Chapter Text
The jazz club is dim, as always. There is a hushed atmosphere, as always. Akechi surprises him in every movement, as always. The monotony in discovery is a welcomed thing for Akira. He has learned to expect the unexpected.
That is not to say, that he takes it for granted, of course. On the contrary, the first time Akechi’s gloved finger absent-mindedly traces the edge of his glass, he is mesmerized by the motion. It is only the soft lighting that envelops them that saves his flushed face from being discovered immediately. There is an elegance in Akechi that Akira has come to learn is always followed by stiffness. Perhaps a wooden smile, perhaps a too-firm handshake. The grace that was exhibited in that moment was something far more natural. Akechi flicked his wrist in a move to stretch the tendons when he finished, and he was otherwise completely absorbed in listening to the five-man band that was on the stage.
He’s seen Akechi trace crude maps and track the words he’s read on a page. Motions with purpose. His finger is decisive, steady. Akechi does not do absent-minded, he is always focused on one thing or another, even if his focus is not centered on what is currently in front of him. Akechi does not do absent-minded, of course, unless he is in Jazz Jin and allows himself to focus on the music alone. Then, his finger is slow, lead by the shape of the glass rather than the motion of his arm.
There is something within the casual nature of the gesture that makes Akira think of Akechi laid across a loveseat, the same neutral expression he gives any musician starting their set up on his face as he lets a lazy finger traces the edges of Akira’s jaw. It’s a humiliating image for both of them, but the rush of comfort it brings is intoxicating.
So, Akira budgets out a fair amount of his paycheck every two weeks to account for his sudden live jazz addiction.
He’s not quite sure how he’s ended up paying for their tab each visit, but he knows it was a hellish fight for the first few times, and he knows he mildly regrets ever putting up a complaint about splitting the check. He’ll make do. The alternative to not making do would be to not go out with Akechi as much, which is non-negotiable.
He can deal with Morgana’s silent judging every time he mutters and scribbles out how much he’ll have to set aside to keep up with Akechi’s fanciful habit of ordering half the menu.
That is another thing he’s learned. Akechi can be ruthlessly opportunistic. When they had split their checks, Akechi had always rotated through the same three drinks, and mostly relied on stealing bits and pieces off Akira’s plate whenever he thought Akira wasn’t looking.
He hadn’t questioned it at the time, but he came to a quick conclusion once Akechi realized that Akira would be paying every time.
Akechi is an extremely picky eater.
His wallet winces at the memory of all the drinks he’s paid for that Akechi had only taken a sip of.
He had tried once to get his money’s worth. He had thrown pride aside, gave his most charming grin, leaned into Akechi’s side, and asked sweetly, “Could I try your drink?”
Akechi had given him a sweet smile, instantly rendered null by the withering look in his eyes. “It’s called a Mango Fizz, if you’d like to order it next time.” Then, he casually moved his drink to the edge of the table that was farthest away from Akira.
So, he hadn’t tried again. He dealt with Akechi’s curiosity towards the appetizer menu and subsequent disinterest in the actual items. It was its own reward, in a way.
Akechi made split decisions with food. The moment the waiter approaches them, plates in his arm, Akira can let his gaze slide over to the other boy’s face and take in a moment of a genuine reaction.
Sometimes, Akechi’s eyebrows will furrow at the sight. This reaction is always a coin toss. He could absolutely hate it and not even pick at it after the first bite, or he can end up finishing it within ten minutes. There have been multiple occasions where he’ll simply eat or drink half of whatever he ordered and make no real sign about enjoying or detesting it.
Sometimes, Akechi’s nose will scrunch, a quick thing that is missed in the blink of an eye. This is a consistent reaction. Akechi will take one bite, as if trying his hardest to not be judgmental, and then he will refuse to take a second. This is the worst of his reactions, as it leaves Akira’s own mouth salivating and his heart breaking as the food turns from warm and steamy to cold and unwanted. Drinks layered in all the colors of the rainbow turn into a muddled brown. Cold desserts left to melt.
On rare occasions, Akechi will sit a little straighter and lick his lips. Ah, he remembers how he started paying for the both of them now. Akira had ordered himself a plate of dumplings and had unassumingly turned back to Akechi to keep the conversation going when he had seen it. Akechi’s attention was completely off of him. Instead, it was raised up to the steaming plate suspended in the air behind him by the waiter, and his tongue had darted out and back in, and Akira had completely lost himself. His chest nurtured a low flame that threatened to roar at a moment’s notice, and his brain went into autopilot as he recovered. By the time he came to, there was another plate of dumplings on the table, and he had already slammed the necessary bills to cover the whole meal onto the table.
Akechi had, for whatever reason, seemed annoyed at him and allowed him to pay with only a minute’s worth of scathing comments on it.
So, Akira pays for their Jazz Jin trips and Akechi surprises him in turns. They’re almost halfway through the menu, and he’s idly wondering if something will be delicious or disgusting enough to make Akechi lose his composure more than these initial reactions.
Perhaps, he should look beyond his face? He’s pulled back into the present. Akechi is ignoring him, like he often does, in favor of paying attention only to the music. It’s a singer that comes at least once a month, though usually more.
She’s in the middle of a song that only sounds vaguely familiar to Akira, but he can tell instantly that Akechi recognizes it. There’s no signal of it in his face, in his posture, but Akira’s gaze flick down to his drink, and there! Akechi’s left hand is wrapped around his drink, but his index finger is tapping out the rhythm of the song against the glass. It is the closest Akira has seen him get to cheering a musician on.
Yes, Akechi may have learned to school his expression, to limit his body language, but restlessness must go somewhere, and the extremities are a convenient outlet.
There’s something unbearably comforting in the neutrality of Akechi in Jazz Jin. He is not actively trying to shower Akira in politeness and charm like he often does in public, nor is there a glint of ferocity in him like there often is whenever they play against each other. He simply is. An existence so steady and secure that it settles Akira in kind. Little glimpses, not of something hiding beneath the surface, but coming into view from a curtained window.
Akira takes a sip of his drink to cool himself down. Jazz Jin is worth the expense, he tells the much more rational part of his brain that still has doubts. He does not want to part with this.