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The hasty coldness of the wind grazing against his bare arms gives him a small shudder as his body adjusts to the betrayal of the early September weather. His closet is brimming with options well equipped for overbearing summer suns or cold and lonely winters, but the days of hypocritical weather like this do quite drive him insane.
To put on a fine wool coat would mean inviting any competitors to sing passive aggressive chides behind freshly face-lifted lips, which above all else is truly the reason he does most things. Not that he can’t deal with a few snide remarks, nor has his ego ever taken a beating from pointless gossip, but it’s been ingrained in him for too long to be the pinnacle of perfection. Better to be perfect first and leave room for no mistakes to ever be made.
Yet, it hasn’t stopped him from pursing his lips and glaring at the invisible ribbons of wind dancing across his skin. How annoying of the Earth to cause an insignificant nuisance to his day- does it not know who he is? So, on those days of random chills, still he finds himself craving something as light and light as the ‘hoodies’ the common folk wear. Cheap fabric like that surely is enough to keep his pale skin protected without suffocating him like a blanket.
Today too the wind is fickle: ceaseless one moment then cranky the next, begging for him to shiver and rub his arms. Akashi wishes that the reason he forgoes any wishings of a coat against the stubborn weather were because of perfected ideals ingrained in him, because it would be better to be stuck in the past rather than whatever this new ache in his chest is.
It’s been thirteen days and nine hours since his lonely skin received what he thinks was almost a hug, and for thirteen days and eight hours, he has tried any means to simulate again what it felt like to be in someone’s arms.
Pathetic as it may be, the wind was the best candidate so far. She kisses him openly and suddenly enough that most times he can shiver just like he did when the arms of another wrapped around him.
He has never been one for self-degradation, yet such thoughts do nag at his supposedly perfect mind. Loneliness- it should very well be scolded out of him considering the months following his mother’s death where he saw his workload increase to levels capable of faltering an adults’ mental stamina, and his father’s expectations for his child to drown his mourning in becoming the perfect heir. There is no time for typical mundane troubles like longing, daydreaming, yearning .
Akashi should be stronger than this, able to deflect sappiness from flowering his mind like an overgrown ivy. His brain is too full already. He’s got college entrance exams to prepare for, his father’s ever increasing demands, his duties as class president, leading his team to victory, and maybe if he’s wistful enough at 3am he’ll don the violin to play a song or two to slow himself down enough to sleep. Ivies are stupidly comforting though, and another breeze skirting by him raises the hairs on his arms.
Thirteen days since Kuroko’s faux hug.
It had been an attempt to showcase a refined version of his vanishing drive, one he wished to have worked against an emperor eye- a foolish thought, but being around Kuroko squeezes Akashi’s chest like the caffeine pulsing through him when it’s 5am and he’s sipping coffee to try and finish one more assignment, so he obliges. Kuroko said he could move however he wished, since going easy on him would negate the purpose of refinement. He took a proper defensive stance then, eyes zeroing in on the other boy, pupils shifting from muscle tensions and finger movements, even to the pace of his breathing (though he’s not sure why that rhythm of air passing through lungs is so damn distracting this time when he’s done the same with against hundreds of opponents).
Kuroko had improved exponentially, surpassing his expectations each step of the way with unrelenting courage and determination, but he was still Kuroko- not an ounce of technical basketball talent in his body. It’s still surprising when the boy trips over his own feet and the only thing stopping a full on collision into Akashi and sending them both to the ground is the basketball shoved into his gut and Kuroko’s arms fumbling around him.
Neither one of them is holding the ball, not with their hands, but being pressed so close together keeps it stuck between them. Akashi’s a point guard, it should have been first instinct to grab the ball- more than instinct, it should be a muscle memory born from relentless practice- not for his fingers to clutch at Kuroko’s arms and hold him upright.
In the moment, he figured the rush that pushed his quick reaction was nothing more than a combination of his natural reflexes and losing his lack of regard for people’s wellbeing when they weren’t his koma . He now knows, upon his therapeutic introspection sessions with his counselor, the September breeze pulling in autumn, that it was more than likely, a disgustingly high percentage chance, that he had affection for Kuroko.
The wind dashes past him, a force that congratulates him on this big accomplishment of acknowledging feelings. Vulnerabilities. Perhaps even more than acknowledging, because maybe standing out in early mornings with bare arms too sensitive for this chill is acceptance- or grief depending on who you asked, but if you ask the young heir, it leans towards something more… positive, he supposes.
Positive enough to pull out his phone, dial Kuroko’s number, and explain his recent discovery?
Akashi’s aren’t losers, or failures, or cowards. But, well, if he’s just a bit more busy these few days and can’t manage to squeeze that call into his overworked schedule, then that’s between him and the wind.
Confidentiality between clients and all that.