It is summer; the last summer before their final year at the Academy – before an era painted in lazy strokes and pale shades of rose gold comes to an end as intangible as it is inevitable. It is the sort of summer that is at once brief and ever lasting – a haze of time that replaces the stars with memories and turns feelings into fires that swallow tender hearts. And Takashi already knows, deep down in his bones, that he will think of these days with bittersweet nostalgia and an aching chest.
Still, out here on the balcony of a fairytale villa that overlooks miles of sparkling white sand and azure waters that twinkle under a golden sun, it is so easy to think that this season is a spell that cannot be broken. That these feelings will last forever, and even the darkest of shadows will always seem bright.
A soft sigh escapes Takashi's lips as he leans forward to rest his forearms on the balcony's railing.
Above, a ripe midsummer sun hangs high in an infinite expanse of cerulean, unbroken but for ribbons of ethereal cloud. It is early afternoon and the sun's rays are long and lazy and golden. Takashi cannot see for himself, but he imagines the sunlight kissing Mitsukuni's hair, caressing the delicate curls so that they gleam like fairy-dust and surround his gentle face with a pale halo.
He could chance a glance, perhaps, Takashi muses – could let his head fall back ever-so-slightly until the seawater-drenched strands of his dark, unruly locks tickle the sensitive skin beneath Mitsukuni's jaw. But he will not do that; it is out of the question. For Mitsukuni is perched atop Takashi's broad shoulders. The weight and warmth of his small thighs is comforting, and the absentminded scrape of his fingers against Takashi's scalp enough to tease pleased rumbles from his throat.
Takashi does not want to disturb this, no. So he contents himself with pressing his cheek into Mitsukuni's thigh, nuzzling the tender skin and powerful cords of muscle it belies. He breathes in his scent, – a long, deliberately labored inhale – then turns to face the horizon.
The sea breeze is humid. It carries with it the rhythmic melody of waves that crash to be reborn, and the smell of sand and salt and omnipresent heat. But Mitsukuni's scent, vanilla and strawberry mingled with remnants of the suntan lotion he had helped him with this morning, lingers in Takashi's nose and on his lips. He licks them once, and then once more.