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Two days after Shinjiro returns from the hospital—wary, overly cognizant of his exhaustion levels and his roaring appetite and the rhythm of his heart, pulse reverberating like a drummed gong, fiercer than it’s been in months—the sky swells metallic with snowclouds. With all his strange renewed energy he stays up late watching the weather, waiting for the storm, and when it comes he heaves himself easily from the couch and walks straight out into the night. In his haste he forgets his coat, his hat, his gloves; within seconds he is a human icicle, but he does not care. The ruthless, snapping chill reminds him that he exists, that his body strives every second no longer just to keep him alive, but comfortable. His system, no longer failing, has room for that now.
He stops a few paces from the front steps, turning awestruck in place, slow carousel spin. When he lifts his face to the globe-swirl of alabastrine flakes he’s already crying, the first tear crystallizing in a slender rivulet down his cheek.
A month ago he never thought he’d see snow again. Now, having grabbed death by the lapels and spat in its cruel face, he has proven himself wrong, and he is throttled by his own emotion. All around him there is a cascade of white, scads and scads of thick cold cottony fluff, and Shinjiro thinks it might be the second most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon. The first thing is currently slipping out the front door, shivering in the brutal chill, quietly calling Shinjiro’s name.
Akihiko.
Earth angel, Shinjiro thinks idly to himself, and then, smiling: snow angel.
“Shinji,” Akihiko hisses. He sounds exasperated, worried. “What are you doing out here without a coat? It’s freezing!”
He hurries down the steps, slumping into himself to conserve heat, rubbing his bare hands frantically together. He’s wearing joggers and a hoodie—Shinjiro’s own hoodie, Shinjiro recognizes with a low giddy thrill—and his thickly socked feet have been shoved hastily into his gym shoes. By the time he reaches Shinjiro’s side the tip of his nose is already blotting an adorable pink, showcasing the faint constellation of freckles dusting his cheekbones.
“Shinji—”
“Aki,” Shinjiro interrupts, grinning at him in spite of the tears that continue to burgeon in his eyes. “It’s snowing.”
“I know,” Akihiko says. “You need to—”
But mid-sentence he pauses, squints, leans up so he can inspect Shinjiro’s face.
“Hey,” he says, and now he’s uncertain, wobbly. “Are you crying?”
Shinjiro hesitates. Once upon a time he might have been loath to let Akihiko be witness to this, how openly enmeshed he is in his own feelings, but things are different now. His perspective over the last several days, he finds, has wholly altered.
Besides, he reasons, this is Aki. There can be no secrets between them, not anymore.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see snow again, Aki,” he says, hiking one shoulder to his ear with a tiny smile.
Visibly gut-punched, Akihiko sways in place.
“Oh. Oh, Shinji.”
“Yeah,” Shinjiro says. He raises his face to the clouds once more. “It’s just—amazin’.”
“It is,” Akihiko says faintly. “You’re right, it is. But you need a coat. You’re gonna turn into a popsicle out here.”
“Would’ve worn my sweatshirt if someone hadn’t stolen it,” Shinjiro says, winking at him.
Akihiko flushes. The difference separating chagrin versus chill on his face is astounding: even in temperatures this low Akihiko’s cheeks are aflame, shamed bonfire blaze. Gorgeous, Shinjiro thinks, and almost speaks the word aloud.
“I wore it every day while you were out,” Akihiko mutters, bashful, looking away. “It still kinda—uh—smells like you.”
Abruptly Shinjiro’s chest clenches. Akihiko is so shy, so shy, but these glorious past few days he’s been blooming, picking his determined way from his clamped-down shell. Before, Shinjiro had never been certain if his feelings were reciprocated; if Akihiko loved him, he told him in fists and annoyances, persistent mosquito-to-a-bloodsource attempts to persuade Shinjiro to rejoin the fight. On the other side of things, however, Shinjiro can see with greater than perfect vision, and he knows with great certainty that his affection has never gone unrequited.
“If you want it to smell like me again I’ll wear it for you,” he offers quietly.
Akihiko’s flush darkens.
“I—well—” he says, and then he’s flinging himself forward and slamming into Shinjiro’s chest. Staggered, Shinjiro lifts his arms automatically to curl around Akihiko’s torso, and just like that they’re embracing, truly hugging for the first time in so, so long. Too long, Shinjiro thinks, and he can tell by the shuddery shake of Akihiko’s breaths pressing in-out against his own that he’s thinking the same thing.
“I want this,” Akihiko gets out, mashed and muffled into Shinjiro’s shoulder. “I want you.”
He shifts; Shinjiro pulls slightly back at the same time, and before he can blink breathe think he’s taking Akihiko’s unfairly sculpted jawline in both hands to sweep slow thumbprints over his cheekbones. Under his touch Akihiko’s skin is cold, chapped, wet.
“Akihiko,” Shinjiro croaks, and Akihiko gives a strangled, tearstained laugh.
“You scared me so much, you asshole,” he says, raspy. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”
Shinjiro tips Akihiko’s chin up, strokes clumsily over his cheek, his lower lip. Blind, fumbling, as though he’s only half aware of what he’s doing, Akihiko grabs Shinjiro’s wrist and holds it steady so he can drop kisses over the back of Shinjiro’s hand, his fingers. Shinjiro is stricken, his heart lashing wildly against his ribcage, and the thought crosses his mind that this is the only thing that matters in the world.
“Hey,” he says, low. “I’m here now. Not goin’ anywhere.”
“Damn right you’re not,” Akihiko says fiercely.
“You gonna stop me?” Shinjiro asks. He can hear the painful fondness in his own voice, heartdeep.
“Yes,” Akihiko growls, and then he’s up on his tiptoes to smash his mouth to Shinjiro’s own. Temporarily Shinjiro is tranquilized and then he breathes out, out, and when he comes back to himself he is on fire. He returns Akihiko’s kiss with zeal, clutching his face in both hands, tongue careful but sure slipping between Akihiko’s pliant lips. Aki tastes like cold December air, like the crackling tang of the spearmint toothpaste he’s been using since he was a kid. He tastes like himself, and it is better than Shinjiro has ever imagined.
Under the silent drift of snow they kiss and kiss, grasping at each other with greedy fingers, always shifting to be nearer but never quite achieving the closeness they both want. For the first time in recent memory—or, perhaps, ever—Shinjiro feels at home in his own life, as though he is meant for this existence, the body he inhabits. Akihiko’s solidity against his torso is grounding, tender and delicious at once, and Shinjiro could do this forever, weather be damned.
Besides, he thinks, a little frost won’t hurt him. He has spent the past two years of his life shivering under layers of fabric, trying desperately to warm himself to little avail. Now he has Patroclus, and he can feel his persona stirring in his chest, working tirelessly to heat him from the core out. If he and Akihiko end up staying out here all night, well. That’s just fine with him.
But Akihiko has other plans.
“Come inside and get warm,” he murmurs against Shinjiro’s mouth. “You’re gonna freeze.”
Shinjiro chases his kiss, smiling when Akihiko makes a soft, responsive noise.
“Long as we can keep doing this, I don’t care where we go.”
xx