[ To Ryo, Akira had always had a particular strength. Amid the soft discernment of his insight, he'd given Ryo an opportunity that he had never been afforded. From the first time Akira had taken his hand, the weight of it had been enormous. In all of him, no matter how lost he had been, his body held no memory of being held. There had been nothing in him that knew the weight of arms, the damp press of tears into salt-slicked hair. To him, he had no concept of being afraid, not really. But, he was. He was and it had driven him, that same sensation and residual ache of rejection from something he could not name — his box cutter fumbled for when bathing at the appearance of animals, the cast of his umbrella over the wet crown of Akira's head. Where Akira had opted to shelter the lifeless body of that cat, Ryo recalls wanting to shelter him. He'll get ill.
And like Akira, he had no regard for cold rain that matted his hair, his clothes to the pale of his skin.
In some ways, Ryo knew his influence upon Akira was just as much as Akira's influence upon him. They had been abstracted shapes, the perspective on life rearranging neat and fine when placed side-by-side. Like the cut of shore lights against the dark, it made the journey to wherever it was they were headed more comprehensible. Even here, in all the oddities that surround them, there are pieces that fold more recognizably into sense when Akira idled near. And it had always been that way, perhaps, since the afternoon Akira had conceded to sneaking off.
The adults were relentless, overbearing. Ryo, for his part, had almost always wanted to be left alone outside of Akira. And it had a stricter day, when he and Akira had made it out to the edge of the field before they were caught. It was Spring then. The grasses were high and from their perspective, they could catch the barest trace of salt on the air. Ryo had answered his questions as he always had, his small hand tucked in his. It had been nice. He remembers, distinctly, the way Akira's expression warmed when he finally let his mouth tip into the smallest of smiles.
But, of course Akira would understand what he means. After all, he would have deciphered Akira in the same way. It was a system devised through years of work, threaded back together under the most dire of circumstances. And now, even away from that state, it still holds with all the same persistence, strength.
And it does now, when Akira nods against him. It does now, when Akira murmurs so close that he can feel the words and how they shape. It does now, even when Ryo feels an odd rush of warmth root out from his chest, flood out to every edge. He knows the base, but the rest tangles into something dense and indiscernible. It's almost painful in that way, something that compels him without thought of it to press a kiss against the thick of Akira's hair, soft and lingering. Like Akira, he doesn't think more on it. He doesn't contemplate all he has conveyed in a singular gesture, his words coming a moment later to answer all the rest. ]
Yeah, [ he hums more than says. It comes like an exhalation, like the loosening of arms around him. He draws his hand from the dark of Akira's hair, takes a brief moment to smooth back the mess. It doesn't do much good, but it falls in a way that could be considered artful, mussed. Ryo doesn't quite smile, but the implication is there. It catches near the corners of his eyes, weary in the way that they normally wouldn't be. There's that sharpness there, but it seems further away the more the music threads into every moment of being. But, there's that quiet assessment to make sure Akira is steady before he pulls himself to his feet. His palm braces against the wall as he does and it keeps his movements smooth and steady as he reaches down to him with his free hand, steady and outstrected. ]
Here. [ He knows how exhaustion eats away someone. He knows how it slinks into muscle and bone, bundles itself tight and persistent there. He knows the brain and the body cease clear communication. He knows it makes movement uncertain, unsteady. He knows that Akira can endure more than most, but that crying jag will have taken more out of him now that it typically would have. ] Do you want to go back to the room?
[ It isn't really a question, as much as it is a guess. He thinks it might at least be more comfortable. They might catch a few minutes of rest, even if there was no chance of satisfactory sleep. ]
no subject
And like Akira, he had no regard for cold rain that matted his hair, his clothes to the pale of his skin.
In some ways, Ryo knew his influence upon Akira was just as much as Akira's influence upon him. They had been abstracted shapes, the perspective on life rearranging neat and fine when placed side-by-side. Like the cut of shore lights against the dark, it made the journey to wherever it was they were headed more comprehensible. Even here, in all the oddities that surround them, there are pieces that fold more recognizably into sense when Akira idled near. And it had always been that way, perhaps, since the afternoon Akira had conceded to sneaking off.
The adults were relentless, overbearing. Ryo, for his part, had almost always wanted to be left alone outside of Akira. And it had a stricter day, when he and Akira had made it out to the edge of the field before they were caught. It was Spring then. The grasses were high and from their perspective, they could catch the barest trace of salt on the air. Ryo had answered his questions as he always had, his small hand tucked in his. It had been nice. He remembers, distinctly, the way Akira's expression warmed when he finally let his mouth tip into the smallest of smiles.
But, of course Akira would understand what he means. After all, he would have deciphered Akira in the same way. It was a system devised through years of work, threaded back together under the most dire of circumstances. And now, even away from that state, it still holds with all the same persistence, strength.
And it does now, when Akira nods against him. It does now, when Akira murmurs so close that he can feel the words and how they shape. It does now, even when Ryo feels an odd rush of warmth root out from his chest, flood out to every edge. He knows the base, but the rest tangles into something dense and indiscernible. It's almost painful in that way, something that compels him without thought of it to press a kiss against the thick of Akira's hair, soft and lingering. Like Akira, he doesn't think more on it. He doesn't contemplate all he has conveyed in a singular gesture, his words coming a moment later to answer all the rest. ]
Yeah, [ he hums more than says. It comes like an exhalation, like the loosening of arms around him. He draws his hand from the dark of Akira's hair, takes a brief moment to smooth back the mess. It doesn't do much good, but it falls in a way that could be considered artful, mussed. Ryo doesn't quite smile, but the implication is there. It catches near the corners of his eyes, weary in the way that they normally wouldn't be. There's that sharpness there, but it seems further away the more the music threads into every moment of being. But, there's that quiet assessment to make sure Akira is steady before he pulls himself to his feet. His palm braces against the wall as he does and it keeps his movements smooth and steady as he reaches down to him with his free hand, steady and outstrected. ]
Here. [ He knows how exhaustion eats away someone. He knows how it slinks into muscle and bone, bundles itself tight and persistent there. He knows the brain and the body cease clear communication. He knows it makes movement uncertain, unsteady. He knows that Akira can endure more than most, but that crying jag will have taken more out of him now that it typically would have. ] Do you want to go back to the room?
[ It isn't really a question, as much as it is a guess. He thinks it might at least be more comfortable. They might catch a few minutes of rest, even if there was no chance of satisfactory sleep. ]