#akimitsu

It may be boilerplate social script, but it feels wonderful to say all the same. It feels wonderful to mean it.

Mitsuru nods slowly. She may not quite understand the how or why of the connection that Iori had fostered with Chidori, but in the end, whether she understands their relationship is entirely immaterial. Chidori had meant something to Iori– still means something– and Mitsuru knows all too well just how heavy the burden of grief can weigh.

She hates that there is so little she can do to lighten it for him. There is trust between herself and Iori as teammates, but she can’t honestly say that they’re close by any other metric. She can offer her sympathy, but how much comfort could he truly take from it?

The best she can do is what she’s already been doing: ensuring that Chidori’s affairs are well tended to.

Mitsuru smiles, both at the mental image and the prospect of Shinjiro’s cooking. She hadn’t had the time to eat a proper meal today. Shinjiro had almost certainly predicted as much– if he’d been awake, she imagines he would have a lecture prepared for her about it.

Akihiko releases her hand just long enough for her to remove her gloves, then takes hold of it again as the two of them make their way to the kitchen, careful not to wake Shinjiro in their haste.

Just as promised, the covered dish in the refrigerator is labeled ‘Mitsuru.’

Something warm and tender unfurls behind her ribs at the sight– her given name written out in Shinjiro’s spare, utilitarian hand.

She places the dish in the microwave and sets the timer, letting its quiet drone wash over her as she toys idly with the slip of paper with her name on it.

“Mitsuru?”

The sound of Akihiko’s voice leaves her just shy of startled. He peers at her curiously, the barest edge of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You had this look, just now,” he continues softly. “What’s on your mind?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really.” She hadn’t realized she’d been wearing her heart quite so openly on her sleeve. Then again, Akihiko is better at reading her than most. Mitsuru wonders just what sort of face she had been making, and hopes that it was nothing too embarrassing.

Although... if Akihiko is the only witness to her sentimentality, perhaps she doesn’t truly have anything to be embarrassed about.

“I suppose I’m not entirely used to sharing this… informality with Shinjiro quite yet. It’s still a pleasant surprise every time, and it–” Her gaze drifts down to the paper, tracing along the tidy lines of each character. “It simply means a great deal to me.”

When Mitsuru glances back up, Akihiko is looking at her with the same expression he’d worn last night, just before he’d taken her hands and then taken her into his arms.

“Mitsuru, I–”

He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. Mitsuru waits patiently for him to get his thoughts and words together. He does not.

“What’s on your mind, Akihiko?” She echoes gently.

“I just– I wanted, um– I was wondering–” He bites his lip as though to forcibly stop himself from speaking, draws in a measured breath that he lets out just as carefully before he starts again. “Can I kiss you?”

Oh.

She doesn’t quite manage to hide her surprise, she can tell. Truth be told, Mitsuru wasn’t expecting him to ask, though perhaps she should have. It is something that people in relationships do, after all. And it’s hardly as though she hasn’t thought about it, herself.

“I’ve just been, you know, wanting to– to try again. Get it right this time.”

Mitsuru wills away the hazy memory of what transpired in that hotel room back in July.  There’s no need to dwell on it anymore.

Besides, it’s incredibly endearing that Akihiko would ask at all. Perhaps she would even go so far as to call it adorable. Some wicked part of her contemplates telling him as much out loud just to see how brightly he would blush, but she refrains. If he were to lose his nerve, Mitsuru surely would as well.

“Sorry for bringing that up out of nowhere. Maybe I shouldn’t have–”

“I would like that,” she says, stepping forward. Akihiko blinks at her, as though he’d somehow not anticipated her assent. Even in the dim light she can see the color blooming prettily across the bridge of his nose. She takes another step, into the halo of warmth radiating from his body, and tips her face up.

The crease between his eyes deepens and he swallows. Mitsuru takes careful note of every subtlety in this action: the flex of his jaw and the brief tension that draws across his mouth, the way his Adam’s apple bobs along his throat.

“O-okay.” She’s never seen Akihiko at such a loss for words, and an impish sort of pride swells in her chest. She is the one who’s made him this way. Adorable, she thinks again, affectionate and gleeful in equal measure.

He holds her gently by the shoulders, takes another deep breath to steel his nerves, and leans down to close the distance between them.

Akihiko kisses her so, so sweetly.

So sweetly, but so cautiously, like he’s worried she’ll take offense, or worse– that she might turn out to be fragile and break under his hands.

So with enormous effort she draws back, and doesn’t allow the bereft look on his face to send her diving back in the instant she sees it.

“I’m not made of porcelain, Akihiko,” she says sternly, holding his gaze.

He blinks once and then his forlorn expression lifts. His smile is less a flash of teeth than a wrinkle at the corners of his eyes, and he lets out a laugh so quiet that it’s mostly just a held breath let loose. He presses his forehead gently against hers. Mitsuru could count his pale eyelashes, if she wanted to– assuming she could focus on numbers at all at the moment, of course.

“My mistake.” His voice is soft. The pad of his thumb rubs an arc under her right eye, just as soft despite the callouses. “Can I– Can I try again?”

“Please,” Mitsuru breathes.

Akihiko’s hand slides into her hair to cup the base of her skull as he slants his mouth over hers once more.

It’s still so sweet, and now so heavy as well– it seems to weigh her movement down as she skims her hands up his arms to find purchase on his shoulders. He kisses her slowly, the pace he sets almost brutally languid. He moves with a patience that she would find astonishing if she had the spare brainpower– ‘patient’ and ‘languid’ aren’t normally words that Akihiko brings to mind.

He raises his other hand to the corner of her jaw, fingers curling to press into her nape, thumb brushing her earlobe. He exhales, the sigh washing warm over her cheek. When the kiss breaks, Mitsuru can feel his lips trembling minutely.

“Better?” He sounds winded and blurry, like he’s taken a hard hit in the ring, or a Holy Arrow in Tartarus.

“Akihiko–” There’s barely enough space between their mouths for his name to fit. He swallows hard and the sound is loud in her ears. She swears she can see his pupils, already wide, expand by a fraction.

They’re already kissing again, drawn together as though by gravity. Akihiko is just as tender as before, just as reverent, but some of the unexpected patience is gone. In its place is an edge of restlessness that makes her skin feel shimmery and charged, like she’s awash in static. The hair on her arms prickles and stands up.

It’s strange to experience that particular sensation as pleasurable, but the oddity is distant and amusing, and more than anything: unimportant. Nothing is of any concern to Mitsuru in this moment except for the ebb and pull of Akihiko’s mouth with hers.

One of his hands drops, the first two knuckles skimming along the line of her pulse. It draws a sound out of her throat, small and bright, a single bubble rising through a flute of champagne.

Quiet as it is, the effect on Akihiko is significant. He shudders under her hands and his voice stumbles over something she’d almost call a whimper. The hand that had teased the sound free to start with cradles the back of her neck and pulls her closer, into an angle that gently plies her lips apart.

Something ghosts heat along the inner edge of her bottom lip and she thinks it might be his tongue, and the feeling and the very idea sing sweetly along her nerves.

The microwave timer chirps and Akihiko pulls back with a short, sharp gasp.

“– I, ah–” He swallows. “I’m sorry– I–” He swallows again, apparently still not composed enough.

Mitsuru has never seen his face so flushed, not from any intense workout or Tartarus run. Only two times spring to mind that even come close: under the siren charm of a Shadow or faced with Mochizuki’s starry-eyed assumptions.

“Akihiko,” she murmurs. It seems to help him settle. He swallows one more time, for surety’s sake.

“I got a bit carried away,” he sighs. “I just–” His brow is furrowed slightly and his eyelids hang low and heavy over his gaze. “Mitsuru…”

The way he says her name carries bewilderment and captivation and warmth all at once. It turns a slow flip under her ribs, diffuses into a summery glow throughout her body.

He smooths his palm over the back of her head and she takes it for an idle caress at first. Then he combs his fingers through the same place, careful and deliberate, and she realizes that he’s fixing her hair– coaxing the curls back into order where his hands had mussed it.

Affection surges high in her chest and it takes every shred of self-discipline not to lock him into another kiss, and to keep going this time until she’s short-circuited them both.

“What brought this on?” She asks instead, leaning into his hand.

“Ah, well, I– You–” He clears his throat faintly. “When you talked about Shinji calling you Mitsuru now, it was just– You were–” He leans forward and delicately rests his forehead on hers again. “It was… cute,” he mumbles at last. His blush, which had begun to fade slightly, darkens again.

“Oh?” Mitsuru breathes. Akihiko squeezes his eyes shut and responds only with an inarticulate grumble. She feels giddy, so buoyant that Akihiko’s hold on her may well be the only thing preventing her from simply floating right out of her shoes.

The microwave trills again, cut off midway through as the Dark Hour descends. Only now do they release each other, but not before Akihiko bobs his head, gently brushing the tip of his nose against hers.