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When he finally regains consciousness, Aki has no clue where he is, or why, or since when he has been there: the only thing he knows is that he has to go back home.
The stride feels short, shorter than it should have felt. He could not count one step before taking the following one; and this state of carelessness — if so one wishes to call it — would have usually distressed him. Usually, but not now. The urge to finally be home is so overwhelming, he cannot get his mind to really feel any sort of concern over his clear distraction. His right foot barely dodges a hole in the ground, a pole blocks his path, people rush past him — away from him — in an apocalyptic hurry. Perhaps he should have gone down the other road.
Some steps later — God might know how many — his hand raises. Involuntarily so. When has he ever had to knock? But likewise, does he even have the keys? None of these questions, and neither any other one is on his mind when his fist instinctively meets the door’s surface.
One knock. Two.
Are they not home?
He knocks again, more and more impatient.
He just wants to come home.
Three knocks, four knocks.
His fist meets the air.
The guy across the doorframe says something, but he cannot quite make out the words. He stares at the guy, until something seems to quietly snap into place. Sure.
«Denji…» He calls out to his friend — right, he is home now, he is with his friends, — but only gets a confused mutter in response.
«Why do you know my name?»
Aki keeps looking at him with what Denji would have recognised as a puzzled look on any other occasion, but eventually shrugs it off. Why did he even go out in the first place?
Wait, of course.
«Denji…» he goes again, his hands carefully working a snowball, «it’s a snowball fight!»
He has never minded the cold, has he? And although it had been a long, long time since last playing like this, today’s snow just looked too beautiful to resist. Besides, he has never felt warmer snow. Now that he thinks about it, he has never felt September snow, either; but he is surely grateful for it. Life without snow was becoming unbearably grounded.
He watches as Denji takes the first blow, running to take cover and — oh, how could he forget? With Denji out of sight, he quickly crouches down and another soft bullet takes shape in his hands, aimed at Powder. He was not sure she would be home; but now he is just glad to see her there. She has probably never played with snow before.
«You’re on Denji’s team!» He announces as the snowball quickly makes its way towards the helpless girl. However, not quick enough to hit. Denji, faster than Aki’s throw, puts himself in between Power and the bullet, taking the hit for his newly announced teammate. Well, too bad. His attention is quickly drawn by something else anyway.
An old couple in the distance, watching their exchange. Aki can almost picture their thoughts, memories of watching their own children play like that; or perhaps, memories of themselves, younger and freer to just stop and enjoy life for a moment. His smile widens at the thought.
«Wanna play with us?» His arm is raised, ready to attack, when a chill suddenly runs down his spine.
«Rats! You got me!» He yells, redirecting his attention to Denji.
The old couple has gone away.
They keep exchanging blows, relentlessly aiming at each other. Like any proper snowball fight, carefully aiming at each other. Every time his hand is ready to unleash a new hit, Denji surprises him with another blow; and each time, said blow is directed where Aki would least expect it. Legs, arms, anywhere. Anywhere strong enough to handle it. He cannot truly resent his friend for holding back, although he seems to be struggling to likewise restrain himself.
«I’ve never had this much fun before!» He laughs, and he means it. He means all of it; every word, at least. Especially as he slows down for a moment, looking down at his hand.
«Mom and dad are always fussing over Taiyo, but now my life has finally…» He raises his hand again, holding the snow a bit tighter with his bare hands.
«…finally…»
It’s warm.
«…gotten kinda fun.»
He hits Denji again.
Aki watches motionless as his friend falls on his back.
«Giving up?» He mocks; but still waits for him to get back on his feet before attacking again. «That’s more like it!»
And the game restarts.
Each snowball thrown is a chuckle escaping his mouth. He cannot remember the last time he laughed so much, either. And Denji is there, too, unlike the other times. He is there, playing with him; although his expression doesn’t betray half the joy; but to be fair, he has always been more on the annoyingly competitive side. He cannot seem to stop shouting at him throughout their battle. Aki would usually find it rather annoying; but it is too beautiful of a day to be bothered.
The infinite loop of crouching, shaping, throwing goes on and on and on, the air filled with nothing but the soft thud of the snow hitting their clothes. That, and Denji’s screams.
Aki crouches down yet another time, but his hand unexpectedly retreats at the contact with snow. «My hands are getting cold...» He murmurs, frowning a bit. But he cannot just stop now, can he? Denji is getting back on his feet again. He should be of as much worth. And so he fights it: the sudden freezing of his hands, the soreness of his limbs, the ragged breath, and the gut feeling that something is extremely wrong. The snow is turning too cold, too quickly. A series of snowballs hits him, giving him no time to counter. He barely feels any of them though; except for the first one, which makes a pained grunt escape his mouth. He is too shaken by that single, dissonant expression of discomfort to even feel the pain of the following blows. His hands shoot up to cover his face. Behind the protection of his own body, he forces himself calm again.
«Ahah, great shots!» He shouts; but the laugh is a bit strained, and he does not know why. And so he just crouches; he crouches down, again, reaches for the snow again. It’s chilling. He does not drop it.
«Okay, take this–» He begins, but it’s cold, too cold. His hand freezes in place.
«How come you’re crying…?»
Denji’s tear-strained face stares right back at him. Aki’s ungloved hand suddenly drops open, letting the snowball escape his grip. Letting Denji deal his final blow.
He drops his own body onto the whitened ground, and for some reason — something much different than pride — he prays Denji will notice. That he did not beat him. That he surrendered himself to him, for him. He is not sure Denji wanted to beat him. Maybe he just wanted to keep playing for a while; but is getting too cold, and Aki is once again not sure why he even went out in the first place. He is not sure of much, to be honest, especially as he meets Denji’s eyes. Because, — he realises, — he has never seen him cry before, has he...?
So yeah, he realises, perhaps he should just let him win this one.
He realises that, and something else.
Snow was never supposed to be warm in the first place, was it?