space۶ৎ

ten months ago in the late evening of february, cool breeze stifling on the small platform that was your balcony where aki stood with frigid hands and a flickering lighter, you had told him that he was allowed to smoke inside.

it's cold, you had said. I don't mind. just try not to set my smoke alarm off.

looking back, you ponder the matter of whether your lie—the mere withholding of truth, really—had been clear to him or not. of course, your claims of care for his comfort had been legitimate on some level. however, something about the way he quirked a brow had shook you enough to consider he had you picked apart more than you anticipated, even for him; perhaps he could tell you just liked watching him.

perhaps he could see the way the line of his jaw had been traced by the stylus of your pupils so many times that permanent marks were left in their wake. perhaps he peeled back the layers on your every word until he found the very core of every letter, carefully constructed over a solid layer of want simmering on your tongue. perhaps he just… knew.

every bit of your pride was dismantled by a single look, or rather, the words that accompanied it. it was vague; could have meant anything. you knew better than to convince yourself of ignorance. he was sat on your couch again, as he always seemed to find himself (stupid man, he thought, so wrapped up in the red string that seemed to bind you). the lights were dim, the lamp in the corner and the wisps of moonlight your only illumination. the passing cars on the streets were the only sound aside from the draw of an inhale. as he lit his cigarette and took the first drag, deep and stinging in his lungs, he looked at you and simply said, "spit it out."

you nearly flinched. "pardon?"

the look on his face was utterly unimpressed. "you have that look."

"what look?"

he knew you too well to be convinced even slightly by your facade of naivite. all of the studying of your every twitch and breath over coffee outings and the late nights—the ones where he would never admit he needed to speak to you before bed lest he have nightmares—and as he lit a cigarette, hoping to see that you still saw something worth watching in him after everything, was worth something. it was worth seeing you in your entirety, lies and all. "the look that says you have something on the tip of your tongue that you aren't exposing."

you just barely bit back your smirk at that. his bluntness, shocking as it may be to untrained ears, had a certain sort of endearing sense to it. there was a moment of hesitation; an am I really about to say this? shall I make a fool of myself this once?

ultimately, you commited to the act of risking your dignity before him once again. the risk factor was actually quite low. if he turned you away, he would simply assume jest in your words and the world would spin on. should he actually agree (and that was rather unlikely to occur), you would be left satisfied both in craving and in pride. a win-win.

"…you should try shotgunning me."

he blinked. opened his mouth and then, as if still at a loss, shut it once again. a noise left his throat that seemed to be the startings of a word before that, too, was lost in the abyss of shock that seemed to be encompassing him from wide eyes to pink cheeks. the series of subtle actions was almost like sputtering, which for aki hayakawa, was equivalent to putting the back of his hand to his forehead and fainting right there in your living room.

"what?"

you responded with a look that expressed how averse you were to repeating yourself.

he composed himself (if only a little), taking a breath before saying, "…are you fucking with me?"

"no."

another beat of silence. then, shockingly, staggeringly, "come here, then."

you swore that your brain turned to mush as soon as the words rolled off his tongue. though you would not have made the suggestion if you did not see a slim chance that he would concur, the blatant and rather easy assent still caught you off guard. nevertheless, you shifted closer—knee to his thigh where yours was tucked up, shoulders brushing. he leaned closer.

"you're serious?" he asked again, seeking reassurance, though he would lose every fingernail in their beds before admitting to it. always needing it when it came to you (he hated it). when you nodded, he let out a slow exhale and pulled back minutely to take a drag, nicotine seeping into his lungs. then he was leaning closer, eyes lidded and dark; it was more apparent with every centimetre of the distance between you he closed. your lips parted like second nature, lashes fluttering. he slowly exhaled the smoke into your mouth. if you had not known better, you would have thought he was drawing it out to savour having you this close (he was). if you had not known better, you would have thought he wanted to kiss you just then (he did).

the taste of cigarette smoke met your senses, bitter and raw. then, aki's lips. he tasted much better, you thought; the smoke lingered on his tongue but mixed delightfully with the flavour of mint and some other undertone that was undeniably him, even in its lack of name.

he was pulling back before you could fully embrace the feeling of his lips. his eyes flicked away, ears suddenly red. "fuck, sorry, I-"

you were kissing him again before he could finish the apology. for a moment, you could have sworn he smiled into it. nothing much, just a small curve of the mouth, but it spoke large volumes when coming from the likes of him.

perhaps you had lied to aki about why you wanted him to smoke inside—about how you really just wanted him. however, it seemed that what goes around truly seemed to come around.

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