Unscrambling Stoicism

Akira's brow twitches in annoyance as he feels eyes boring into the side of his head. He doesn't know if it has become a habit, but he knows with absolute surety that the persuasions of the perpetrator are not of the innocent kind. It is not as if he is some artwork in a gallery without a single iota of perception nor is he some unfeeling bastard who can escape any type of emotional upheaval brought on by such intense perusal.

"Stop that." He turns to his side and glares at the person who has been intruding on his peace for a good quarter of an hour. "It's unpleasant."

His current drinking companion raises a pale eyebrow in reply, a coy smile playing on his lips. If Akira isn't a better person, he would have socked him right there before hightailing out of the bar; unfortunately, he has admitted to himself long ago that his sense of responsibility is strong enough to put up an inhibited front no matter how incensed he is.

The other man tucks a wayward strand of hair behind an ear and rests his chin gracefully on the tips of his fingers, elbow propped up on the bar. "You're a former model and you're not comfortable with people scrutinizing you." He grins cheekily, taking a sip of his drink. "You never cease to amaze me, Akira."

He groans inwardly, closing this week's chosen thriller novel and placing it neatly beside his shot of whiskey. "Waka, please turn your attention to someone else. Like maybe Hikaru-kun."

Wakaouji Raku chuckles and shakes his head in dissent, waving his glass of tequila sunrise in front of Akira's face. The cold sweaty glass almost hits him on the nose. "I see him all the time; the stupid child is always engrossed in his image on a mirror. I don't have the heart to disturb his beauty appreciation moments. That would be rude."

"And you staring at me isn't?" He asks incredulously.

"No. You're the most interesting person I've ever met in my life, Akira. I'm entitled the freedom to observe." Raku gives him a winning smile before taking another sip of his drink. "Besides." He swallows daintily. "How could I stop myself from watching such beautiful things?"

Akira's cheeks are suffused in crimson as he digests the other man's words. A keening sound radiates from his throat, an involuntary noise giving away his inner turmoil. He hides his face behind a shaky hand and turns away.

"Waka…" He protests weakly, wondering why the other idol keeps telling him he's one of the 'Beautiful Things'. He's torn between thinking it offensive (because he's a human being, not a piece of artwork, dammit) and being flattered.

This is precisely the reason why he does not like drinking with Raku after a long hard day of work. With 'work' being an all-nighter giant brush session with Shiki and from what he had gathered, the producer. The man always tends to express thoughts he can't completely fathom. He knows he looks good, seeing as he had been a model for quite some time – and a successful one at that – before his idol days, but being called (or even merely deemed) beautiful is another thing altogether. The world is beautiful during the cherry blossom festival, the full moon on a warm summer day is beautiful, and the first ray of sunlight after a week of stormy weather is beautiful. Knowing the artistic inclinations of the renowned platinum-haired calligrapher, he cannot possibly take it seriously – it must be uttered to get a rise out of him. After all, Raku is mostly interested in the slew of emotions he can eke out from Akira's usual solemn face.

"Stop saying that."

"Stop saying what?"

"That I'm beautiful."

Raku tilts his head to one side, obviously confused. Of course Akira cannot see it; he is trying not to face him at the moment since he can't vouch for his earlier immediate reaction. He can still feel the heat on his cheeks, and his fingertips can attest to the flush's current existence.

He can hear a range of motion-related sounds behind him before complete silence reigned. In a quiet movement rivalling that of a legendary Japanese assassin, Raku is suddenly before him, cerulean eyes boring into his, and a lopsided grin adorning his lips. The slight haze in the blue orbs gives Akira the inkling that Raku may already be a tinge tipsy. "Waka…" He starts, only to be cut off as slender fingers dig into his shoulders when the calligrapher fought for something he cannot construe.

"Akira." Raku leans toward him, cheek touching his.

Waka's skin is so smooth. He notices absently, swallowing the spit that has accumulated in his mouth after a prolonged exposure to the other idol's extremely close proximity. He can feel the thin tendrils of bright white hair sticking to the sheen of his lips. I can't move.

He doesn't want to move.

"You're beautiful because I say so." Akira breathes shallowly, closing his eyes as Raku's sweet breath tickled his ear. "Do you understand, Akira?"

For a few moments of silence, Akira tries to keep his breath even. He can smell floral shampoo on Raku's hair and the light tang of calligraphy ink on his clothes. "Why's that?" He murmurs, unwilling to escape the unintended reassurance the closeness gives him. Raku's position is uncomfortable at best, stooping low enough to accommodate him, and a twinge of guilt from his inner pushover decides to alleviate some of the discomfort by slowly standing up to his full height.

He feels Raku's lips imprinting on the skin between his burnt mandarin scarf and V-neck shirt, moving downward to his collarbone as he stood. They both shiver involuntarily upon realization that they are standing so close their bodies are touching. Akira wonders if his movement was necessary at all since it added to the thickening tension between them.

"There's a discrepancy between what you feel and what I can see on your face." Raku mumbles, his quiet words muffled by Akira's shirt. "It's a beautiful thing when the inside and outside start matching until they're one, the same, and completely genuine… like right now."

Akira meets his gaze as he angles his face until he could see the other man's clear features. His eyes are clear now, traces of previous cloudiness gone. "Right now?" he breathes, eyes softening.

Face upturned, Raku nods slightly, eyes meeting his golden gaze and holding adamantly. It takes away another piece of the dark-haired man's sanity. "Yes, right now. I can see you, A-ki-ra." He sing-songs playfully, lips parting as if in invitation. "Your face and expression, I can see them and they're both beautiful." The blonde tilts his head slightly to the side mischievously. "But there seems to be something missing…"

Dark brows turn up in silent question, and lips part to articulate it. However, before a single peep comes out of his mouth, Raku surges up and plants his lips on Akira's. Their breaths mingle as mouths move in a slow sampling kiss. It takes a minute or two before they part, both men's brains fuzzy, fingers deep in each other's hair in the short time they physically connected.

"Waka…" Akira starts as his breathing stabilizes. "I…"

"There." Raku smiles up at him, cheeks pleasantly flushed, chest still slightly heaving, and eyes roving on his face as if trying to memorize every nook and cranny. "Nothing's missing anymore. You're even more beautiful than before."

Akira lets out a low chuckle of disbelief, wondering how Raku could even think straight when they're stuck in such a situation. "Waka, you are just…"

"Unbelievable? I hope not. I need you to believe me." Raku snickers; hiding his face awkwardly in Akira's chest, arms sliding down from the latter's hair to twine around his waist, linked by thin artistic fingers.

"Well." Akira closes his eyes with a smile as he feels him shiver from the motion of his fingers running up and down the calligrapher's spine. "Maybe I'd completely believe you if we do that again."

"See." A muffled rumble of giggles shook Raku's slight frame. "I'm not mistaken. You're the most interesting person I've ever met in my life, Akira."

ENDE