryuji expected, or wanted. “Seriously!” he whines, gently punching Akira in the shoulder and knocking him off-balance. He laughs as he weaves clumsily on the street, knowing he’s won the battle.  

“You’re no fun to talk about girls with,” Ryuji huffs, stuffing his hand back in his pocket as they walk towards the station. “It’s like you have no experience at all.”

“And you do?” Akira shoots back, unable to hide the doubtful humor in his voice.

“O-Of course I do?” There’s high-pitched panic in Ryuji’s words, and Akira can’t tell if it's a question or an answer. He smiles wryly, wordlessly at Ryuji, who throws his hands into the air in frustration, red coloring the tips of his ears. “Fine. You got me," he admits with a pout. "So, we’re in the same boat then.”

“I never said I didn’t have experience, Ryuji,” Akira points out in a low, self-assured lilt. Of course, he actually doesn’t, but he can’t resist the temptation to tease.

Ryuji stares at him, open-mouthed with a hint of awe, and Akira can barely keep himself together. He needs to redirect the conversation, fast, or he’s sure he’ll burst out laughing, exposing himself as a fraud. “So, Mister No-Experience, who would your ideal date be?”

It was the first thing that came to mind. The words have already passed his lips when Akira begins to regret them. His skin tingles with heat until he glances at Ryuji, mulling over the question quietly, and he remembers.

Right. That wouldn’t sound weird to Ryuji, considering he doesn’t have a goddamn clue that he would be Akira’s ideal date. The warmth rushes out of Akira, replaced by cool relief. Ultimately, he’s grateful for Ryuji’s inability to get a clue.

“I guess my ideal date would be someone confident. Someone I don’t have to try too hard with, ya’ know?”  Ryuji glances at Akira for confirmation, and he nods his head, encouraging Ryuji to continue. “Someone who can take a joke, obviously. Wouldn’t wanna go out with someone who has a stick up their ass.”

Akira coughs loudly, sneaking in a subtle name. “Yusuke.”

Ryuji laughs at that, his smile blinding. “Yea, exactly!” Akira feels a pleased pressure around his heart. With Ryuji, he knows all the right buttons to press.

“Someone who understands,” Ryuji adds, “because there’s nothing shittier than someone who doesn’t. You can try all you like to make them get you, get the reasons why, but in the end, there’ll always be that disconnect.” Ryuji finishes his thought and Akira gazes at him with interest. He hadn’t expected that to be one of Ryuji’s criteria. He hadn’t expected Ryuji’s criteria to sound so much like himself. “Yea,” Akira murmurs, “that makes sense.”

“And aside from all that personality stuff, they’d have to have nice skin, great legs, beautiful eyes, shiny hair… the works.” Ryuji smirks, probably imagining his ideal date, while Akira feels himself take a dive off a precipice. Sounds like Anne, he thinks bitterly, but doesn’t dare say.

“What about you, man?” Akira is startled out of his head when Ryuji turns the question on him. A list unravels in his mind.

Short, blonde hair. Light brown eyes. Horrible posture. No sense of style. Impulsive. Endearing smile. Expressive. Fiercely loyal. Kind-hearted. Male. Named “Ryuji.”

He settles for “same, I guess.”

Ryuji chuckles, soft around the edges. “Uh huh. Sure. But I guess you can kinda forget about ideals, since you’ve actually been on dates before.” He sighs, looking at Akira imploringly. “Any tips, dude?”

“Tips?” Akira asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yea, for impressing the ladies. For a successful date. How d’you do it?” Ryuji sounds so genuinely curious, it’s almost desperate.

Akira shrugs, digging deep within his mind for the most convincing bullshit he can muster. “Practice makes perfect,” is what he comes up with, and surprisingly, Ryuji takes it to heart.

“So, you’re saying… I have to go on dates to get better at dating. But doesn’t that mean I’ll suck at first?”

Holy shit, what’d I get myself into. Akira scrambles for elaboration. “Y-Yea, but if you go on a date with someone you know first, it’s not so bad.”

“Okay, but like, I only have enough friends to put on one hand.” Ryuji holds up five fingers. “One of them is a cat,” he lowers his thumb, “two of them are girls way out of my league,” two more fingers fall, “and two of them are boys.” Ryuji is left with a fist, and Akira is left with a stinging pain in his chest. “So, who would I practice with?”

There’s a spark, somewhere in the mess of Akira’s thoughts. A breath of an idea. A light of radiant hope. It’s a risk, but his hurt has made him less cautious. “Why not someone with experience?”

It takes Ryuji a second to let the words sink in. When they do, he slows his causal saunter, then stops dead in his tracks. “Wait… you mean you?”

Wincing, he turns around to see Ryuji, frozen in place. The eyes that meet him are alert with confusion, hard and stubborn as cement. Akira gulps, nods solemnly, and marches on before hesitation can sink its cold nails into him. “We could go on a mock date. I’ll show you the ropes. Teach you how to treat a girl right.” He doesn’t dare hope.

“Me and you, on a date.” Ryuji rolls the words around in his mouth, tasting them, and makes a face.  

“Mock date,” Akira corrects him. This isn’t going well. He doesn’t know what he expected. “Practice makes perfect, Ryuji.”

At the sound of his name, he locks gazes with Akira, a veritable punch to the gut. There’s a moment of strained silence between them, until Ryuji’s shoulders relax ever-so slightly. With lowered defenses and a quiet, reluctant voice, he asks, “when?”

His heart and lungs scream for air, and Akira realizes he’s been holding his breath. He empties his lungs before answering in a daze. “Uh… Sunday? The diner? My treat.”

Ryuji noticeably perks up at the mention of free food. “Sounds good, I guess. Totally gonna get something expensive though.” He smiles spiritedly at his attempt to goad his friend.

Thankfully, Akira's knees have stopped shaking. He relishes in the confidence returning to his muscles and bones, helping him stand tall. “Well that is lesson number one, after all,” he instructs kindly. “Always foot the bill for a lady, no matter the cost.”

Ryuji is in the middle of replying when the words die in his throat. His features twist unpleasantly. “Wait a sec. Does that mean I’m playing the part of the girl?”

Honestly, Akira hadn’t thought of it that way. Not at all. But the imagery makes him smile. He’s settled into the role now, providing suave, sensible answers. “Sure. Why shouldn’t you? Learn by example, put yourself in her shoes.” He’s sure he can handle anything Ryuji throws at him.

“But shouldn’t you be the girl? I mean, you’re the pretty one and all.”

Anything but that. Akira’s witty retort turns to vapor— he feels like he might evaporate along with it. Brown eyes grow wide and Ryuji’s lips set into a pained grimace, just as surprised by his words as Akira.

“I just mean that— well you’ve got the pale skin and the eyelashes— and the— okay, yea, never mind.” He laughs nervously and rubs the back of his neck, smearing an invisible stain. Akira’s heart was already beating wildly before. If it’s possible, Ryuji’s groping explanation has made it worse. And if the glowing blush flooding Ryuji’s skin is any indicator of what Akira looks like, then he wants to hide his face in his hands, wants to walk home that way, despite being blind and alone and short of breath.

“Ryuji,” he begins weakly, clenching his fists to try and hide the waver in his voice, “if you can’t even compliment someone properly, then you definitely need my help. Just go along with it.” He feels a wave of pride at his words. Competent, calm, collected. Enough to soothe the burning rush of blood through his veins. All those books, shows and movies about charm were finally paying off.

“Fair enough,” Ryuji sighs. Judging by the relief in his smile and the pink quickly fading from his cheeks, Ryuji appreciates Akira’s response. It almost normalizes the whole situation, embeds it into their fictitious scenario, mitigates the consequences. Ryuji is learning, after all. Mistakes will be made.

To Akira, however, Ryuji’s words remain very, very real— something seared, unforgiving, into his thoughts.

But for now, he’s just thrilled to be going on a date with him, mock or not. It’s a hedonistic endeavor, probably selfish, probably wrong, but Akira doesn’t care. It’s not like anything lasting will come of this, and if he’s going to spend the rest of his school years tied up in romantic affections for his obviously-straight best friend, then a mock date isn’t too much to ask. He owes himself this much.

“Remember to wear something nice.”

“Oh, shaddup.”

Chapter Text

The rocking of the subway does nothing for Ryuji’s nerves. Staring out the window, his eyes jump between each lamp that passes— he counts the blurs, a game he used to play as a child— but even the pulsing lights fail to hold his attention for long.

He sighs. Earlier this week he was absolutely fine, but he woke up this morning with a knot in his abdomen. He feels restless, jumpy. Every brush of a stranger’s leg against his knee, every pair of eyes he meets brings a surge of irritability. He needs to run, needs to sweat this weird shit out of his system. Eyes closed, Ryuji presses his feverish skin against the cold pane of glass. Damn you, Akira.

It shouldn’t bother him so much, going out to lunch with his friend. Yet, he had found himself staring critically at his bedroom mirror, checking different angles for an embarrassing amount of time. Even now, when he disembarks the subway and catches a glimpse of himself in the reflective glass, he rolls his eyes.

Remember to wear something nice.

Well, he tried. Akira’s suggestion had, unfortunately, affected him more than he thought it would. He’s comfortable, dressed for hot weather in a red tank paired with light-wash distressed jeans, rolled at the cuffs— but he has a sneaking suspicion that he won’t hold a candle to Akira. The other has a real eye for appearances. Or maybe it’s just his effortless grace, but somehow, he manages to make anything look good. Even Akira’s ridiculous Metaverse outfit has grown on him, the longer they’ve fought side by side.

Meanwhile, Ryuji—well. Ryuji feels like he’s walking towards the diner in shoes three sizes too big.

Complicated problems aren’t his forte. He can stare at them all day, and sometimes, never find an answer. He’s accepted that. Most are a waste of time, anyways.

This problem, however, he was pretty dedicated to solving. Ryuji mulled over it for hours, but regardless, he just couldn’t rationalize this date in a way that didn’t feel strange.

Correction. “Mock” date.

Ryuji laughs to himself, watching his own feet move steadily over cobblestone. If it’s a mock date, why does it feel so goddamn real? He wouldn’t necessarily call them butterflies, but there’s definitely something in his stomach making him queasy.

The diner is fast-approaching, and he forces his viciously circular thoughts to slow. It’s just lunch. It’s just Akira. It’s just practice. And hopefully, Ryuji will learn something today that’ll help him get closer to Anne. He takes a prolonged breath, feeling his chest cavity fill with airy confidence. Actually, this might not be so bad.

Determination surges through him and he lifts his head high, just in time to walk smack into a pole.

“What happened to your forehead?”

Despite Ryuji’s fervent prayers to whatever gods were listening, Akira notices.

Of course he does. Akira notices everything— that was something Ryuji learned early on.

If he was consumed by self-doubt, Akira’s hand would be the first on his shoulder. If he was indecisive, Akira would always lend an ear. And if he was having impure thoughts, Akira would be the first to give him hell. So of course he would notice the radiating red mark on his forehead. Ryuji claps a hand over the bump self-consciously, but from the reproachful look on Akira’s face, he knows it’s too late. No use in hiding it now. He sighs, dropping his arm in defeat and silently begging Akira not to laugh.

“I ran into a fucking pole.”

Slate eyes blink rapidly, processing. “Are… you okay?” Akira asks on instinct with a quiet concern that’s just so him. Ryuji nods, feeling almost ashamed by the care in Akira’s voice, like he’s worried his mother or some shit.

“I’m fine,” he affirms, “my head’s just spinnin’ a bit.” He’s relieved that Akira is willing to drop the subject, no questions asked— for the sake of Ryuji’s pride.

“Well,” Akira quips, “at least you look nice.”

It’s a lame attempt to make him smile, but it works. Honestly, after all the effort Ryuji put into this dumb outfit, the words are like music to his ears. He grins arrogantly. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Sure you did.” Akira snorts, folding his arms across his chest. Mirthful doubt tugs at his lips.

“Hey. Don’t kick a dude while he’s down.”

Ryuji gives Akira a once-over, eyes quickly skimming his surface. He hadn’t had a chance to really look at him since arriving, being too caught up in his own self-pity and distracted by the throbbing pain in his temples. But now that he has a moment, Ryuji's anticipation peaks. Time to see what a dating expert wears, and maybe take some mental notes on the matter. Since it’s Akira, he’s bound to impress.

And hell, does he.

Below his waist, form-fitting jeans rise up from simple leather boots. Above, tight charcoal fabric clings to his torso, dipping low enough to show a decent amount of collarbone. Everything about Akira’s form is sleek and stylish, his aura commanding and mysterious, and Ryuji can’t help but think he defines the aesthetic of a Phantom Thief. So cool.

But what really draws his attention is Akira’s face. There’s something different, something he can’t quite put his finger on. The soft features and grey eyes beneath fluffy, black hair are all familiar to Ryuji, but they seem so much closer— as if they've been behind a barrier all this time, and he's only now seeing them clearly.

“Wait.” He squints in suspicion, leaning in. Akira draws back, synchronized, as if repelled by a magnetic force.

“What?”

“Do I have a concussion, or are you not wearing your glasses?”

“You don’t have a concussion.”

Ryuji’s gasp is loud, exaggerated. “You took you’re glasses off for me?” He clutches his chest. “Akira. You shouldn’t have. Now you’re blind, and can’t appreciate my full beauty.”

Akira chokes back a laugh. “Jeez, you’re right. Can’t see at all. Why, I don’t even know if you’re the guy I’m waiting for— have you seen Sakamoto Ryuji? I’m supposed to meet him here for a date.”

“For real? How many other guys d’you know with blonde hair and muscles like this? You cheating on me?”

Indulging in the dramatics, Ryuji feels stupid for ever being nervous. Whether they’re kicking ass in Mementos, studying for finals, or going on a mock date, everything is easy with Akira. It just is.

Instead of shelling back a witty reply, Akira clears his throat and pegs Ryuji with a look he’s very familiar with. Not so loud.

It’s then that Ryuji realizes every pair of eyes in a twenty-foot radius is staring directly at them. “Ah, shit,” he laments as the intruding gazes slowly turn away, one-by-one. He frowns, flustered, and whispers to his brightly-flushed friend. “We should go inside now.”

When their food comes, Ryuji is startled to find that he’s not particularly hungry. If anything, he’s too preoccupied to listen to his stomach.

Akira has killed his appetite. Just looking at him makes Ryuji sit up a little bit straighter.

The way he cradles his coffee mug between his fingers, steam curling around his hands and slender wrists— the way he lifts the cup to his lips, tilts it forwards, eyes fluttering shut and throat coaxing the coffee down— it’s all so elegant and dangerous.

“You know, you look like a Bond villain,” Ryuji blurts, propping his chin on his hand as he watches, perplexed.  

Akira finishes a small, dignified sip and frowns. “Lesson number twelve: don’t call your date a villain.”

“Aw, but I like villains. They’re the best characters in manga and movies.” Ryuji assumes it’s the heat of the coffee that turns Akira’s cheeks a charming shade of pink.

“Speaking of, what manga are you reading right now?” Akira asks nonchalantly, and Ryuji leans full across the table, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all afternoon. A meandering speech about costume design and action sequences rolls from his mouth, each accompanying gesture of excitement shaking the diner’s table. He knows it’s rude, but surprisingly, Akira doesn’t scold him. He simply listens and nods with a gently satisfied look, a look that makes Ryuji feel like he could talk all day and never get boring. It’s a look he knows he can’t get anywhere else.  

“What’d you say it was called? My Hero Academia?”

Ryuji nods enthusiastically as he settles back into his seat, finally sated. “Hell yea. I’ll bring some volumes over to LeBlanc sometime, show you the good parts.”

“I’d really like that,” Akira replies amiably. His eyes widen and he holds up a finger, hit with a thought. “Oh, lesson number thirteen: if you like your date, and they invite you back out, always accept. It’s better to show enthusiasm than hesitation, even if you have to cancel later.”

Ryuji considers the advice, grinning. “Aw. Does that mean you like me, Akira?”

Coughing ensues from the other side of the table. Akira’s face grows redder and redder from lack of oxygen and Ryuji urgently slides his water towards him. “Hey man, take it easy, breathe,” he chuckles out as Akira chugs the whole glass in four huge gulps. Ryuji observes the muscles of his neck tense and relax rhythmically.

“I-I’m sorry,” Akira gasps finally, placing the empty cup back on the table. “Coffee went down wrong.”

Ryuji rolls his eyes. That’s stating the obvious. “Just don’t die on me.”

“Yea, yea,” Akira says, but there’s strain on his voice, like inhaled smoke. Folding his hands on the table, Akira looks like he has something to say. Ryuji waits and watches as those long, nimble fingers rearrange themselves over and over. “And of course I like you, Ryuji,” he starts, the smoke still in his tone. “You’re my best friend.”

Ryuji can’t deny this fact, and he feels ten pounds lighter whenever he hears it. But this time, it doesn’t have quite the same effect. There’s something heavy in his gut and something hot beneath his skin as he replies with a hint of sullenness.

“I guess lesson number fourteen is to call your date your ‘best friend.’ Gets the ladies every time.”

“No,” Akira replies, laughing somewhat tensely, “lesson number fourteen is not to patronize me.”

They emerge from the diner at dusk, the late-day light warm and the air even warmer. The setting sun is kind to Akira. Orange-red rays play on his hair and skin while shadows reside in the valleys of his collarbones. He turns to face Ryuji, and without his glasses, the light hits his eyes in a way that gives the grey massive depth. He almost glows.

Ryuji’s mouth moves faster than his mind, and the latter struggles to catch up.

“You look hot— I mean, temperature-hot, like damn it’s really muggy out here, don’t you think?” he tugs repeatedly at the collar of his tank top, creating a fresh draft down his chest. He suddenly feels sweaty, assaulted by the heat, and he blames Akira, that son of a bitch.

“… Yeah, it’s gross out,” the other replies slowly. Either he chose to ignore another obvious blunder, or just didn’t think much of it. “We should head home soon.”

Suddenly, Ryuji is caught off-guard by one of the strangest smiles he’s ever seen. Small, barely perceptible, but ridiculously warm, too warm for the weather. It seeps into Akira’s words as well. “Thanks for going out with me today. You did pretty well, for your first time.”

“Ah, you’re welcome? I mean— thank you? I—” Ryuji scrubs at the back of his neck. Akira is going to make that a habit for him. “I learned a lot.”

“Did you?” Akira shrugs, sounding doubtful. “Never said I was a good teacher.” His lips curve, but it makes Ryuji feel something different than the usual ease that comes from Akira’s gentle smiles. “Anne isn’t as far out of your league as you might think.”

“Anne?” Ryuji sputters, “who said anything about Anne?”

Akira piques an eyebrow. “You?” he mutters without patience. “Like, almost every day?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Anyways, I promised Boss I’d close up tonight, so I’m heading back.” He pats Ryuji on the shoulder stiffly. “If you’ve got any follow-up questions, you know how to get me.”

With that, he turns and walks down the street, waving lackadaisically. It seems curt, but if he has to go, he has to go. Ryuji watches Akira’s silhouette melt into the crowd before he allows himself to move, finding a bare stretch of wall to lean on and think.

That went... alright, he thinks. If that's what all dates are like, then they're not nearly as horrible as he previously thought.

He might be losing it, though— for some reason, Ryuji is drawing a blank for most of the afternoon. Whenever he tries to remember something Akira said, or even what they had to eat, it's all mist. He agreed to this date for a purpose— to learn dating tips from Akira— but he can only recall a few of the damn lessons.

Looks like Akira just wasted his afternoon trying to help a lost cause. Ryuji sighs, scratching his head. Guilt causes him to dig deep, but his mind remains stubbornly vacant of details.

All he conjures up are images. Brief, vivid images of Akira’s soft smiles, of a coffee cup touching his lips, of deft hands opening sugar packets and of his chest rising and falling as he laughs. There are crystal-clear soundbites of his quick wit, his praise, and his smoke-filled voice.

Ryuji is forced to press his back into the wall, his legs turning fragile like reeds. He slings an arm over his eyes and groans. Why is this happening to him? It's painful. Fucking painful.

Between the boiling of his stomach and skin, he vaguely realizes he hasn’t thought about Anne since this morning.

Since meeting up with Akira.

He daringly considers which he’d rather go on a real date with.

… Ah, shit.

Chapter Text

When Ryuji opens the door, the house is empty and still. He shouldn’t expect anything different, considering his mom works late, but— it just seems especially lonely, especially dark after being with Akira all afternoon. He sighs and makes a beeline for his room, eager to escape the eerie quiet. Sometimes, when Anne and Morgana rag on him for his big mouth, he wants to laugh. If only they knew just how often he’s silent.  

Light fills the corners of his small room, the flick of the switch unnecessarily loud. Despite the clutter, Ryuji’s eyes are inexplicably drawn to the tall pile of manga on his dresser. It’s natural for him to act now, think later; and sure enough, his phone is in his hands, typing a message to Akira as he flops down onto his bed. His thumbs dance across the keyboard.

About that manga. Wanna read it at Leblanc after school tomorrow?

He hovers over the send button, but hesitates just long enough to let the phone drop to his side. Should he really— no, can he really hang out with Akira again this soon? If he’s challenged by Akira’s eyes and lips and overall radiance, will he be able to keep his shit together?

Ryuji’s ears burn like hellfire. He instinctively folds his arms over his face, a grimace souring his nuetral expression. He’s having… thoughts. Not good thoughts. They’re disjointed and hard to decipher, leaving him with a horribly vague feeling of anxiety. There’s not much else he can do except breath into the cave of his arms. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he feels like if he sees Akira now, he’ll fuck up. A little slip could destroy everything they’ve built these past months.

He purses his lips. That’s it. Ryuji’s scared, fucking terrified of ruining a friendship so fulfilling, he can’t recall one that’s been even remotely close. When he thinks of a friend, of trust, of home, Akira’s face never fails to come to mind.

But now, when Ryuji thinks of touch, of whispers, of rainy days under covers, Akira is there too. And it makes him want to self-destruct.

Dammit. It’s despicable that he’s having thoughts like that about Akira. It’s selfish that he wants to hold his fucking hand, when Akira’s already given him so much. Something is making his stomach broil— whether it’s the fact that he likes a boy, or that he likes Akira, he can’t really discern. Both feel weird.

Or maybe it’s just the diner food. Who the fuck knows.

Even with his misgivings, he’s rapidly coming to the conclusion that, weird or not, this is just how it is— and how it’s going to be. After all, when he finds something he likes, he tends to dedicate himself to it whole-heartedly. He considers how track used to be his very breath and blood; and how he’s thrown himself passionately into being a Phantom Thief.

Ryuji sighs into the inside of his elbow, longer and louder until it becomes a frustrated groan. If he knows himself, then these thoughts about Akira aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Ryuji isn’t sure if that’s comforting or depressing. He isn’t sure about a lot of shit.

His arms feel impossibly heavy, almost suffocating. Ryuji rises, grabs his headphones from his bedside table and quickly retreats into a world of sound. He’s tired of feeling like shit, has had enough of it for a week, and realizes he doesn’t have to make a decision. At least not now. He leans back and closes his eyes, gratefully allowing guitar riffs to replace the noise in his head.

Well, he thought it’d be that easy.

An indeterminate amount of time passes, enough for the blending notes to become less like music and more like a feeling. Although his pulse no longer pounds through his veins, he’s still fidgety. Restless. Ryuji didn’t think it was possible, but something definitely bothers him more than the thought of failure— and that's inaction.

Pretending the problem doesn’t exist is kinda worse than the problem itself. He’s never felt so goddamn antsy in his life— not while discussing whether or not to take down a target, not while waiting for a change of heart— never. It’s like treading on hot coals; he just wants to move, to get it over with. What’s the point in standing still, prolonging the suffering?

Ryuji snorts, scrunching his nose.

Get it over with— yeah, that’s romantic. But, pining just isn’t his style— he doesn’t have the patience to play cat and mouse with their hearts. All he can do is pray that Akira has a thing for boldness, unlike all the girls they’ve tried wooing over the school year.

So, maybe he should deal with this problem like he would any other. Head on. Direct. No bullshit. It worked with the track team, after all.

Then again, Akira had been by his side every step of the way, providing strength and support. This time, Akira isn’t here to help— Akira’s the fucking problem.

The see-sawing of his thoughts, the swaying between hesitation and commitment is mentally exhausting. He wishes Akira were here, so he could vent about the whole situation.

... Well, there’s an idea. Ryuji chuckles, feeling pleased with himself as a plan starts to form in his mind. Sometimes, he’s a bonafide genius.

His fears begin to ebb away. Even if he fucks this up… it’s not some criminal. It’s Akira— cool, kind, rational Akira— and Ryuji has a strangely comforting thought that he really hopes is true.

Ryuji believes Akira could never truly hate him.

No matter what stupid shit leaves his mouth, or how many times he stumbles and falls, Akira will accept him. Happily. Even if it is just wishful thinking, he feels confident. Like there’s a phantom hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards a decision.

Ryuji finally opens his eyes. There are lights on in the hallway, which means his mom’s home. Which also means it’s late.

Hopefully not too late to shoot Akira a text.

“Hey.”

“Ungh…”

“Hey, your phone’s vibrating,” Morgana whines, pawing gently at Akira’s face. “Whoever it is has no tact, texting this late.”

Akira blearily raises the phone to his face, and the bright blue-white glow makes him recoil. “Oh, it’s Ryuji.”

“Heh. Of course,” Morgana scoffs, stretching over Akira’s torso and kneading his claws into the fabric of his shirt. “What does that idiot have to say in the middle of the night?”

“Don’t call him that,” Akira murmurs beneath his breath before answering reluctantly. “He wants to hang out tomorrow.”

“Oooooo.” It’s not disinterest, or even mock surprise— it’s a tongue-in-cheek tenor that Akira has grown accustomed to hearing these past few weeks, ever since Morgana figured him out. After watching Akira drop everything to meet Ryuji at Shibuya’s arcade time and time again, and noticing his tendency to light up when Ryuji’s name appears on his phone, it was impossible for Morgana not to put the pieces together. And now that they’ve fallen into place, he won’t shut up. “Want me to… take a walk while he’s here?”

“You’ll be sleeping on the ground if you’re not careful.”

“I’m just offering! It might be the day something happens!”

“The ground, Morgana.” Akira grits his teeth in annoyance while quickly tapping back a reply— Sure. See you then.

There’s a weight on his chest as Morgana settles back down, curling into a neat black pile. His purring resonates through Akira’s bones, and there’s a definite smile in his voice. “Seriously though, I’ll make myself scare tomorrow. I’m rooting for you.”

Akira’s response is swallowed by dark as he sets his phone aside. “… Thanks.”

“Okay, so this part is really cool, c’mere.” Ryuji pats the ground beside him and Akira looks up from the black and white comic in his hands.

“But aren’t those spoilers?” Protesting or not, Ryuji notices he’s already rising to his feet.

“Eh, who cares. You read this, n’ you’re hooked for sure.”

Akira plops down beside him on the wooden floor of Leblanc’s attic room. Ryuji almost feels bad, making Akira leave his comfy spot on the couch— the floor is hard, the wall creaky, but Ryuji likes the space to stretch out. He’s propped against the wall with his legs spread wide, and exchanges the book in his hands for the one in Akira’s. Leaning over, he points at a panel on a marked page. “Start there, and tell me what ya think.”

At first, Ryuji reads along in excitement. He knows just what lines made his chest swell with pride or made his eyes misty with awe, and he glances up at Akira, checking for similar reactions. Must be too early though, because his face is a blank slate, absorbing the scene.

Akira, Ryuji thinks, is kind of like a cat on a windowsill. He blends in, doesn’t make his presence known, doesn’t threaten others or feel threatened— but beneath his tranquil exterior, he’s always, always alert. So, seeing Akira like this, engrossed in a manga and clearly oblivious, catches Ryuji off-guard. Akira’s arms are curled around his legs, pulled up to his chest, and his chin rests in the divot between his knees. He looks small, compact, secure, but his expression is boundless—softer and more distant than a cloud. Ryuji feels dizzy with warmth, as if he’s been let in on a secret.

Then, Akira gasps— a tiny, airy sound, nearly imperceptible, but they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder and there’s no way Ryuji could’ve missed it. Even though it was priceless, Ryuji would gladly give up the five hundred yen in his pocket to hear it again. Akira’s face begins to change, his eyes widening, mouth gaping, and Ryuji feels a sense of “told ya so” satisfaction. He’s in the good shit now.

But as Akira’s eyes scroll down the page, Ryuji’s own start to wander. They focus on Akira’s glasses— the frames sliding down his nose as he’s unconsciously drawn towards the book— and on his hair, curling in inky rivulets over the shell of his ear. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to tuck the unruly strands away.

Ryuji doesn’t notice that the pages have long-since stopped turning, or that Akira’s cheeks are bruised red until he closes the book, sits up straight and turns towards Ryuji with a steely gaze. “I can’t read when you’re staring at me.”

Ryuji blinks, paralyzed. Akira is close; his lips are right there and his eyes test Ryuji, seeing if he’ll be the first one to back away. He does, raising his hands defensively. “Yea, sorry, just got excited waitin’ to see the face you’d make.”

Akira relaxes, leaning back against the wall. “You mean at that part?”

“Yea, at that part.”

Matching smiles form wordlessly on their faces, and Ryuji swats Akira’s shoulder. “Didn’t I tell ya it’d be cool?”

“It was pretty okay.”

“Oh bullshit! You were all...” — he imitates Akira, gasping dramatically and clapping his hands to his face— “… Holy shit! ! Ryuji was right!”

Akira copies him, wearing a similar ecstatic expression. “More like, holy shit! Ryuji’s been staring at me for five minutes and I’m starting to wonder if there’s something on my face!”  

Ryuji laughs half-heartedly, slumping a bit. So, he was that obvious, huh? “Hope I didn’t ruin it. My bad. For the record, there’s nothin’ on your face ‘cept your glasses. It’s just…”

… that I want to hold you and I have no clue what to do about it.

“… that something’s been eating me lately.” He sounds tired and he knows it. Akira stills— he knows it too.

“Oh? What’s up?” Earnest as ever.

“So, I know a guy,” Ryuji starts, motioning nonchalantly, “and he’s caught in this major dilemma. Got a crush on his friend, but doesn’t want to ruin things between them, ya know? I’m bad with words so I can’t help him much, but. What do you think he should do?”

Akira’s mouth forms a silent “oh” and from the look in his eyes, Ryuji suspects that he’s realized something. “My advice is that he should confess,” Akira states softly, curling up again. He talks behind his knees. “If they’re a true friend who really wants to be by his side, then they’ll accept his feelings, reciprocated or not, and stand by him. That’s how I see it.”

Ryuji nods, rolling a lip between his teeth. That’s a loaded statement. Ryuji’s never been a real critical thinker, but if he’s interpreting this right, it means Akira will be here no matter what. It means if this fails, they can brush it under the rug like it never happened. It means he has nothing to lose. He’s about to open his mouth, tongue dry and palms sweating when Akira interrupts.

"You should really ask her out."

Ryuji wets his lips. "Um. Who now?"

"We’ve been over this Ryuji,” Akira sounds dull, like he’s talking to a wall. “Anne."

Well, that’s a momentum-killer. One step forward, two steps back.

“Oh, shit. Okay, so—” Words tumble out of Ryuji’s mouth in no particular order as he scrambles for direction because shit, he honestly forgot. “Anne? Anne is… freakin’ gorgeous, sure, I have eyes. But I’ve done some thinking on that.” The more he talks, the more Akira seems to thaw, which is definitely not the response he was expecting. “She’s totally not into it. Hell, I think she and Shiho have somethin’ going on.” He clears his throat when Akira nods in amused agreement. “Anyways. I wanna be with someone who actually thinks I’m… great, ya know? Not someone who thinks I’m a loser."

Akira steeps in silence momentarily, but recovers fast. “… Then who?” He meets Ryuji’s gaze, merciless.

He swears his voice cracks in forty different places. Fuck, it’s harder than he thought it would be.

"Guess I gotta spell it out. I like you, Akira." The words almost, almost succeed in clinging to his tongue. He’s rehearsed it confidently in his head a thousand times, but the reality is he’s never felt so damn vulnerable— all he can manage is something torn and gossamer, a ghost of a confession.

"Oh, ha-ha." The response is immediate and barbed, sinking cold into Ryuji’s skin.

Obviously, Akira wasn’t expecting uncanny quiet to be Ryuji’s reply. His eyes open impossibly wide, and Ryuji can’t begin to count the things he sees in them. Panic. Despair. Fear. Confusion.

"Wait, what?”

Ryuji looks away, boring holes into the opposite wall. His voice is hushed and desperate. "C’mon man, don't make me say it again."

"You like me?"

"DUDE," Ryuji groans imploringly, rubbing his fingers over his eyelids. His hands are icy— startling so, but it helps to relieve his scorching skin.

"Is this a joke?" Ryuji can’t be sure, but he swears Akira sounds angry. It’s the same tone he uses to interrogate criminals— frigid and forceful, and it makes Ryuji shiver.

"N-no, it's not a joke, and you're really makin’ me lose my nerve here, so…" He must look really goddamn stupid, rubbing the back of his neck like a bashful schoolgirl. But god, Akira’s gaze makes him burn all over, and since he doesn’t have a bucket of ice water, a cool touch will have to do.

"Oh.” Akira finally turns away, sounding absolutely defeated, and Ryuji prays he didn’t just make the biggest mistake of his life. He looks vacant behind the glass of his frames. “... Are you sure?" Each syllable is careful not to sound hopeful.

"Uh… how could I not be?”

What the fuck is happening? The conversation was not supposed to carry on this long— it was supposed to end at “I like you.” Ryuji had prepared for that, not for this— not for Akira strung tight like a thread, not for this palpable tension between them, ready to snap.

Akira’s eyes flicker over his face, nervous, flighty doves. Ryuji isn’t sure what he’s searching for, but just in case, he tilts the corners of his mouth and blinks slowly, calmly, to show his sincerity. It’s funny— he assumed Akira would know exactly what to do in this situation, as usual. He had expected to be let down gently and reassured— but judging by the surplus of anxious energy, Akira is the one in need of comfort.

“Um.” A beat of silence with no response. “You okay dude?"

Akira is still staring, mostly at Ryuji’s eyes, but also, he notices, at his lips. "Give me a second."

"A’ight."

A second turns into an eternity and Ryuji twirls his thumbs, his mind running in circles like a dog chasing its tail. The room buzzes with white noise, a maddening crescendo, until he can’t stand another fucking droning note. He interjects, shattering the frigid quiet.

"I don’t like keepin’ secrets from you. And after what you said about true friends stickin’ it out, I felt like I should— could tell you. So even if you don't like me, please let me stay by your side. A-and stay by mine." It’s kinda tacky, but satisfying, and Ryuji exhales deeply, wholly, for the first time since his strangled confession.

Akira considers his words and smiles quietly. "I do like you Ryuji."

He’s never wanted to scream indoors so badly in his life. The sluggish blood in his veins becomes thin and hurried with heat, rushing to his cheeks and ears.

“… What?”

“C’mon man, don’t make me say it again.” All Ryuji can do is gape. A roguish smirk twists Akira’s lips as he hurls Ryuji’s words back at him.

“Okay, but… A-are you sure?”

“More than you know.”

With a honey smile, Akira makes it abundantly clear that he’s back to his normal, cool self, flustering Ryuji further. It’s not fair— between dealing with crisis-mode Akira and now being seduced by him, Ryuji deserves a fucking break.

When he’s nervous, he runs his mouth— that’s a given. As nervous as he is, it was only a matter of time before Ryuji blurted out the first thing to cross his mind. “Ya know, we’re kinda in a loop, just like the first time we had one of these,” he motions frantically between them, “heart-to-heart things.”

“Oh yeah, when you said I make you feel ‘free.’” Akira still wears a playful grin and god he’s making it hard for Ryuji to concentrate on the words pouring smooth like cream from his lips. “Do I still make you feel that way?”

“You make me feel some sorta way,” Ryuji laments. Just ‘free’ doesn’t work anymore— he feels much more than that. Right now, he feels like he’s in a box— like the menial distance between himself and Akira is some forced, unnatural barrier that shouldn’t be there. Right now, he wants to tear that barrier down. “So, what next?” he asks hopefully.

“’Next’ is all sorts of things,” Akira purrs, “but I’ll leave it up to you.”

“You bastard.” Ryuji shakes his head, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. He should be panicking because godammit, Akira knows Ryuji has no experience in this area, but all his mind offers is that Akira looks so fucking pretty when he’s smug. Eventually, his attention wanders back to fluffy, dark curls. “Actually,” Ryuji starts, dazed, “there’s somethin’ I’ve been dying to do.”

Akira nods and waits, completely open and trusting and Ryuji feels the tension leave him in waves. He’s entertained the thought that this might all be a dream, some ideal fantasy, but when he slips a hand into his hair and feels Akira’s body shiver in response, he understands just how real it is. “Oh, my god.”

Akira closes his eyes and hums in appreciation as Ryuji runs his fingers back and forth, carding through downy black strands. The new growth at the base of his neck is especially smooth, and Ryuji lingers there, watching with awe as his fingers disappear into midnight. It scares him to acknowledge that he’s already addicted.

"So, this thing between us— s’ a good thing, right?" he murmurs, finally giving in to temptation and pushing Akira’s hair behind his ear— it’s pink and hot to the touch. Ryuji smiles, moving slowly around the curve before gliding his hand down, following the line of Akira’s jaw.

“It is.” Akira raises a hand to clasp his wrist and tugs gently, coaxing Ryuji to cup his cheek. Ryuji is speechless and stuttering when Akira nuzzles into his hand— the easy breath on his skin and the lips brushing his palm cause him to choke on a gulp of air. Akira’s grip loosens just enough for Ryuji to jerk his hand away.

It hurts Ryuji to see Akira’s confidence falter, his eyes huge and concerned. "Uh. Sorry, was that too much?"

"No. No, no no no. I'm fine, you’re fine, it's just,” Ryuji gulps, kneading his hands together, “your skin is softer than it looks? Not to say it doesn’t look soft, it looks really soft, I just— uh."

He clamps his mouth shut at the wordless grin on Akira’s face. In response, he takes Ryuji’s hand in his and presses them both back onto the warmth of his cheek. “Well, don’t stop now.”

Every time he thinks it’s impossible, Akira finds a new way to charm the shit out of him. Ryuji slides down Akira’s cheek to his chin, and then to his neck, sweeping the skin so it leaves a pleasant, tingling sensation on his fingertips. “God, it’s incredible,” he marvels absently, stroking over Akira’s cheekbone. “Do you even go outside?”

“To see you? Nearly every day.” Akira smiles, and Ryuji adores the way it fills out his cheeks beneath his touch.

“Dude.” He wants to be mad, but it’s unfairly true.

Akira suddenly clears his throat, the vibrations prickling Ryuji’s skin. “Alright, you had your turn,” he states matter-of-factly. “Now it’s my turn to choose what we do.”

“We’re taking turns?” Ryuji squawks, incredulous. He’s still running his thumb back and forth across Akira’s skin, gradually warming up to the idea of touch.

“I want to kiss you.”

Ryuji’s movement stills, his hand falling away from Akira’s face. “Wow. Take me out to dinner first,” he jokes stiffly, barely able to meet the other’s eyes.

“I already did.”

“Shit,” he hisses, just under his breath. “I mean I want to,” he assures Akira, before he can look too worried, “just don’t laugh, okay? Haven’t done this shit in a while.”

“Or ever,” Akira adds, and Ryuji shoves him to the side.

“A while.”

When Akira rebounds, he’s squared up with Ryuji, who reluctantly rotates his body to match. They sit cross-legged, staring at one another in anticipating silence. “Well,” Ryuji prompts, “it was your idea. You start.”

Akira scoots forward until their knees knock together. There’s enthusiasm in the curve of his smile as he angles his head to the side, leaning in quicker and smoother than Ryuji’s prepared for.

“Wait!”

Akira stops short, close enough to breathe in Ryuji’s protest. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” Ryuji shrugs, pinching Akira’s glasses by the frames. He pulls them off as steadily as his trembling hands will allow. “Just don’t want these to get in the way.”

“Oh, very smooth, Ryuji.”

He soaks up the pride in Akira’s voice as he turns to place the glasses on the ground. “Yeah yeah, I learned from the best—”

He’s hushed by fingers sliding under his chin, then guiding him towards parted lips.

For all his eagerness, Akira’s kiss is so, so soft.

They sit that way for a while— pressed together, Akira’s hands on Ryuji’s knees, closed eyes and held breath. It’s innocent and controlled until Akira hums against him, slides his palms up Ryuji’s thighs to his waist, and begins to move his lips.

His kisses are a jazz song— fast and full-bodied, sweet and smooth, with the barest hint of sadness. Ryuji can practically hear the bass thrumming in time with Akira’s hands, can feel the drums beating against his ribs.

He damn near loses it. Akira leisurely kneads Ryuji’s bottom lip between his own as he tilts his head, bumping their noses and tracing small patterns on his back. All Ryuji can do is go with it, floating on the waves of Akira’s movement. His jaw goes slack, allowing a bottled gasp to escape— Akira seizes the opening to lick between his lips and pull him deeper by the backs of his teeth. When Ryuji’s tongue brushes tentatively against Akira’s, it occurs to him through a cloud of haze that he might pass out. 

He’s never liked coffee much— too damn bitter. But the sweetest coffee he’s ever tasted, the only coffee he’s ever really craved, lingers subtly in Akira’s mouth. His body feels polar, blood supply split evenly between head and abdomen. It’s a heavenly balance— if someone asked Ryuji what it’s like to be weightless, he’d refer to this moment. The only things keeping him grounded are Akira’s hands climbing his back and the lips harmonizing with his.

When Akira slinks into his lap, linking long legs around his torso, some distantly sane part of Ryuji wonders how the fuck it’s come to this. That train of thought quickly derails when Akira abandons Ryuji’s reddened lips in favor of his neck, sucking harshly at the slope of his shoulder.

He whines, a sound he wasn’t aware he could even make until now, and fists the back of Akira’s shirt. Spurred by Ryuji’s voice, Akira trails kisses up to his ear, one hand ruffling the short hairs at the back of his head. “Soft,” he sighs, clutching at the blonde strands. “Feels like velvet.”

If Ryuji could speak, he’d probably say something lame, like “thanks.” Instead, he bites his lip and buries himself in Akira’s shoulder, gasping when Akira’s lips fixate over his pulse. He tries not to think about how he’ll have to hide the marks in the morning.

Then, Akira shifts his weight— and the friction, hell-sent friction, sends a jolt of heat up Ryuji’s spine. A shiver courses through him as he moans, loud.

Akira freezes. Ryuji cringes. Shit.

He’s debating whether to put himself in a corner when Akira makes a decision— despite better judgement, he does it again, deliberately, rolling his hips downward in a calculated motion. It catches Ryuji by surprise and tears another moan from his chest, more strained than the last. He feels Akira smirk against his neck, and god help him and this damn café if he spontaneously combusts.

Akira grinds rhythmically into his lap, choosing to occupy Ryuji’s lips with his own. It’s a strategic maneuver— hopefully, Akira’s mouth is enough to muffle Ryuji’s voice. He’s been told that it carries.

By now, Ryuji’s picked up a thing or two. His hands roam Akira’s front, finding the lower hem of his shirt and dipping beneath it. Fingers trace his bare hips and massage tight circles into the skin. He sucks Akira’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting down ardently, and Akira cries out, digging painful half-moon indents into his back. It’s too soon when he pulls away, shuddering and panting, cheeks starkly red against pale skin. Ryuji’s stunned, but not particularly surprised by how fucking good Akira looks, disheveled and turned on.

His heart thuds cruelly when Akira locks their gazes. With a gasp, he selfishly grinds the hardness in his slacks against Ryuji, predatory grey eyes only ever leaving his to flutter closed in pleasure.

…. That brings Ryuji too close to the edge for comfort. He clenches a hand into a tight fist, nails like knives in his palm.

“Akira,” he mutters, his first attempt to speak in ages. His voice is hoarse, unrecognizable even to himself. “This’s already way more than a kiss. Les’ stop here.” His words slur together through swollen lips as he leans forward, resting his forehead against Akira’s.

There’s no reply, just even panting and a quick nod. Akira lays his hands on Ryuji’s chest to steady himself, and Ryuji suddenly becomes very conscious of his racing heartbeat. Silence blankets them comfortably as their breathing slows to a normal rate.

“Well, that was fun,” Akira notes, and Ryuji scoffs because that’s just so him— describing the most intimate encounter of Ryuji’s short life as ‘fun.’ “Guess what?” he continues, and Ryuji grunts in reply. “It’s your turn.”

“Pfft, thank god,” Ryuji says, relieved. “Turn around.”

“Thought you didn’t want to go any further today,” Akira teases, and Ryuji feels fresh scarlet bloom on his cheeks. But, he makes a point not to deny it, muttering unintelligibly as he watches Akira turn around, shirt and hair a rumpled mess. Impatient, Ryuji grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him back to slot between his legs. Wrapping his arms around him in a loose hug, he reclines them both against the wall and sighs, draping his chin over Akira’s shoulder.

“You— Huh. Ryuji, I didn’t take you for the cuddling type,” Akira muses, boneless and molding to Ryuji’s chest. It’s unfair how he fits so well, fulfills him like that last, elusive puzzle piece that fell beneath the couch. “You’re cute.”

"Uh, don't you mean manly? Sexy? Hot like fire?" He smiles against Akira’s neck— goosebumps rise on the skin where his lips touch.

“Didn’t take you for the type to be interested in guys, either.”

“Hey, I ain’t gay. I just like kissin’ you and shit.”

“Oh, right. My mistake,” Akira mocks, and Ryuji relents. Just a bit.

“Fine. I admit, Yusuke looks kinda pretty at some angles. Sometimes.”

Akira laughs and Ryuji loves the way it sounds, so close to his ear. He nuzzles into Akira’s hair, inhales spices and coffee grounds, and Ryuji’s gotta hand it to the Boss— the combination is killer. Smells definitively welcoming, like home. How fitting for Akira.

Cradling one of Ryuji’s hands, Akira raises it to his lips and kisses his knuckles. Ryuji’s heart leaps into his throat. He’s sure Akira can feel his pulse pounding against his spine— it’s exhilarating. "This is really nice,” he murmurs, a bit breathless. “I'm pissed we didn't do this earlier." 

"Same,” Akira groans, and Ryuji feels inexplicable guilt. “I was waiting for you."

“R-really? How long?” He can’t help himself. He wants to know.

“Mmmm, a while. All I’ll say is that it feels like I won the lottery today. Never thought this would happen— never really expected it to.” Ryuji doesn’t like how Akira sounds like he might float away. He hugs him tighter. “How about you, Ryuji?”

“Well, I realized I liked you yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“That’s jus’ when I realized it, dude. Dunno how long it’s really been.” His relaxed demeanor suddenly turns demanding. “What I wanna know is who the fuck taught you to make out! Your past dates or somethin’?”

“Nah,” Akira says, a smile in his voice. “I lied. Never been on any dates.”

“Are you serio—”

“But I have made out with people.”

“UGH.” Ryuji ragdolls, letting his arms fall theatrically to his sides. “At least tell me I was your favorite.”

“Of course you were.” Unflappable, Akira picks up Ryuji’s arms and serenely folds them back over himself, snuggling into them like a blanket. “Out of all of them, you were the only one I’ve ever really loved.”

Ryuji’s heart stops for a moment. The L-word sounds so natural coming from Akira, like it doesn’t require a second thought. Holding Akira close, tracking the rise and fall of his chest, intertwining their legs and kissing his neck, Ryuji nearly says it back.

"Don't say sappy shit like that dude."

“Try and stop me.”

“I would shut you up the ‘fun’ way,” Ryuji threatens, blushing at the hitch in Akira’s breath, “but I’m fuckin’ exhausted.”

It's silent except for pattering on the window. Akira tilts his head up curiously, the blue light from the window above them tinting his skin. "When did it start raining?"

"Dunno, but my ass hurts. Wanna move to your bed?"

"You're a genius, Ryuji."

"Dude I know, right?"

All Ryuji can envision are touch, whispers, and rainy days under covers. He brushes back Akira’s bangs and chastely presses lips to his exposed temple. Akira closes his eyes at the gentleness of Ryuji’s hand, the even gentler kiss, and relaxes back onto his shoulder with a soft hum.

“We’ll go when it’s my turn.”