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February often brought days like these. Days in which the cold of the outside contrasted the warmth of the inside overnight, and so it caused an unclear view to those trying to look outside or inside of the window. There was once a time where Goro had faced such days without the warmth of the inside — as a child they could not afford heating, and so Goro had to brave February times with the cold that it brought with no alternative. As a teenager, he had the external warmth of heating, but lacked the emotional warmth that was also required. Goro often thought that the fog of the window mirrored his own dissonance to his life and the reality that he lived.
Goro had sat in his shared bed with Akira one of these early February mornings, whilst the other had slept. His stare wandered between staring outside the window that stood not too far from their bedside, and to one of his hands which fiddled around with his fingers in thought. He pondered about his adolescence and childhood; the plagues upon his mind which were the essence of the reasonings of his mother’s death, the finality of death he had dealt upon command in order to enact his revenge. His fingernails absently picked at each other, and at the skin which surrounded them. He turned his own hands around under his gaze; how his beau could see beauty in his hands was something he couldn’t truly comprehend. His hands were sullied; they have always been sullied – whether it be with the conditions of unhygiene that stuck to him as a child or whether it be with the blood of others. And still, Akira loves to hold his hands. He loves to be palm-to-palm with him; loves to bring Goro’s hand up to his lips with the intent to deliver a soft kiss to his knuckles. It, quite honestly, never failed to fluster Goro.
Hands have always been something special. Aristotle said that hands were the “tool of tools”; they can be givers of strength and protection and power. And just as easily, they can bless. They can heal, they can provide comfort. Only the Lord above knows how much comfort the touch of Akira’s hands provide Goro.
Maybe this is why Goro had not noticed Akira awaken amidst his brooding, but he had noticed Akira’s palm attach itself to Goro’s free hand. His other hand ceased its fidgeting at the contact, as Goro had felt warmth spread through his body, originating from the source of contact. His fingers had immediately gone to wrap around Akira’s hand, as if to cage his beloved to himself through it. Goro turned, after a few beats, to catch a glimpse of his beloved. Akira was obviously still in the process of waking up, his half lidded eyes admitted that much to him, and in spite of this he had still worn a look of adoration as he looked upon Goro. His lips were in a loose, gentle smile, and he had flickered his attention over Goro’s form in order to figure out why he was awake, and sitting rather awkwardly up in the bed.
He had shaken his head gently at Goro, in a sickeningly sweet and fond way, before scooching to sit up himself. He had switched his hand holding Goro’s to more easily execute his planned maneuver; pulling the brunet forward with the intertwined hand, and wrapping a secure yet gentle arm around Goro’s back, to hold him in place against his chest. He had used this hand on his back to rub shapes and circles into him, as if he were trying to massage his very soul into Goro’s skin, to assure him of his staying presence. Akira’s hand in his palm had removed itself, much to Goro’s dismay, in order to move to scratch Goro’s hair, before Akira shited his entire body again in order to take Goro’s face in his hands – to look Goro straight in the eyes, and keep Goro from moving his face away from Akira’s.
The pads of Akira’s thumbs began to move under Goro’s eyes, with such gentleness and care in every movement it nearly made Goro’s eyes tear up, and he fought the instinct to close his eyes and lean into Akira’s touch. Maybe he did lean in anyways, with how Akira applied more pressure from his hands. Goro ever so truly did not understand how Akira could still love somebody of his ilk. Somebody who had attempted to kill the very one who now holds him in his hands as if he were sent into his life by God himself.
Yet even so, as Goro had reciprocated Akira's stare, cheeks warming by his palms, even Jesus had still loved Judas. He thinks, that this must have been how he must have felt, when Jesus continued to look him in the eyes and call him Friend . That maybe Akira's dilating pupils betrayed no infidelity to his forgiveness — that maybe he, Goro Akechi, was still loved, in spite of what he had done – in spite of what connections runs through his veins.
Now, Goro was no stranger to these sudden realisations of Akira's unwithheld adoration. They came at moments not unlike this one; moments where Akira had foregone the mask that was his fake glasses and gave Goro a clear look at what true feelings lay inside of his eyes. Eyes that had once – and still do, on occasion – held contempt for palace rulers, eyes that had once stared down vile amalgamations that had represented a human's souls... still, and always, looked at him with love that had bore itself from the depths of Akira's heart.
It was funny, he thought. He often thought himself unbreakable, especially throughout his youth. He found it funny that the hand that had succeeded in breaking him in came not from the harsh hand that held power throughout the Nation, but had come from the hand that chose to freely gift its love unto him. Freely chose to hold Goro like they did now, a gentle pressure cupping his face with the pads of his thumbs softly moving back and forth, a repetitive motion done to make sure that Goro did not drift too much. Freely chose to give him the love that he had so vehemently desired and fought for his entire life.
He let out a contented sigh at Akira’s touches, and leant in to rest upon Akira’s chest entirely, pushing him to lay back down in their bed in the process, his face still held in Akira’s hands, but looking up at him with his chin resting between his pectorals, and his arms moved to wrap around Akira’s torso as he listened to the other’s heartbeat, and allowed himself to feel the comfort of the heart’s pulse below him – allowed himself to experience Akira’s loving hand.
Even if he did not understand how Akira could love him, it would be unwise as a detective to deny the evidence of such notions right in front of him. It really could be that simple – Akira loved him with his whole heart. Goro wholly loved Akira, too. He was sure he would find himself overthinking once again, it was never honestly that uncommon, but every time Akira held him as if he was the most precious thing in the world, the more inclined he felt to allow himself to accept Akira’s love.