Despite all the inherent speed and grace that body afforded him, there's something almost delicate in the way he joins Ryo after a moment's pause. There's something at once quiet and tentative in the way he reaches for him, in ways both known and unknown to him. Akira's crossing into his space doesn't garner anything unusual, only a faint complaint dying before it ever forms as Akira takes up his wrist, turns his communicator off. He'll have to redo what he was working with, but it hardly matters now considering the odd disquiet that settles between them like a darker ocean, its edges almost unable to discerned. He knows that even now, Akira can see him in shadows he's created — soft, grey lines pale and impressionistic. For Ryo himself, the failure of light is the failure of one of his senses. No matter how his eyes adjust, the pitch is too much. However, he isn't fearful of it.
Despite everything, he knows where Akira is. He can almost imagine the pinch of his expression, the way his brows pull together before he speaks. There's a certain gravity in what he's about to say, but Akira has never been good at not telegraphing what is important to him. He knows that sometimes, it is easiest for others to say the hardest things behind a shroud, something Akira enacts now as before he ever opens his mouth to ask him.
Is it something you'd want to do again?
It isn't surprise that comes up in response to it, as much as it is a small storm of questions that well up against his ribs like a high tide, each more vague and indistinct than last beyond what he knows would be practical, what would be for the best. He'd always wanted to protect Akira. Since they were small, he'd shielded him from the cruelty of their peers, the individuals that would have made him so easily burst into tears. He'd always wanted to and it was something that grew within him even in all the years that they'd spent apart.
So, he doesn't ask why it is Akira would like to with him. He doesn't think about the way his pulse mumbles something like nerves in his ears. He only allows himself to acknowledge the situation they've now found themselves trapped in. He only lets himself think of what it is that could help him, what it is that Akira needs — what is that Ryo can give him. But, the word is already there off his tongue before he can align it. It slips in under the secondary action he takes as he nods, only once. ]
Yes.
[ He lifts his hand against the silence, knowing without knowing where sharper angles of Akira's face would be. His fingers skate briefly across the cut of his jaw as he reaches, pushes back to curl the black of his hair behind the shell of his ear. It's a gesture he's committed before, perhaps, but there's something more thoughtful about it. He lingers there, for the space of a breath or two, before he asks: ]
Is it something you would? [ He can anticipate the answer. No one phrases questions that way without desire to act upon what is requested. Ryo's hand travels back, but doesn't leave. Not really. Instead, the flat of his palm comes to frame his face gently, the calloused meat of his thumb passing aimless and slow across the contour of his cheek. ]
no subject
Despite all the inherent speed and grace that body afforded him, there's something almost delicate in the way he joins Ryo after a moment's pause. There's something at once quiet and tentative in the way he reaches for him, in ways both known and unknown to him. Akira's crossing into his space doesn't garner anything unusual, only a faint complaint dying before it ever forms as Akira takes up his wrist, turns his communicator off. He'll have to redo what he was working with, but it hardly matters now considering the odd disquiet that settles between them like a darker ocean, its edges almost unable to discerned. He knows that even now, Akira can see him in shadows he's created — soft, grey lines pale and impressionistic. For Ryo himself, the failure of light is the failure of one of his senses. No matter how his eyes adjust, the pitch is too much. However, he isn't fearful of it.
Despite everything, he knows where Akira is. He can almost imagine the pinch of his expression, the way his brows pull together before he speaks. There's a certain gravity in what he's about to say, but Akira has never been good at not telegraphing what is important to him. He knows that sometimes, it is easiest for others to say the hardest things behind a shroud, something Akira enacts now as before he ever opens his mouth to ask him.
Is it something you'd want to do again?
It isn't surprise that comes up in response to it, as much as it is a small storm of questions that well up against his ribs like a high tide, each more vague and indistinct than last beyond what he knows would be practical, what would be for the best. He'd always wanted to protect Akira. Since they were small, he'd shielded him from the cruelty of their peers, the individuals that would have made him so easily burst into tears. He'd always wanted to and it was something that grew within him even in all the years that they'd spent apart.
So, he doesn't ask why it is Akira would like to with him. He doesn't think about the way his pulse mumbles something like nerves in his ears. He only allows himself to acknowledge the situation they've now found themselves trapped in. He only lets himself think of what it is that could help him, what it is that Akira needs — what is that Ryo can give him. But, the word is already there off his tongue before he can align it. It slips in under the secondary action he takes as he nods, only once. ]
Yes.
[ He lifts his hand against the silence, knowing without knowing where sharper angles of Akira's face would be. His fingers skate briefly across the cut of his jaw as he reaches, pushes back to curl the black of his hair behind the shell of his ear. It's a gesture he's committed before, perhaps, but there's something more thoughtful about it. He lingers there, for the space of a breath or two, before he asks: ]
Is it something you would? [ He can anticipate the answer. No one phrases questions that way without desire to act upon what is requested. Ryo's hand travels back, but doesn't leave. Not really. Instead, the flat of his palm comes to frame his face gently, the calloused meat of his thumb passing aimless and slow across the contour of his cheek. ]