Chapter Text
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05.
By the time Kyojuro has arrived into town, checked into an inn, and asked around for further leads on his mission, a night market has sprung up on the main street and gone into full swing.
Stalls emblazoned with bright banners and bold signage form a lively throughway, hawking everything from takoyaki to goldfish-catching to unique regional handicrafts. The street is vibrant with colour and cheer, snatches of twanging dialect overlapping as townsfolk mill amongst the vendors. Overhead, cascades of hand-painted lanterns bob in the slight breeze, strung across the makeshift eaves. The sun had only set a short time ago, so the market isn't quite at the height of bustling, but give it another hour and Kyojuro is sure the street will be packed.
Already, there's the waft of delicious food in the air, savoury with the tinge of char. His mouth waters at the smell. Kyojuro would never rush a mission, but he hopes a few stalls will still be open when he returns.
Most rural towns tend to pack up their events earlier than the cities though. Farmers have to wake up early to tend to their fields. It's hard to fault them for their admirable work ethic.
Kyojuro looks longingly at the crowds before turning away.
As usual, Akaza is already looking at him. His expression is thoughtful, almost studious. Kyojuro cocks his head at him, smiling.
"Is it something on my face!" he asks.
Akaza hums vaguely. "Not as such."
Kyojuro, used to Akaza staring intently at him for no real reason all the time, rolls his eyes. "You talk so often and so much, yet when I ask for answers, you speak in riddles!" He's still smiling when he says this, so Akaza knows he means nothing by it.
Lips curving into his own grin, Akaza sidles closer to him. "Do I? I suppose you ask me more questions that way."
"So you can talk even more?"
"Ahh. You've finally uncovered by devious plot, Enbashira."
Kyojuro laughs, pushing Akaza's playful smirk away from him. He shouldn't grow any fonder of it than he already is. Akaza has a terrible penchant for distracting him with it. "We've dallied enough! Come, let's go!"
Ducking down a side street, the noises of the night market fade behind him as Kyojuro strides into shadow.
After a moment, he hears Akaza turn to follow.
According to Kaname and the hushed rumours of the townsfolk, there's a haunted woodcutter's hut nestled in the forest to the west. The tales that surround it are as strange as they are horrific: man-eating trees, bodies strung up on high branches like ornaments, mangled in a manner unlike a boar or a bear. Kyojuro knows, of course, it's the work of a demon. Even the clueless townsfolk are smart enough to avoid the area – a fact he's thankful for, even if it left Kyojuro with no clues about the demon's Blood Art.
Years ago, the uncertainty would have left Kyojuro humming with an unpleasant alertness. Every fight against a demon is done at a disadvantage, and though Kyojuro has tempered his fear through training, death always loomed as a possibility.
But with Akaza at his side, Kyojuro cannot help but feel more settled. Perhaps it's ironic. When the path allows, Akaza walks beside him, steps near-silent in the underbrush. The carnivorous grace in his movements are obvious even outside of battle. There's nothing in this forest more dangerous to Akaza, and Kyojuro knows there's little that will catch them unawares. The reassurance of that is staggering. He doesn't quite lower his guard, but– it's nice. It's nice, that even as he walks willingly towards death and danger, Kyojuro no longer does it alone.
(It makes him wonder: how many times – in just the past week – has Kyojuro said, 'let's', and 'we', and 'together'? Kyojuro has spent more time alone on missions than he has with a companion, yet somehow, Akaza's company feels so natural, he almost forgets this isn't how it's always been. What an astounding privilege.)
Simple conversation volleys between them as they venture deeper into the forest together. The topics wander: where Akaza got the yukata he's wearing tonight (–it's Kyojuro's, doesn't he remember?–), if Kyojuro's shoulder is healing well after Akaza fed from it a week ago (–of course, you worry too much!–), if this demon's Blood Art sounds familiar (–not at all, though if Akaza has heard about it before, it's probably boring enough to forget–)
They walk close enough to brush together – sometimes at their arms, sometimes with their knuckles. Coincidental starbursts of warmth that light up the night for no-one else but Kyojuro.
He wonders how he was ever content with solitude.
Akaza walks by his side as if there's no other reasonable place to be. Even when they'd first begun their uneasy truce, when there were a hundred consequences for Akaza to even be entertaining the thought– he'd stayed.
Which is why it completely blindsides Kyojuro when Akaza halts, squints into the distance, and announces, "There's something I need to do back in town."
Kyojuro stops as well, fallen bark crackling underfoot. "Huh?"
Akaza points ahead. "The demon's Fighting Spirit isn't impressive. You'll handle it fine on your own." It's not an attempt at flattery. Akaza says it with such bored certainty, Kyojuro is sure he believes it to be a given. "Just be careful: the weaker ones tend to rely on trickery."
Kyojuro blinks. The battle talk whiffs straight over his head. "Did you forget to get something?" he asks. Perhaps there's something Kyojuro's travel pack that Akaza needs? He wracks his brain for what he might have forgotten, mentally sifting through his bag's contents.
"Not as such," Akaza answers.
Kyojuro shoots him a withering look, telling Akaza exactly what he thinks of his cheek to repeat such a vague reply twice in a night. Akaza laughs, delighted at Kyojuro's ire.
"Stay sharp and fight well, Kyojuro," Akaza says, lifting a hand to tuck some hair behind Kyojuro's ear. It takes all of Kyojuro's restraint not to lean into it. He must imagine the way Akaza's hand hovers there, almost hesitant to depart even though he seems determined to. "I'll find you again, soon."
Then, Akaza is gone.
For a few seconds, Kyojuro simply stands still, listening to the rustle of leaves and the distant scuffling of night creatures. It's not a trick, he discerns after a few moments. Akaza has truly left.
A year ago, the situation would have alarmed him. He's lost sight of an Upper Moon, who's announced returning to a human settlement without any clarity on what exactly he'll do. A year ago, Kyojuro would have been hot on heels in chase.
Now, he simply feels… disgruntled. Like a once-favourite doll discarded to the street-side. Kyojuro trusts Akaza won't hurt anyone, of course. But discontent swirls stormy in his chest anyways. Did he have to leave so fast? Was the demon's Blood Art so boring, Akaza disregarded the entire mission as a waste of time? What could possibly be so important back in town?
Realising he's a sitting duck amidst the brush, Kyojuro huffs and shakes his head. Entertaining his attraction has made him greedy. His fondness of Akaza's constant presence by his side seems matched only by the terrible distraction he gains from it. Kyojuro should be focusing on his mission. Akaza owes him neither his company nor answers.
Ignoring how that stirs the storm in his chest even more, Kyojuro forges on towards the demon alone.
He soon finds the woodcutter's hut. It's a squat triangular structure with a worn thatched roof, a brooding inhabitant of the forest, rotting away in its dereliction. A cursory search around the inside confirms no human has lived in it in quite awhile. However, the tightly boarded-up windows and the terrible claw marks marring the walls all point to the presence of a demon.
Kyojuro cases the outside before picking his way into a grove of trees, following the traces of demonic aura like a damning blood trail. Something malevolent rattles the gnarled shifting branches.
The demon reveals itself between one heartbeat and the next.
It lunges at him from behind a tree– no, from within it. Sword flashing up to block its reaching branch-like claws, Kyojuro looks past their deadlock and sees how its torso seems to meld into the tree's trunk. The demon snarls at him, frustrated by its failed sneak attack, and it retreats back into the trunk. Wood grain patterns creep over its skin before it disappears completely. A breeze hisses through the foliage like a warning.
Kyojuro hears the creaking of wood before the demon lunges at him again from behind. He parries and it disappears again, before it leaps out of another tree. Is it travelling through the roots? The ground here is unusually mottled, and Kyojuro has to keep his steps agile and light.
No matter. Block, parry, swipe. Block, parry, swipe. Akaza was right. The demon, while wily, is weak– and after awhile, predictable. There's a moment where it throws a hatchet at him, which Kyojuro hadn't expected, but it overcompensates in its desperate final trick and leaves too long an opening.
The demon's head thuds onto the carpet of fallen leaves. With the next susurrating wind, its ashes disappear.
Kyojuro slows his breathing, parsing through the familiar adrenaline. He sheathes his sword.
Two pulses of a demonic aura, back in the direction of the woodcutter's hut.
His head snaps up in attention.
Akaza!
Kyojuro is already eagerly striding out of the grove before he stops, oddly self-conscious. Akaza still hasn't caught on, miracle of miracles, but he's being too obvious, isn't he? It won't do to sprint back to him.
Slowing his steps, Kyojuro frowns, troubled that he no longer knows the line between being friends and being besotted. They were both such intense individuals, it feels even more difficult to decode.
Making his way back slower than he usually might, Kyojuro sees the back of Akaza's borrowed yukata first. A dark red with white and gold flames embroidered at the hem. He tamps down the flare of proprietary satisfaction at seeing his emblem worn by Akaza. (Ridiculous. It doesn't mean anything. Akaza is not his.)
Kyojuro pastes on a smile, hand rising to greet him. He debates whether he should ask after Akaza's business or not. Even after an entire battle, the discontent still hangs heavy around his heart. He dislikes it – his own self-importance and uncharacteristic hesitance. And yet, he wants to know.
Then Akaza turns, and Kyojuro sees what's in his hands.
His scripted greeting dies on his lips.
Looking supremely self-conscious, Akaza shuffles on his feet, gaze tripping from Kyojuro to the ground to the surrounding trees. In one arm, he balances a small open-top crate expertly – it's too dark and Kyojuro is too far to discern its contents. But in Akaza's other hand is a veritable bouquet of grilled skewers; cubed meats and whole squid and dango.
Food from the night market.
Kyojuro gapes at him.
"…None of the stalls were selling sweet potato," Akaza says, frowning. Kyojuro walks up to him, mouth still stupidly open yet completely silent. Thrusting forward the bouquet of skewers, Akaza continues. "I didn't know what you wanted to try the most, so I got you one of everything."
Uncertainty threads his voice, and he's glaring at the skewers like they've wronged him. Kyojuro wonders if he even knows what it all is, considering he eats none of it.
Like frost in the morning sun, the illogical tangle of disappointment and discontent melts away from Kyojuro. He feels foolish. Even moreso, now that he's beaming much too hard. Yet he can't seem to stop himself.
Kyojuro is so, so fond of Akaza, and it seems this fondness will only continue to grow.
"You know me very well then!" he laughs, taking the handful of skewers.
Akaza brightens at his glowing reception. "If you don't like something, just throw it in the bushes. I have even more for you here," he says, patting the crate.
Kyojuro gasps in faux affront. "Throw perfectly tasty food away? I would never!" With gusto, he bites into one of the meat skewers, immediately groaning in satisfaction as the char and sauce complement each other perfectly. "Delicious!!"
"What of the demon?" Akaza asks.
"Quite dead!"
"Are you hurt anywhere?"
"Not a scratch! I've been training with Upper Moon Three for quite some time, after all!"
If it were possible, Akaza would be lighting up the night by how much he glows with pride at that statement. "Of course," he agrees warmly. "You're exceptional."
Biting into the squid next, Kyojuro switches topics before he grows too pleased at Akaza's blunt praise. "So this is why you headed back into town!" he says, and– ah– too late, the warm undertone of his voice is all pleasedpleasedpleased.
Akaza hums his assent. "You seemed put out that your mission might finish after the market closed."
Kyojuro splutters, trying not to choke on his skewer.
"I– well– surely I'm not so obvious!"
The look Akaza levels him with says it all. Ah, he really should've known better than to ask. Embarrassed, Kyojuro changes tack. "I would have been fine if I missed it! Truly!"
"'Fine'? Sure. You're quite practised at denying yourself your wants," Akaza says, and before Kyojuro can protest that comment, he tacks on, "But you would've had that disappointed look on your face all the way until the next town."
Kyojuro splutters again. How closely has Akaza been watching him!? "I– That is not true!" A pause. "…Is it?"
"Didn't you just say I know you very well?" Akaza drawls.
That shuts Kyojuro up. (That, and the grilled beef skewer is calling to him.)
"Do you still want to catch the market before it closes?" Akaza asks.
Kyojuro chews in thought, one cheek bulging with food. Akaza watches him, amused.
"Let's enjoy the stars! There's no point in rushing back with all this food anyways," Kyojuro finally decides. Even though the night market had initially excited him, a quiet walk with Akaza now seems just as enticing, if not more. Especially after such a thoughtful gesture. "Thank you for doing this, Akaza!"
Akaza ducks his head. For all his shamelessness, Akaza flusters easily at kindness and gratitude. It's really quite adorable. "The path opens here," he says needlessly, turning on his heel. Kyojuro smiles at this retreating back and hurries to join him.
"You're not missing much with the night market, Kyojuro. It was too bright and needlessly loud," Akaza scoffs.
"That is what I enjoy about them!"
"…There was a gaggle of girls trailing after me for three stalls," Akaza tells him, looking troubled. "Giggling all secretively."
Kyojuro laughs. Akaza looks more unsettled by a group of admirers than he ever has at the prospect of any demon or slayer. Of course he does. "It's your curse of being so lovely-looking, Akaza!"
Akaza blinks at him rapidly. "What do you mean by that?" he asks, oddly intense.
"You have a charm to your looks that is both pretty and handsome," Kyojuro says earnestly.
Akaza sways towards him, closing the gap between them. The shadows of the foliage dapple against his markings, obscuring his exact expression. "You think I'm pretty and handsome?"
Kyojuro blinks. "Of course! Anyone would say so! Well, when you don't look like a demon, of course." Privately, he thinks Akaza's demonic features are just as alluring, if not more. He doesn't say that, of course. The whole string of his torrid fantasies about Akaza's markings might come spooling out.
Akaza's expression cramps, and he leans back, blowing a breath out the side of his mouth. "You–sometimes I– gah." Grabbing something out of the crate, Akaza thrusts a small sweet-smelling tray at Kyojuro and growls, "Just eat."
Kyojuro doesn't need to be told twice.
He finished the skewers handily, and without asking, Akaza passes him a steady supply of treats from the crate. Everything is delicious, made even moreso by the gesture of it all, and Akaza's enduring attention.
Between bites, Kyojuro reviews the food for Akaza, though it's mostly a stream of accolades. He waits for Akaza to scoff and tell him to stop talking with his mouth full, but Akaza stays quiet, face focused as he listens, flicking glances at Kyojuro's face every now and again to gauge his reactions.
I didn't know what you wanted to try the most. Is he remedying the gap in his knowledge? The surreptitious observation builds a pleased restlessness in Kyojuro. His face warms almost as much as his stomach.
The crate of food empties. When Kyojuro finishes the final dish (tri-coloured mochi powdered and packed between bamboo leaves), he turns to thank Akaza again.
That's when he catches Akaza's furrowed expression, wiped away too quickly for it to be insignificant. His suspicions are confirmed when Akaza replaces it with a too-perfect neutrality.
"What's wrong!" Kyojuro immediately asks.
"Nothing, Kyojuro."
"It is something! Tell me!"
Akaza hesitates, looking caught out but reluctant to admit it. Kyojuro leans forward so he can stare up at Akaza's face, eyes owlish. It makes him relent. "One of the stalls had a charcoal grill and a long queue. The smell of it soaked into my clothes."
Eyes widening at Akaza's displeased expression, Kyojuro suddenly remembers a crucial detail about demons. "Ah! So to yourself, you smell like–"
"Burnt garbage, yes."
The image of Akaza hating the smell but diligently visiting every food stall in the market coalesces in Kyojuro's mind; Akaza's resting scowl, pinching his nose as he wields a fan of skewers, still prodding vendors to pack things neatly into his crate. The thought is terribly endearing, and just as equally guilt-inducing.
"You should have said something! We could have headed back to the inn and washed it off!" Kyojuro's hands hover uselessly around Akaza. It's not as if he can brush the smell away.
"I wanted to walk with you," Akaza says stubbornly.
Kyojuro sighs, both at Akaza's hardheadedness and his own ignorance. "I'd forgotten demons hate the smell of human food." Sometimes, it's impossible to ignore their differences, a rift too startling to traverse. Other times, with their easy banter and that playful glint in Akaza's eyes, it's too easy to forget. "You did this for me. I'm sorry."
Akaza frowns. "I didn't do it for you to apologise. Did you enjoy it?" Reluctantly, Kyojuro nods. Akaza's expression clears, lips curling invitingly. "Then it was worth it. The smell isn't a big deal, Kyojuro."
"We should head back anyways!"
"No."
"Akaza."
"Kyojuro."
Kyojuro huffs, stopping in his tracks. He folds his arms, setting his face into sternness, and hopes he's channelling more "respected Flame Pillar who knows what's good for you", and not "formidable mother hen". Akaza grumbles, but stalls as well.
"I'd rather be out under the open sky instead of cowering in a cramped inn room, Kyojuro," Akaza tries, even though he's definitely wrinkling his nose, now that Kyojuro is looking for it.
"The smell is clearly bothering you!"
"And I'll live." Akaza reaches out to tug at his haori, trying to coax Kyojuro back into walking. "C'mon. As long as you don't think I smell like garbage."
What Akaza does or doesn't smell like isn't a road Kyojuro should head down if he wants to maintain his composure. Instead, he holds out his arm out and commands, "Kaname!"
Descending from the sky in a bustle of black feathers, Kaname alights onto Kyojuro's arm. He shakes himself out before folding his wings. "Rengoku-sama!" Kaname caws, standing to attention. A pause, then Kaname says, "Ugly oni!"
Akaza narrows his eyes. "Noisy chicken."
Kaname squawks in outrage.
"Kaname!" Kyojuro interrupts swiftly, before Akaza and Kaname can devolve into a volley of schoolyard insults. "Is there a source of clean running water nearby? Large enough to bathe in! A river or a pool, perhaps!"
Dipping his head and hopping, Kaname answers, "To the west, to the west! Not far!" Another rustle of wings, and Kaname is circling over their heads. "Follow me, Rengoku-sama! Ugly oni!"
"Your precious Rengoku-sama happens to think I'm pretty and handsome, actually," Akaza calls out, tossing Kyojuro a grin over his shoulder. Kyojuro makes a show of rolling his eyes, and hopes Akaza doesn't catch the flush dusting his cheeks. (He'd never hear the end of it, if Akaza knew just how often he thinks about that.)
Kaname leads them into the brush where the path is less trodden, and turns from packed dirt to soft loam. Before long, Akaza seems to perk up, and soon, even Kyojuro's human hearing picks up the sound of rushing water. Kyojuro quickens his steps for Akaza's sake, and they soon discover its source.
Bordered by stepped rocks topped with moss and drooping ferns, a mirrored pool reflecting the waxing moon emerges in front of them. Through a curtain of foliage, a small waterfall tumbles over dark stone, burbling happily. Floating mosaics of lilypads dot the surface, dappling the pool in handsome shades of green. Even in the darkness, Kyojuro can tell the water is clean and clear, especially towards the center where the reach of tree branches and its falling leaves falls short. It smells rich and earthy in the way only hidden nooks of the forest can smell, where every leaf hangs heavy with dew, and everything can only be verdant and lush and alive.
Kyojuro stops to admire it.
Akaza walks straight into the pool, clothes and all.
"Akaza!" Kyojuro laughs. He makes his way across a hopscotch of rocks until he can perch on one that juts the furthest over the water. Cupping a hand over his mouth, he calls out, "Normal people take their clothes off for a bath!"
Striding further into the center of the pool, the water laps at Akaza until it reaches his chest. "I'm being efficient! Everything stinks," Akaza calls back. He seems eager to admit it now that some relief is close at hand. Kyojuro watches him forcefully dunk the pink puff of his hair underwater, hands scrubbing at his scalp before he submerges himself completely.
It's too dark to keep track of where he is in the water, so Kyojuro turns his attention towards unbuckling his sword and toeing off his zori.
He's debating taking his sword maintenance kit out when Akaza breaks the surface again. "Besides, isn't it too scandalous?" he asks.
Preoccupied, Kyojuro makes a questioning noise.
Looking up, he sees Akaza hug his arms around himself, yukata heavy with water and starting to open at his front. Even if Kyojuro can't make out his exact expression with only the moonlight, he knows Akaza has some ridiculous simper on his face. "The Flame Hashira is trying to get my clothes off! What will the Corps think?"
Trying to get his– Kyojuro gapes at him. No! he almost blurts out.
…Yes. Maybe.
"I'm sure everyone will trip over themselves to protect your modesty!" Kyojuro retorts instead. "It's not as if you basically parade around topless!"
Akaza cackles. Case in point, he starts to strip out of his yukata.
Kyojuro averts his eyes. Seeing Akaza clothed and seeing Akaza's bare upper body is one matter. Watching him undress is another. It seems like a visual Kyojuro's mind should not be trusted with. The privacy of this pool is too alluring, liable to set his imagination careening off into madness. He's quite familiar with his penchant for it, thank you, and he doesn't need further fuel.
He looks up only when he's sure Akaza has fully undressed. Still submerged to his chest, Akaza scrubs the yukata against his knuckles, lifting it to his nose for a cursory sniff before dunking it back into the water again. He repeats this several times, and Kyojuro's heart expands with alarming fondness. Akaza still scoffs when Kyojuro mentions his flashes of humanity. He doesn't understand Kyojuro isn't just talking of his gestures of fairness and companionship. He also means that no other demon would be so adorably focused on the menial task of laundry. Former Upper Moon Three, at that.
Kyojuro continues to watch him, feeling his gaze soften with every second.
After being seemingly satisfied with washing the smell out, Akaza scrubs himself down with the cloth, rough and abrupt. This must be how he cleans himself when he mentions bathing before their spars: utilitarian, devoid of leisure or enjoyment. Is it a preference, or has he never had the means to consider it? Kyojuro wonders if he can offer the estate's ofuro next time, with its collection of soft towels and scented soaps. The idea of treating Akaza to all the luxury life has to offer is awfully attractive.
(He knows now what Akaza looks like in his colours, his crest. It feels beyond avarice to imagine Akaza smelling like him, pampered to softness by him, laid in Kyojuro's bed like he was his. A selfish, hungry part of him rears its head at the fantasy, like a hound biting at shadows. Kyojuro bites down on his own lip instead.)
Akaza must notice his staring, as he stops, letting his arms fall to his sides. It's not out of self-consciousness. Kyojuro is being studied in return. Like catching the gaze of a wild fox, one animal recognising another, before the moment breaks and it darts away into the underbrush.
Akaza doesn't dart away. He leans into the water, movements languid as he pushes off the bottom of the pool to swim towards Kyojuro. The yukata, folded over on shoulder, fans behind him like the unfurling crimson fin of a fighting fish. Moonlight catches on the gold and white thread, the rippling water, the reflective rims of Akaza's luminous eyes. The markings across his body seem to be inked with the night itself, a blue more depthless than the darkness of a world before fire.
Gone is the mundane figure he'd made washing his own clothes. Suddenly, he looks like a strange and dangerous creature about to lure Kyojuro to his death.
Thoughtlessly, Kyojuro slides forward to the edge of the rock.
Closer, his heart sings. Closer.
Akaza slows as he nears Kyojuro's rocky overhang, and Kyojuro has one moment to admire the broad expanse of his back before Akaza finds his footing in the water. He drifts closer until he's tilting his face up from Kyojuro's ankle.
"You're staring," Akaza says. His voice hums with something; Kyojuro could call it pleased, if he's feeling particularly reckless– or promising, if he's giving himself over to complete lunacy.
"Sorry," Kyojuro murmurs, knowing he doesn't sound sorry. He doesn't feel it, either. Water sluices off Akaza's skin as he lifts himself out of the water, just enough to toss the washed yukata onto the rock. Kyojuro tracks every glistening stream winding their way through the topography of Akaza's muscles as if maps were his life's work. Every divot a valley, every vein a path– and Akaza's deep blue markings, the ley lines that started this all.
Sinking back into the water, Akaza's smile is a crescent in defiance of the moon cycle, stolen straight from the starry sky. His eyes glitter with invitation. "I don't mind," he replies. One hand crests the mirror surface, reaching up to alight his fingers upon the inner side of Kyojuro's ankle. His touch is cool and slick. "Are you going to join me?"
"I wasn't planning to, no," Kyojuro says. His body, a traitor to his words, is already curving down, inching ever closer. Like the meeting of the sky and the sea, the sun to the horizon, gravity and inevitability.
Akaza's light touch turns into a hand grasping around Kyojuro's ankle, a loose circle.
"Plans can change," Akaza coaxes. One finger trails up his Achilles tendon. Kyojuro sucks in a breath. Weakness shouldn't feel this good. Akaza will be the death of me, he thinks. He'll be the death of him, and Kyojuro wants it so badly his veins sing.
"Not this one," Kyojuro smiles, and the grip around his ankle tightens. It sends a thrill rushing up his calf. A warning and a tease. Akaza's eyebrow arcs in mischievous challenge.
Kyojuro is tempted to see him to the end of his bluff. To see if Akaza will drag him in. Whether underwater or into his embrace, both seem equally perilous, if for different reasons.
A strange and dangerous creature, indeed. Perhaps Kyojuro should be more concerned.
His heart thrums in his throat, all pleased anticipation.
He wants, he wants, he wants. Kyojuro is not used to wanting. Even less with letting himself. He feels clumsy and unpractised at it, hands reaching out to feel in the dark as he stumbles over his own shadows. He wants Akaza to drag him in. He wants to plunge into the pool himself, the foolishness of doing it fully-clothed be damned. He wants to plaster himself against Akaza's front, wet hands on wet skin, competing with the moonlight on just how much of his body he can touch.
Not because he's mad with lust, he realises. Not because he wants to solve Akaza's markings.
He just wants to be close.
Close enough to pluck the leaf stuck in Akaza's hair. Close enough to take him by surprise and tackle him into the water. Close enough to kiss the ensuing laughter from his lips.
Oh, Kyojuro thinks. You're in love with him.
The realisation gasps to life in the dark, that first burst of dawn over the horizon, expressing itself faster than he can stifle it. Light, unrestrained, bleeding obvious over everything, throwing every detail of Akaza's upturned face into aching relief; his soaked hair swept handsomely back, the open enjoyment of his bright eyes, the curl of his lip that Kyojuro desperately wants to kiss. He wants, and there's no taking it back; he wants, and there's no plausible deniability that could make it less plain.
He could clasp his hands around this blazing truth and the light of it would shine out from between his fingers: Kyojuro wants Akaza like he's never wanted anything before.
It's so hopeless, he could laugh, if it wasn't so horrifically appalling how much his wanting has spiralled out of his control. All while he believed he was taming it, assuring himself he would be able to stop when it counted; when it came to pretence, when it came to duty, when it came to the measure of Akaza's trust. Now, he's not so sure. Now, he's staring wide-eyed with the wind whistling past his ears, wondering how far and how fast he's been falling this entire time.
He looks at Akaza– really looks at him, this time. Akaza is beautiful. Limned not only by the moonlight, but by the adoration of Kyojuro, beholding him. Details highlighted by hours of noticing, and Kyojuro knows now it's not that Akaza has sharpened or gained more colour, but rather, it is as if the rest of the world pales in comparison. Kyojuro has haloed Akaza in a radiance created by his wanting, revealing as much of Akaza as it would of Kyojuro.
Akaza would see it. Akaza would see his terrible and endless need, and – mistaking fixation for reciprocation – give him everything.
The idea of it is a scythe through his stomach.
On instinct, Kyojuro wrenches his leg away from Akaza, panicked and horrified. It breaks Akaza's playful grip, sudden and abrupt, and their private bubble of anticipation shatters with it. The wide-eyed look of shock Akaza pins Kyojuro with hurts almost as much as realising the line he'd nearly crossed.
Kyojuro scrambles up to his feet, barely registering the rough scrape of rock that slices against his palm. Blood in the air. Akaza flinches.
Distantly, Kyojuro is aware of something more precious breaking. Something that, with the right words and the right gesture, perhaps he could fix. An apology, an explanation, anything.
"Do not come to my room tonight," Kyojuro pleads.
Then, he flees.
` * ✦ * `