[Bit by exhausting, earnest bit, this feels less like a losing battle. Shindou touches Akira's hands, and it is pretty gross, but that's not what matters. Damp skin doesn't matter; Akira's fingers curling, pressing firmer into this part of Shindou's thigh, is what matters. The draw of Akira's brow and the curve of his mouth... Akira might look angry to anyone else, but he isn't angry, and Shindou isn't anyone else. Shindou is the person who knows how to see that every ounce of Akira's heart and every push of Akira's viscera are working toward capability and grace. This is determination.
A picture forming in his head solidifies. He sighs, slow and heavy, and slides his hands out from beneath Shindou's, away from his leg. It's not for disgust, and there's no intention to actually leave. He's leaning back in his seat, reaching into a pocket...
This time, his handkerchief is a display of pale, mellow sunflowers, big blooms in washed out oranges. They look stately, quiet, some just budding. Once more, Akira takes the task of drying Shindou's face. He rubs over each of his cheeks; he touches gently near Shindou's priceless eyes. With his lips pursed in concentration, he wipes beneath Shindou's nose. It's while he's focused like that, concentrating, that he speaks again, even if his tongue feels almost too soft in his mouth to say it.]
Why do you think I came to you today? [He could rival the touch of real sunflower petals.] I need to know what you think I want from you.
[The final touch of the handkerchief, now folded into thirds, is more of a caress on Shindou's chin. It lingers, and then Akira pulls back, slow. He folds the cloth one more time, and cleans the back of his hands. They drop back down. This time, he is the one to take both of Shindou's hands, and he doesn't feel tight, not ready to bend or split underneath great weight.]
Because I understand now that whatever you think is probably wrong. And it's time for me to tell you the right thing.
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A picture forming in his head solidifies. He sighs, slow and heavy, and slides his hands out from beneath Shindou's, away from his leg. It's not for disgust, and there's no intention to actually leave. He's leaning back in his seat, reaching into a pocket...
This time, his handkerchief is a display of pale, mellow sunflowers, big blooms in washed out oranges. They look stately, quiet, some just budding. Once more, Akira takes the task of drying Shindou's face. He rubs over each of his cheeks; he touches gently near Shindou's priceless eyes. With his lips pursed in concentration, he wipes beneath Shindou's nose. It's while he's focused like that, concentrating, that he speaks again, even if his tongue feels almost too soft in his mouth to say it.]
Why do you think I came to you today? [He could rival the touch of real sunflower petals.] I need to know what you think I want from you.
[The final touch of the handkerchief, now folded into thirds, is more of a caress on Shindou's chin. It lingers, and then Akira pulls back, slow. He folds the cloth one more time, and cleans the back of his hands. They drop back down. This time, he is the one to take both of Shindou's hands, and he doesn't feel tight, not ready to bend or split underneath great weight.]
Because I understand now that whatever you think is probably wrong. And it's time for me to tell you the right thing.