![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
answer_keyby 
daisy-chan / daisyface
Mind the Gap
When Shindou meets up with him at the airport, he looks a little crazed, to be honest.
Tokyo is suffering from a grueling heat wave and the entirety of Shindou’s body seems to be covered in slick shine, hair matted to his face in odd tufts. They stick a little when they try to separate from the hug in a way that would have been unpleasant if Akira hadn’t been anticipating it since almost the moment that their farewell hug ended.
“Welcome home,” Shindou greets him, holding the back of Akira’s neck with one slick hand, looking as though he can barely resist pulling Akira back in for another round.
Akira has to very firmly remind himself that, for all this is a relatively new relationship, he doesn’t care for these public displays. Truly.
“I’m home,” Akira assures him, leaning into Shindou’s hand slightly when it shifts to cup his jaw. He puts his hand over Shindou’s and pulls it away, but keeps them linked together.
“Okay,” Shindou says after a minute. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Alright,” Akira agrees easily, still unused to how amenable he feels around Shindou now. It wasn’t so long ago that his blood would rush just at the sight of him, Akira’s body instantly primed for battle mode.
Now, it seemed, he’s been reassembled.
The subway platform is worse than he’d imagined, air thick enough to chew and the oppressive heat outside magnified to be almost unbearable. Akira can feel the sweat beading up along almost every millimeter of him in an instant.
Shindou pulls him toward the line that will lead them to Shindou’s flat and Akira raises a questioning eyebrow at him when they get to the end of the platform, waiting for the least congested car.
“Would it not be cooler at my house?” Akira asks, already liking the idea of sitting out on the back porch with the tatami screens open and a glass of ice water against his neck while the slight breeze finds its way to them. He might even overlook the neighborhood scandal of allowing Shindou to peel off his shirt and bask, until Akira would have to take him into the house and close all of the blinds.
Shindou casts him an attempt at a flat look, but there is too much bubbling under the surface to pull it off. “One day, I might fuck you in your father’s house, but I’d rather put that day off as long as possible, okay?”
All of the blood rushes to Akira’s face and he looks around belatedly to see if anyone has heard them, busy train station or no. One little old lady is sat on a nearby bench, but she looks unfazed when Akira cautiously meets her eye. He bows slightly, awkward in his embarrassment, and she gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Shindou’s reasoning is sound if vaguely irrational, but Akira had seen the brutality in the game his father and Shindou had played online after he’d told his parents that they were dating. If Shindou didn’t want to face the man with any more imagined slights on his mind, Akira could indulge him for now.
Eventually, Akira will tell Shindou that he bought the house from his parents after winning his first title, but, as that tournament is still a sore subject, he’ll leave it aside for now, and enjoy feeling Shindou’s go-callused fingers on the pulse point of his wrist.
When the train arrives in a screeching mass, they rush with the other passengers into the air controlled car and Shindou throws himself onto one of the seats, pressing his forehead against the cool metal bar.
There is no such thing as personal space on the subway, so Akira allows himself to press completely along Shindou’s side when he sits next to him, and knows his smile turns smug when Shindou immediately curls their hands together again, leaving them tucked between them on the seat out of consideration of Akira’s sensibilities. Shindou has his head turned so that he can watch Akira intently while still pressing his face into the metal and he looks like such a dork that Akira can’t believe how much he’s missed him. It’s almost enough to make him forget how many germs Shindou is probably picking up right now and attaching to a part of his body that Akira is very much hoping to get some extended time with very soon.
It only takes a couple of stops for the air conditioning to set in and for Akira to breath normally again, by which point Shindou is unsubtle about leaning all of his weight against Akira’s side. His thumb has moved to brush the outside of Akira’s thigh and Akira des his best to move into it at every jerk and shudder the subway car makes, wishing all the while for a less smooth ride.
When they reach the city center, the car starts to fill in and Akira and Shindou give up their seats to a pregnant lady and her be-smocked son. She recognizes Shindou from a recent spread in Weekly Go and tells him to “give ‘em hell.”
Shindou replies, “Yes, ma’am,” with all respect and dutiful eyes and moves to crowd Akira into the far corner of the car, out of the way of boarding passengers.
As the car fills up, Shindou cages Akira in against the side of the car with his arms, knees jumbling together, and tells him about the two meetups at Waya’s that Akira missed. Apparently, Yashiro had been visiting and swept the board during the first week, while Shindou had lead the second week by narrowly defeating Nase in the semi-finals and then taking out Waya handily in the end, earning a go ke top to the head for his trouble. Shindou says that Waya was adamant that he’s only won because everyone felt bad for him and his pining and Shindou had responded with something very uncharitable about that state of Waya’s love life, work life, home life, and hair care.
Akira tells Shindou about Korea and the house that his parents bought after giving up on the pretense of ever leaving and the South Korean government smartly realized that they’d be trying to move a mountain with the wind by attempting to force them out.
His father stopped his world wind go tour a few years ago, but he still sits up at night with his goban, waiting, whatever he’d been looking for unfound. Akira can be thankful now that he did his chasing long ago and that his rival now sprints at his side, rather than darting ahead in the shadows.
The train gives an extra hard jerk to the side and Akira uses it as an excuse to shore himself up by grabbing the front of Shindou’s shirt and then smoothing it down over Shindou’s chest.
Shindou hums appreciatively and presses in closer, his nose brushing the shell of Akira’s ear, which is really ridiculously cliché of him and not fair play in the slightest, so Akira feels no qualms about hooking his fingers into Shindou’s belt loops and pulling him in all the way when the next wave of passengers board crush in at the next stop.
“I missed you,” Shindou breathes out in a sigh. “I really, really missed you. Waya was right about the pinging.”
“Oh?” Akira asks, a little smug because his mother may have mentioned something about him being a little down in the mouth and he had liked to think he wasn’t the only one.
“Yes. It was terrible, but not as bad as Waya’s mid-game, so he was wrong about that at least,” Shindou reassures him. He makes a move like he might kiss Akira’s ear, but pulls back to lean their foreheads together instead.
This is preferable, really, because Akira had told him about the public displays from the beginning. Even if his own hands were traitors to his mindset, even now.
“This is our stop,” Hikaru tells him once they’ve swayed to rest once more. The car had thinned out somewhere along the line when Akira had been too wrapped up in more pressing matters to notice and barely checks to see if anyone is pointedly not looking in their direction as they work their way to the door, Akira’s fingers still tucked into Shindou’s belt loops.
The walk to Shindou’s apartment is stifling. The wind has started up in such a way that the torrent of hot air feels like they’re being followed by a hair dryer and Akira keeps watching the way that Shindou picks at the hair around his neck, carding his fingers through from scalp to end, making his own fingers tingle to touch.
When they get inside, it’s actually worse than on the street and Shindou is tripping over wires and errant clothes to adjust the five desk fans that are all facing Shindou’s spot on the couch so that they encompass the couch more generally. Black-out curtains have been added to the windows since he was last here to block out the sun, and the effect, added to the ceiling fan with only one of four light bulbs alight and wobbling precariously at the highest fan speed, is oddly charming.
Akira folds himself over Shindou’s back, hooking his chin on his shoulder and hand along his ribs while Shindou tries to get one of the clunkier models to oscillate.
He wants to talk to Shindou.
He wants to catch up and strip down and kiss Shindou’s mouth and press that glass of ice water against his neck until he can chase the condensation down his throat.
He wants Shindou to fuck him back against this couch until they’re both breathless and so slick that they could melt together in the heat. One soft line of flesh.
He wants that travelling has not run him down and that this couch didn’t seem so soft and welcoming, but he can already feel his eyelids grow heavy even as he tries to blink them awake.
But Shindou is there, kissing his cheek, his neck, his wrist, as Akira is gently rolled to lay down on the cushions, pushing his hair back from his eyes and tucked behind his ear.
Staying.
“Welcome home,” Shindou says again in a whisper, the fans whirling and wobbling in the background, and Akira smiles, leaning in, letting go.
daisy-chan / daisyface Mind the Gap
When Shindou meets up with him at the airport, he looks a little crazed, to be honest.
Tokyo is suffering from a grueling heat wave and the entirety of Shindou’s body seems to be covered in slick shine, hair matted to his face in odd tufts. They stick a little when they try to separate from the hug in a way that would have been unpleasant if Akira hadn’t been anticipating it since almost the moment that their farewell hug ended.
“Welcome home,” Shindou greets him, holding the back of Akira’s neck with one slick hand, looking as though he can barely resist pulling Akira back in for another round.
Akira has to very firmly remind himself that, for all this is a relatively new relationship, he doesn’t care for these public displays. Truly.
“I’m home,” Akira assures him, leaning into Shindou’s hand slightly when it shifts to cup his jaw. He puts his hand over Shindou’s and pulls it away, but keeps them linked together.
“Okay,” Shindou says after a minute. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Alright,” Akira agrees easily, still unused to how amenable he feels around Shindou now. It wasn’t so long ago that his blood would rush just at the sight of him, Akira’s body instantly primed for battle mode.
Now, it seemed, he’s been reassembled.
The subway platform is worse than he’d imagined, air thick enough to chew and the oppressive heat outside magnified to be almost unbearable. Akira can feel the sweat beading up along almost every millimeter of him in an instant.
Shindou pulls him toward the line that will lead them to Shindou’s flat and Akira raises a questioning eyebrow at him when they get to the end of the platform, waiting for the least congested car.
“Would it not be cooler at my house?” Akira asks, already liking the idea of sitting out on the back porch with the tatami screens open and a glass of ice water against his neck while the slight breeze finds its way to them. He might even overlook the neighborhood scandal of allowing Shindou to peel off his shirt and bask, until Akira would have to take him into the house and close all of the blinds.
Shindou casts him an attempt at a flat look, but there is too much bubbling under the surface to pull it off. “One day, I might fuck you in your father’s house, but I’d rather put that day off as long as possible, okay?”
All of the blood rushes to Akira’s face and he looks around belatedly to see if anyone has heard them, busy train station or no. One little old lady is sat on a nearby bench, but she looks unfazed when Akira cautiously meets her eye. He bows slightly, awkward in his embarrassment, and she gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Shindou’s reasoning is sound if vaguely irrational, but Akira had seen the brutality in the game his father and Shindou had played online after he’d told his parents that they were dating. If Shindou didn’t want to face the man with any more imagined slights on his mind, Akira could indulge him for now.
Eventually, Akira will tell Shindou that he bought the house from his parents after winning his first title, but, as that tournament is still a sore subject, he’ll leave it aside for now, and enjoy feeling Shindou’s go-callused fingers on the pulse point of his wrist.
When the train arrives in a screeching mass, they rush with the other passengers into the air controlled car and Shindou throws himself onto one of the seats, pressing his forehead against the cool metal bar.
There is no such thing as personal space on the subway, so Akira allows himself to press completely along Shindou’s side when he sits next to him, and knows his smile turns smug when Shindou immediately curls their hands together again, leaving them tucked between them on the seat out of consideration of Akira’s sensibilities. Shindou has his head turned so that he can watch Akira intently while still pressing his face into the metal and he looks like such a dork that Akira can’t believe how much he’s missed him. It’s almost enough to make him forget how many germs Shindou is probably picking up right now and attaching to a part of his body that Akira is very much hoping to get some extended time with very soon.
It only takes a couple of stops for the air conditioning to set in and for Akira to breath normally again, by which point Shindou is unsubtle about leaning all of his weight against Akira’s side. His thumb has moved to brush the outside of Akira’s thigh and Akira des his best to move into it at every jerk and shudder the subway car makes, wishing all the while for a less smooth ride.
When they reach the city center, the car starts to fill in and Akira and Shindou give up their seats to a pregnant lady and her be-smocked son. She recognizes Shindou from a recent spread in Weekly Go and tells him to “give ‘em hell.”
Shindou replies, “Yes, ma’am,” with all respect and dutiful eyes and moves to crowd Akira into the far corner of the car, out of the way of boarding passengers.
As the car fills up, Shindou cages Akira in against the side of the car with his arms, knees jumbling together, and tells him about the two meetups at Waya’s that Akira missed. Apparently, Yashiro had been visiting and swept the board during the first week, while Shindou had lead the second week by narrowly defeating Nase in the semi-finals and then taking out Waya handily in the end, earning a go ke top to the head for his trouble. Shindou says that Waya was adamant that he’s only won because everyone felt bad for him and his pining and Shindou had responded with something very uncharitable about that state of Waya’s love life, work life, home life, and hair care.
Akira tells Shindou about Korea and the house that his parents bought after giving up on the pretense of ever leaving and the South Korean government smartly realized that they’d be trying to move a mountain with the wind by attempting to force them out.
His father stopped his world wind go tour a few years ago, but he still sits up at night with his goban, waiting, whatever he’d been looking for unfound. Akira can be thankful now that he did his chasing long ago and that his rival now sprints at his side, rather than darting ahead in the shadows.
The train gives an extra hard jerk to the side and Akira uses it as an excuse to shore himself up by grabbing the front of Shindou’s shirt and then smoothing it down over Shindou’s chest.
Shindou hums appreciatively and presses in closer, his nose brushing the shell of Akira’s ear, which is really ridiculously cliché of him and not fair play in the slightest, so Akira feels no qualms about hooking his fingers into Shindou’s belt loops and pulling him in all the way when the next wave of passengers board crush in at the next stop.
“I missed you,” Shindou breathes out in a sigh. “I really, really missed you. Waya was right about the pinging.”
“Oh?” Akira asks, a little smug because his mother may have mentioned something about him being a little down in the mouth and he had liked to think he wasn’t the only one.
“Yes. It was terrible, but not as bad as Waya’s mid-game, so he was wrong about that at least,” Shindou reassures him. He makes a move like he might kiss Akira’s ear, but pulls back to lean their foreheads together instead.
This is preferable, really, because Akira had told him about the public displays from the beginning. Even if his own hands were traitors to his mindset, even now.
“This is our stop,” Hikaru tells him once they’ve swayed to rest once more. The car had thinned out somewhere along the line when Akira had been too wrapped up in more pressing matters to notice and barely checks to see if anyone is pointedly not looking in their direction as they work their way to the door, Akira’s fingers still tucked into Shindou’s belt loops.
The walk to Shindou’s apartment is stifling. The wind has started up in such a way that the torrent of hot air feels like they’re being followed by a hair dryer and Akira keeps watching the way that Shindou picks at the hair around his neck, carding his fingers through from scalp to end, making his own fingers tingle to touch.
When they get inside, it’s actually worse than on the street and Shindou is tripping over wires and errant clothes to adjust the five desk fans that are all facing Shindou’s spot on the couch so that they encompass the couch more generally. Black-out curtains have been added to the windows since he was last here to block out the sun, and the effect, added to the ceiling fan with only one of four light bulbs alight and wobbling precariously at the highest fan speed, is oddly charming.
Akira folds himself over Shindou’s back, hooking his chin on his shoulder and hand along his ribs while Shindou tries to get one of the clunkier models to oscillate.
He wants to talk to Shindou.
He wants to catch up and strip down and kiss Shindou’s mouth and press that glass of ice water against his neck until he can chase the condensation down his throat.
He wants Shindou to fuck him back against this couch until they’re both breathless and so slick that they could melt together in the heat. One soft line of flesh.
He wants that travelling has not run him down and that this couch didn’t seem so soft and welcoming, but he can already feel his eyelids grow heavy even as he tries to blink them awake.
But Shindou is there, kissing his cheek, his neck, his wrist, as Akira is gently rolled to lay down on the cushions, pushing his hair back from his eyes and tucked behind his ear.
Staying.
“Welcome home,” Shindou says again in a whisper, the fans whirling and wobbling in the background, and Akira smiles, leaning in, letting go.
no subject
Date: 2013-09-21 09:20 pm (UTC)/Loren
no subject
Date: 2013-09-22 06:38 am (UTC)- Mahidol
no subject
Date: 2013-09-22 05:55 pm (UTC)I like that they didn't actually do anything at the end. Seems sweeter that way. :D
-Lacerda
no subject
Date: 2013-09-26 11:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-27 05:12 pm (UTC)--Alberti