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Red was the color of boredom.
Iwai was sure that most people thought of grey when they imagined monotony, but for him grey provided solace. It was the polished cement floors of his shop, the color of his favorite hat, and the one that reminded him most of the cigarettes he'd given up years ago.
Red was the color of the bag of cherry lollipops he was forced to buy when his preferred variety pack ran out at the convenience store. It stood for the same flavor hour after hour. Red was the color of tiny, fiddly little sales tags that took hours to stick on to the dusty, forgotten model kits on the back shelves. Red was the color of Kaoru's math book full of homework assignments he could no longer help with, the color of the forgotten and unpaid phone bill, and the color of the broken toaster he kept forgetting to replace and growled at any time he pulled bread from the bag prematurely.
Tiny, boring needles in his everyday life always seemed to be red. Perhaps that was what made him feel on edge the day Akira walked into his shop.
The sky outside was bloody with heavy sunset, and he wore a ridiculous outfit: plaid uniform pants with a matching uniform blazer rolled to his elbows over a graphic tee, and on his hands were offensively bright gloves. His shoes were equally crimson. As he strolled to the counter with quiet and mannerly interest, Iwai scowled to realize that even the headphones around his neck had red detailing.
"Lookin' for something?" he grumbled, not even bothering to stand up. He'd had a shit day, and a couple of teenagers fucking around in his shop wasn't going to make it any better.
It was surprising that the blond did all the talking. The kid was a right shit too. Iwai felt his patience grow thin around such a boisterous attitude, but the whole while his dark haired and red wearing companion was quiet and silently observant. He stood with his hands in his pockets most of the time unless he was reaching out to touch a model curiously.
Iwai watched him like a hawk, not needing any shoplifting to worsen his day. The boy never stole, but Iwai still found himself watching his hands. Crimson leather fingertips moved with all of the grace of a bird's wings, flashing and tantalizing in their bright color like a mating dance.
Despite a vague and too subtle jolt of lust low in his stomach, his only thought was "he'd be good with models".
Perhaps that was why, when this blaring red warning sign asked if there were any job openings, Iwai's mouth ran ahead of his brain and replied 'yes'.
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On Akira's third day on the job, a fragrant rose was thrust under his nose in greeting. Iwai jerked back with a scowl, but the scent clung fresh and floral to his senses. The boy's smirk in his direction somehow clung even tighter in his mind.
"What's this about? I don't like flowers," he bit out, wrinkling his nose at the offensive and beautiful blossom before he turned his glare up to Akira himself who looked unbothered entirely. Iwai couldn't pin the kid down. Nothing he said ever seemed to faze him. He was calm and unruffled, staring out at the world with big eyes hidden behind ugly glasses.
It was like he was trying to hide his face even while he wore the flashiest fashion. He was a study in opposites that Iwai just didn't have the patience to unravel. He was like a jumble of knots, and Iwai's hands were made for guns and glue and sandpaper. Tangles were too much work and no pay off.
Akira walked around the counter, putting the rose down by his laptop and starting to root around for the cleaning supplies. "I also work at a flower shop in the underground mall. Roses are my favorite and she let me keep one. Thought you might like to smell the roses," he teased in a conversational tone, smirking as he finally found the glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels to get to work on his display cabinets.
The scent of glass cleaner was sharp and inviting, but Iwai could still smell the rose that sat not a foot away from him, its velvety petals brushing glass and lit from beneath by the fluorescent lights like it was trying to create a spectacle in silence.
Red. Eugh. Flowers made his allergies flare up, causing his eyes to burn and sting with discomfort. Just another red needle of boring and mundane irritation.
When Akira left for the night he left the rose on the counter. Whether it was simple forgetfulness or on purpose Iwai would never know, but he was carrying the flower to the trash can when he paused, remembering that Akira had said they were his favorite.
It was the only excuse he could think of for why he took it home with him to die on his nightstand instead of in his shop. It made him wake up with puffy eyes and a sore throat for several days until it finally wilted down to crumbly leaves that broke apart into unattached petals in his drawer.
There was some kind of metaphor there, he was sure. Frivolous, vaguely irritating beauty next to the utilitarian cold metal of his gun and the mind numbing dullness of a long forgotten grocery list.
Akira was more than a young new hire with stupid red gloves. Iwai just wasn't sure what yet.
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Time marched on and Iwai still could not put his finger on what exactly Akira was. Upon first greeting he had expected a loud mouth and a show off, which he definitely wasn't. Nor was he demure, unintelligent, or disrespectful.
Akira turned out to be very smart and very clever. He read a room and quietly walked whatever line he needed. He smirked and played around, but always in a subdued manner that kept any kind of offense at bay. He took to decision making and responsibility like a moth to a flame. Nothing made him change or pause, and nothing kept him from doing the right thing.
And despite all of that, Iwai was beginning to learn that Akira was a stupidly foolish risk taker.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Iwai called out, moving to his feet when Akira rushed into the shop and slammed the door behind him. He was dressed all in black save for his dumb red gloves, and his chest was rising and falling fast with fear. On the ground next to his feet was a package that looked hastily wrapped and covered in a faint sheen of moisture from the drizzle outside.
"I need your help."
His voice was confident even when he was obviously scared. He'd seen that look so many times before, and sometimes it had been while looking in the mirror. A million thoughts flashed through his mind. Could it be drugs? Loan sharks? Were his old employers shaking him down for information on him?
Instead of ask any of those questions, Iwai got to his feet and rounded the counter, going up to the still shaking teenager to reach around his body, flip his open sign to ‘closed’, and lock the door.
"You're drippin' on the floor. Follow me," Iwai grumbled, stomping to the back where he emerged from his tiny office with a towel and a bottle of water. "Here. Sit. Tell me what the fuck you need my help with."
Akira looked grateful for the towel, taking it and scrubbing roughly at his hair. "I might have stolen a painting from an art gallery and need somewhere to keep it that the authorities wouldn't think to look."
The silence between them buzzed with different emotions. Shock. Outrage. Concern. Exasperation.
Intrigue. Admiration. Respect.
Lust.
The last one made Iwai awkwardly shift on the metal folding chair, crossing a leg to keep his interest unnoticed while he patiently handed over the water.
"And why the fuck did you feel compelled to steal a painting? And how did you even manage that?"
Akira looked around the shop as if expecting to see police flooding in. Iwai looked around himself before the younger man spoke again. "It's kind of a long story and I'm worried about just walking the streets with it. Especially in the rain. Can you take me somewhere? I'm starving and I hurt my ankle while I was running here."
What a fucking mess. Iwai felt irritation bubble up inside of him, red and blaringly hot, but strangely not the dull pins and needles feeling he was used to. This situation was not boring. It felt like his old life, and his heart was already beginning to pound in his chest.
It was far too easy to look into those dark eyes (where were his glasses?) and nod his head. "Fine. C'mon. We'll go to my place."
Iwai led him out to his car parked nearby. They put the painting in the trunk, and Iwai began the drive to his apartment. The rain beaded up along the windows, every traffic light throwing them into a cascade of color that made them look like gemstones. Akira looked particularly good under the red of stop lights.
The silence between them was awkward and somehow familiar. Akira stared out the window mostly, hissing any time he shifted his hurt leg. It was at a particularly long stop in the red glow that Akira spoke to him again.
"The painting doesn't actually belong to the man whose name it was under. The artist lied. He's a hack who stole it from the mother of a friend of mine. It's priceless and beautiful, but more than even that, it belongs to my friend. It's the last part of his deceased mother. So I stole it back for him."
His words were so nonchalant that Iwai wanted to shake him. How could he so blankly say that he stole a painting? If it was as priceless as he described, then that gallery was likely full of alarms and had a security guard. The kid was only seventeen!
More than that...he made no mention of money. There was no reward. He had stolen this painting while on probation because it would have meant a lot to his friend. Not to Akira. There was nothing Akira got out of this scenario besides a hurt ankle and possible termination from his job for asking his boss to be complicit in a major crime.
Iwai opened his mouth to respond, but when nothing but a heavy sigh left him, he rubbed at his stubbled face. This whole situation made him feel impossibly old next to the spitfire seated next to him.
But it felt fucking nice to be involved in this sort of thing again.
"First thing’s first. That painting is goin' into the storage facility for the store. Second, you're comin' to my place so I can feed you and look at that ankle. Third, you're goin' to tell me exactly how you managed to pull this off. Are we clear?"
Beside him, Akira's red washed face slid into a dark edged little smirk, and he glanced towards him out of the corner of his eyes.
"Perfectly."
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As it turned out, Akira had stolen the painting in a rather old school, almost cartoonish fashion. He explained having a friend take down their security system, which had allowed him to sneak in through a skylight, nick the painting, then climb back out. No alarms went off, and no security guards were even aware he was in and out.
"Fuck, that was impressive," Iwai commented for what felt like the third time. They sat at his miniscule dining table with cheap takeout between them. The painting was safely in his storage unit, and Akira's ankle was at least wrapped tightly. He’d given him pain meds along with dinner, and Kaoru was rather serendipitously away for a school trip, leaving them both alone.
The tv buzzed in the background telegraphing the news, but no stories about an art museum had yet flashed over the screen. Not that they were paying much attention any more. Iwai had pulled a bottle of alcohol from his cabinet and even offered some to Akira.
While he was feeling pleasantly warm and underwater, Akira looked loose and dreamy. His arms sprawled along the table as he spoke, when he wasn't constantly running his fingers through his hair. His wet clothes were gone and he wore nothing more than a pair of Iwai's own sweatpants.
It was a mistake, he realized now.
Because now he was grinning in a glazed over fashion at the same person who had made him hot and bothered earlier, who was now closer to naked and smiling back at him. This wasn't his catty smirk or his reserved smile. This was a glowing and affectionate thing that made his insides claw viciously for escape. For a taste.
"I can be impressive sometimes," Akira tossed back, the corners of his lips quirking sexily and causing his eyes to go darker and glittering like a lake in the dark.
That look sent heat rushing through his stomach, and Iwai swallowed the remains of his drink just to add more fire to his flushed body. "I'm beginnin' to see that."
The younger man shifted then, pushing his bowl away and getting to a stand on his good foot. The harsh lighting of his kitchen tossed him in faintly greenish fluorescent light, highlighting muscles and sending the rest into stark shadow. It made him look all the more enticing and sinister, but Iwai's body did not seem to care.
It couldn't be him who pushed his chair back with a faint scrape and swiveled his body to an almost welcoming angle. It had to be a stranger who reached up to wrap a strong, tattooed arm around Akira's waist and pull him forward to his lap.
There was no denying that Akira was the one to kiss first...but it was absolutely himself who kissed him back, Akira's last words ringing in his ears.
"You could use some excitement in your life."
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Being with Akira, it turned out, was like signing a waiver that declared you were willing to give up your comfort zone entirely. Gone were his days of waking up and mentally preparing a to-do list that was typically nothing more than paying bills, picking up things at the store, and being sure to make it to the gym.
Now he received calls at the same time his alarm sounded asking him if he'd be willing to buy electronic equipment for him and his hacker so they wouldn't be seen buying it. On his lunch breaks at work, he might receive texts in code asking him to provide an alibi if necessary. He'd held so much evidence in his storage locker he'd be dead if it was ever searched.
A life he had given up years ago had somehow crept back into his routine, but this time it was chaotic and strange and absolutely intoxicating. Akira was not like the Yakuza. He did not commit crime for personal gain or fear. He stole to give back. He snuck in to sabotage for the sake of those too weak to do it themselves. He snuck around looking for evidence to make sure he was doing the right thing at all times.
Akira was different.
He was a punk, but one that Iwai wished he could be like. It felt strange to measure himself up against someone younger than him, who had not yet seen as much of the world as he had, but the truth was that Akira had been given a shitty hand in life and had somehow used it to make the world a better place.
Even if he did wear stupid red gloves.
Iwai sighed in faint amusement as he locked up his storage room. Another night, another stolen priceless possession. This time he was storing a personal laptop that was full of questionable information and spreadsheets from a business mogul. Akira had already assured him that he and his tech friend had copied everything off of it, and now the laptop was safe for the future if necessary.
He swung his key ring around his finger and made his way back to the car. In the passenger seat sat Akira looking too young despite now being almost twenty. His face had thinned a little and he no longer wore his dorky glasses.
His penchant for flashy red clothes had still stuck though. He sat in a red plaid blazer over a v-neck, but even Iwai could admit the color looked good on him.
Iwai climbed into the car, leaning over to kiss him none too delicately, and when he pulled away he couldn't help but flick the collar of his blazer pointedly. "I don't know why I put up with you. Over here coverin' your ass when I could be a good law-abidin' citizen."
Grey may be the color most people associated with things and feelings that were dull and lifeless, but as Akira looked up from his phone screen, his grey eyes flashed and fluttered with promise. Promise of adventure, excitement, and danger.
A promise that the slow burning warmth growing in his chest would only grow more intense with each passing day until it consumed him.
"Don't lie," Akira crooned. His smirk was cheeky and beautiful and begging to be kissed off. "You would be so bored without me."