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The summer heat is oppressive in the muggy air of Leblanc’s attic. Even with the window open, the end of July fills the space and makes Akira’s limbs heavy with lethargy. It’s honestly a mystery that anyone cares to invite themselves over, but Akira certainly won’t complain. He had fun spending time with Yusuke yesterday, and it’s convenient, at least, to not have to leave his home. Still, the humidity leaves an unpleasant stickiness on Akira’s skin that he would really rather do without.
Watching a bead of sweat slide down the length of Ryuji’s neck, though, proves it isn’t all for naught.
Akira’s been blatantly ogling him for the better part of the day. It’s a big part of why Morgana left as early as he did with no shortage of snarky comments about Akira’s taste, but he can’t bring himself to mind much, not when Ryuji’s been chatting idly despite the heat. It’s nice—they’ve hardly had time to hang out lately, what with Ryuji’s ongoing investigation into Yamauchi and their trek through Futaba’s palace. To be able to sit around reading comics is a luxury Akira had taken for granted until it was sparse. It’s a mistake he doesn’t intend to make again.
And Ryuji in the summer is like a flower in the sun. He’s clearly in his natural element, with the enticingly tan skin of his bare arms on display in his tank tops and the carefree way he smiles when he doesn’t have to worry about schoolwork. It’s electrifying just to witness.
Right now, he’s totally enraptured in what he’s reading. Every few minutes, he crows out his excitement, gasping or shouting or cheering on whatever characters are mid-fight. It’s totally distracting from Akira’s own comic, but he certainly can’t complain. There’s a warm fondness glowing in his chest as he watches Ryuji out of the corner of his eye so that he’s not entirely obvious about it. Endearment flows through him at the way the sun catches on the ends of his hair when he rolls his neck and shoulders with a low hum.
He’s so cute. Akira might just die.
“Whoa!” Ryuji exclaims, breaking Akira out of his embarrassing reverie. He pushes his comic away from himself with wide eyes, holding it open as if whatever’s on the page might jump out at him. “Dude, check out this fight! Is that gnarly or what?”
He turns the book to Akira and shoves it into his face, too close to actually read. Akira shakes his head in fond amusement and pushes it away, just far enough for the words to turn into characters rather than half-focused blobs. Ryuji grins deviously and presses it back into Akira’s face, close enough for it to bump up against the bottom of his nose. He's leaning so far into Akira's space that he'd practically be on top of him, were he not on the floor and Akira on his desk chair. Still, Akira has to lean far forward to retaliate, and from there it only takes a few more playful shoves back and forth for him to lose balance and topple over.
He lands with a heavy thud on top of Ryuji. Before he can even think to offer an apology, Ryuji cackles loudly right in his ear and pushes at him until they’re properly half-wrestling on Akira’s floor. A dangerous surge of affection floods through him as they push and pull at each other.
A pointed cough from the stairs freezes Akira in place, and he slaps at Ryuji’s arm until he stops moving, too. Ryuji’s got him in a headlock and has his good leg hooked over one of Akira’s, but he stills after a moment as he catches onto Akira’s intent. Only then does Akira look over to Sojiro standing at the top of the steps, looking entirely unimpressed.
“Keep it down up here, you two,” he scolds. “I have customers, you know. If you’re going to cause a ruckus, take it outside.”
“Sorry, Boss,” Ryuji says, but he doesn’t let Akira go. Akira just nods as much as the arm around his neck will allow and offers a thumbs up. Sojiro rolls his eyes with a put-out huff, but he heads back downstairs, so he must not care too much.
“Busted,” Akira croaks, just to be dramatic. The grip Ryuji has on him is definitely not tight enough to warrant it, but he can play it up for sympathy points. Ryuji got him in trouble.
Evidently, it doesn't work, because Ryuji just snorts. He uses his free arm to drag his knuckles against Akira’s scalp just this side of too hard, and Akira lets out an undignified yelp. Ryuji lets him go, and when Akira turns around to exact his revenge, he lifts his hands placatingly.
“Hey, you heard what he said. I’m done,” he says with a shiteating grin. Akira punches him on the shoulder without any real effort, and Ryuji just laughs, loud and light with joy. Ugh, Akira likes him so much. It’s ridiculous.
With a dramatic groan, Akira flops back onto the floor. Ryuji pokes at him where his shirt has ridden up, right in that tender spot between his ribs and his hip. Akira makes a pathetic noise he’s not proud of, but it earns another laugh from Ryuji, so it’s not that bad.
“Aw, c’mon. It’s not that bad. He didn’t even seem really mad,” Ryuji assures. He punctuates it with another jab, which is just rude. Akira doesn’t dignify it with a response other than another groan.
The worst part is that Ryuji is being, objectively, pretty annoying. He should be annoyed. He shouldn’t be so fond that he feels each heavy beat of his heart thumping in his chest, just barely suppressing the heat threatening to crawl its way up to his cheeks. But Ryuji’s smile is wide and infectious, and his eyes are light with an easy happiness, and Akira is melting beneath his gaze.
Forget what he said about the flowers. Ryuji is the sun itself, and Akira’s just here to soak up as much of his warmth as he can.
…God, that’s cheesy. Having a crush is stupid. Akira is stupid. It’s not like it’s his fault, though. It would be impossible to ignore Ryuji’s ridiculously charming… everything.
Akira scrubs his hands over his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair. It’ll smudge the lenses terribly, but it’s just the right amount of dramaticism he’s feeling right now.
When he pulls his hands away from his face, Ryuji is leaning curiously over him. His eyebrows are furrowed like he’s not sure whether he should be concerned or not, and he’s just close enough for Akira’s heart rate to pick up. All he can do is look up at Ryuji, raw and too open without his glasses.
“Hey, man, you okay? I really don’t think he cared, but I guess I can go apologize if you’re stressed about it. I started it, sort of, so…” Ryuji trails off. His expression melts into a guilty pout, and it’s just— it’s too much. Akira is a weak, weak man.
He just shakes his head no. Ryuji’s right—Akira’s seen Sojiro actually mad, and that was annoyance more than anything. It’s not even about that. It’s the way Ryuji’s looking at him, earnest and open as he tries to fix something that’s not even his fault just because he sees that Akira seems upset. He’s so good, right down to his core. Akira could scream.
“Then, uh, what’s up? ‘Cause your face is doing something all funny and it’s kinda weird. You’re usually all…”
Ryuji straightens his expression into something exaggeratedly neutral, and Akira whacks at the arm closest to him. He lands it right in his elbow, and Ryuji buckles, dropping to his forearm with a surprised huff. It brings their faces even closer together, and when Ryuji beams at him, there’s absolutely nothing Akira can do to keep the blush from his face. Hopefully Ryuji just thinks it’s from the heat.
“Hey, that was pretty good! Looks like our training is working out for you, huh? Here,” Ryuji says, and then he lifts the arm that still had its hand planted to flex, because he must have it out for Akira. “Show me your muscles! They’ve gotta be there, right? Gimme your best flex, dude!”
Halfheartedly, Akira lifts his arm from the ground and flexes his still mostly nonexistent muscles. Ryuji shakes his head emphatically and grabs Akira’s wrist, pushing his arm into what could loosely be described as a flex.
“C’mon, dude, flex! You’re telling me Joker’s got noodle arms?” he prompts. Akira deliberately lets his arm flop around uselessly just to hear the warmth of Ryuji’s laugh as he moves his arm in increasingly ridiculous ways. “Akiraaaaaaa. Show me what you’ve got! All my training hasn’t been for nothing, right? Gimme your best!”
Finally, Akira gives in and flexes properly, exaggeratedly overdramatic. Ryuji whoops a cheer and drops his hand from Akira’s wrist to squeeze his bicep.
“Yeah, there we go! Check that out!” he praises, and Akira… dies. Akira is dead, and this is heaven, he’s pretty sure. Either that, or Ryuji is actively killing him. It’s a good way to go, even if he wishes Ryuji would at least kiss him once to seal the deal before he leaves this mortal plane.
Ryuji lets go of his arm after a pause that’s… probably too long to be totally casual? Akira’s lost all sense of time. The only thing he’s ever known is this moment, when the sweat on his back cools on the wood of his floor and sticks his shirt to his skin, and Ryuji leans over him close enough to touch and squeezes Akira’s arm just to see how much of an impact he’s had on him. It’s enough to embolden Akira to catch Ryuji’s hand as he pulls away. He laces their fingers together and drops their hands onto his chest, where his heart thumps quick and heavy.
Ryuji’s expression does something interesting, where it melts from pleased into a sort of confusion and sudden understanding. He blinks wide-eyed at Akira, gaze darting between his eyes and their hands and somewhere in between. His lips, maybe, if Akira’s lucky.
“Um, Akira… Do you, uh…” Ryuji starts, but the thoughts seem to peter off before they can be realized. Still, Akira nods, even if he’s not fully sure what he’s agreeing to. If he’s lucky, he understands well enough.
Ryuji just stares at him, a compelling flush creeping its way up his face. There's something weighted in his eyes, heavy and meaningful. They're standing on the precipice of something, and Akira's pretty sure he wants nothing more than to push them over the edge.
"Ryuji," he murmurs, quiet and filled with as much intent as he can muster. He squeezes Ryuji's hand tighter, and Ryuji's fingers twitch against his. As he speaks, Ryuji's gaze gets caught on that in-between spot again and stays there.
"...Hey, uh… You gotta tell me if I'm reading this wrong, or if you don't wanna, but…" Ryuji begins, and Akira snaps. He uses his free arm to push himself up and close the tiny gap between them, and then they're kissing. It's not the best angle—Akira's arm is already beginning to quiver with exertion thanks to the awkward position, and their joined hands are digging into his sternum in a way that's immediately uncomfortable—but Akira couldn't really care less. Ryuji's lips are soft and responsive against his, and that warm fondness in Akira's chest overflows until he swears his heart could burst.
When he finally listens to the protests in his arm and falls back to the ground, Ryuji blinks at him like he's still processing what just happened.
"Holy shit," he breathes, and Akira just grins. It must be infectious, because Ryuji's lips (that Akira was just kissing, how crazy is that) curl up into a wild smile to match. "Holy shit, dude!"
"You took the words right out of my mouth," Akira says. Ryuji's eyes drop back to said mouth, and Akira can't quite suppress the way his smile turns a little devious. Ryuji glances back up to his eyes, a silent request for permission. Akira squeezes their hands again and moves them to the floor beside him.
It seems to be all the answer Ryuji needs. He practically falls back on top of Akira, all but crushing him beneath his full body weight. Akira laughs into his mouth, startled and pleased.
Ryuji wastes no time kissing Akira absolutely senseless. Any lack of experience he might have is made up for with enthusiasm, and Akira does his damnedest to match his energy. It's just—he's so happy. He never thought, realistically, that this was in the cards. He's been hitting on Ryuji since day one, basically, and he never seemed receptive. But, well, now Akira's got his tongue in his mouth. Goes to show, huh?
They break apart after a few long minutes to catch their breath, and Ryuji rolls off to the side. When Akira turns to look at him, Ryuji’s already looking back, stars in his eyes and a smile lighting up his face. It’s his turn to squeeze Akira’s hand where their fingers are still laced together. Affection surges through his veins and he very valiantly suppresses the urge to lean over and kiss him again.
…Ah, fuck it. Why should he have to hold himself back from what he wants? He leans forward to kiss Ryuji one more time, just because he can. It’s soft and easy, and Akira feels the smile on Ryuji’s lips the whole time.
“Dude,” Ryuji says, after his head thuds lightly back to the floor. His grin is wide and uncomplicated. “That effin’ ruled.”
A laugh bubbles its way out of Akira’s chest. God, he likes Ryuji so much. It’s a little bit ridiculous.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits once the dangerous wave of affection tampers down into something a little more manageable. Ryuji gawks at him in clear surprise.
“Wait, for real? Why didn’t you say anything?” he demands. Akira stares blankly at him for a long moment.
“...I’ve tried. I’ve been telling you how good you look in your Metaverse costume since day one. What did you think I meant by that?”
“I dunno. I guess I thought you were joking…?” Ryuji says, but he sounds doubtful even as he says it. Akira huffs a sigh and scoots closer to him, near enough that their noses almost brush. The tips of Ryuji’s ears burn visibly red under the intensity of Akira’s gaze.
“Deadly serious. I’m ridiculously into you, Ryuji. It’s never been a joke.”
“Well, shit,” Ryuji says. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly with his free hand. “Now I feel like an ass for not picking up on it sooner. Sorry, man.”
“Got there eventually, though,” Akira assures. He really can’t be mad about it when they’ve spent the better part of an hour making out.
A crookedly bashful grin creeps its way back onto Ryuji’s face, and Akira’s never been more sure that he means something in his life. He’s about to suggest they pick back up where they left off when Ryuji’s phone pings with a text and they both startle. Ryuji scrambles to grab it from his pocket and frowns as he reads the message.
“Aw, man… Hey, I gotta run. My mom asked me to pick up some groceries for dinner, and— shit, how is it already this late?”
Akira tries not to let his heart sink too much. He knew Ryuji would have to leave eventually, and it’s sweet that he cares so much about his mom, even if Akira would really rather he stay over for…ever, probably. Still, he nods and—extremely regretfully—lets go of Ryuji’s hand so he can stand up. Ryuji stretches, and it’s a testament to Akira’s strength of will that he doesn’t stare at the exposed bit of his stomach or the flex of his biceps too obviously.
Ryuji extends his hand to Akira, and he answers it with a long-suffering groan. It’s bad enough that Ryuji’s leaving, but now he expects Akira to stand up? Honestly, it’s criminal. If Akira wasn’t so sweet on him, he’d definitely lose points for it. Akira likes the floor, thank you very much. He’s comfortable on the floor. He doesn’t want to pry himself up.
The hand in front of him waves in a way that should really feel more obnoxious than it does. Akira groans, but takes the hand and allows Ryuji to pull him up. He claps Akira on the shoulder once he does and beams, halfway bashful.
“So, uh, I’ll call you when I get home, alright? And we can make plans to hang out again soon, yeah? So…” Ryuji trails off. His sudden bout of awkwardness leaves Akira feeling oddly shy; when he answers, he hides his gaze behind fidgeting with his bangs.
“Sounds good. Um… Get home safe,” he says. Ryuji’s eyes are warm and bright when Akira meets them again, completely at home with the light of the sun just beginning to set and the air that’s finally starting to cool. Akira is embarrassingly entranced.
“Before I leave, do you want to, uh…”
Ryuji accompanies it with a vague gesture that should be totally unintelligible, and Akira answers it by stepping back into his space and taking Ryuji’s face into his hands. It feels a little different when they’re both upright; Akira has to lean down a little to kiss him again, and it makes something squirm pleasantly in his stomach. The kiss is relatively drawn-out, considering Ryuji is theoretically about to leave and they’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. It’s a slow press of lips together and little more than that, but with Ryuji’s face in his hands and Ryuji’s hands settling with a nervous confidence on his waist, it’s hard to pull away.
Akira manages eventually, though, through an iron-clad strength of will. When he takes a step back, Ryuji follows him forward for a moment before he pries his eyes open as if waking from a dream. The flush is back on his cheeks, and Akira’s sure he matches.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, sweet. I’m gonna head out, then,” Ryuji says. “I’ll call you, okay?”
“That’s— Good idea. Thanks for, um, coming over,” Akira responds, because he’s somehow lost the ability to be cool. Ryuji doesn’t seem to mind, though; his grin just stretches wider.
“Man, you don’t gotta thank me for anything. I always wanna hang out with you.”
Akira’s heart clenches near-painfully. He can’t think of any way to feasibly respond verbally to that without embarrassing himself, so he makes do with leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Ryuji’s cheek before taking a decisive step back. He looks a little starstruck and a lot goofy, and Akira’s pretty sure he loves him.
And then he’s gone, after no shortage of more awkward stammering from the both of them. As soon as he hears Leblanc’s bell jingle, Akira collapses face-first into his bed. It’s where Morgana finds him, some unknown amount of time later. When he asks Akira about the weird spot of almost-dry sweat on the floor, it’s all Akira can do to muffle his near-hysterical laugh in his pillow.