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writetomyheart2021-03-18 07:27 pm
end_alls) wrote in writetomyheart2021-03-18 07:27 pm
Entry tags:
[TEAM ONE] WIP
Persona 5, Protag/Akechi, rated T, 400 words
“Thank you.”
The galaxy soda passes hands, Akira’s skin brushing Akechi’s glove, condensation making them both seem clammy. Akechi sets it on the table between them, near the commemorative coaster—but not on top of it. Of course. Akira, still standing, takes a bite of his black hole ice cream as he waits for Akechi to take out his phone for a picture. Instead, he says, “Sit.”
Akira does. Akechi stares at the drink sprinkled with stars, silent as the space between the ones in the sky.
Then he takes off his gloves. Akira’s mouth droops ajar as Akechi’s thumb pulls up the edge of the leather, then drifts to pinch and pull the glove off of each finger one by one. He repeats the motion with the other, as practiced and careful as peeling skin with a knife. He folds the gloves neatly and places them on the table beside the drink.
Goro Akechi takes the drink straw and begins to stir the soda throughly, borderline viciously, until the purple and blue layering has all been swept into the clouded cream, delicate star sprinkles either en route to the bottom of the cup or else down the sides and onto the table. He isn’t satisfied until the freakishly-colored maraschino cherry lands right on the coaster, and Akira doesn’t think it’s possible to like a person more.
Akechi lets out a breath through his nose, so loudly Akira can hear it, and a -drip- on his side of the table informs him that some of his black ice cream has melted and run onto his thumb. He looks back up at Akechi.
“So what if it is?” Akira says suddenly, to fill the space between them.
Akechi’s head snaps up, eyes locking with his own. Then the corner of a smile folds up at the edge of his lips, and he slowly presses the cream from one of his fingers onto his tongue. Akechi’s eyes flick down to Akira’s ice cream, then fall to his drink. “You should finish that.”
Akechi sips the eviscerated soda from the straw as Akira eats his melting soft-serve, sticky fingers each holding something neither of them will name.
This is a date.
“Thank you.”
The galaxy soda passes hands, Akira’s skin brushing Akechi’s glove, condensation making them both seem clammy. Akechi sets it on the table between them, near the commemorative coaster—but not on top of it. Of course. Akira, still standing, takes a bite of his black hole ice cream as he waits for Akechi to take out his phone for a picture. Instead, he says, “Sit.”
Akira does. Akechi stares at the drink sprinkled with stars, silent as the space between the ones in the sky.
Then he takes off his gloves. Akira’s mouth droops ajar as Akechi’s thumb pulls up the edge of the leather, then drifts to pinch and pull the glove off of each finger one by one. He repeats the motion with the other, as practiced and careful as peeling skin with a knife. He folds the gloves neatly and places them on the table beside the drink.
Goro Akechi takes the drink straw and begins to stir the soda throughly, borderline viciously, until the purple and blue layering has all been swept into the clouded cream, delicate star sprinkles either en route to the bottom of the cup or else down the sides and onto the table. He isn’t satisfied until the freakishly-colored maraschino cherry lands right on the coaster, and Akira doesn’t think it’s possible to like a person more.
Akechi lets out a breath through his nose, so loudly Akira can hear it, and a -drip- on his side of the table informs him that some of his black ice cream has melted and run onto his thumb. He looks back up at Akechi.
“So what if it is?” Akira says suddenly, to fill the space between them.
Akechi’s head snaps up, eyes locking with his own. Then the corner of a smile folds up at the edge of his lips, and he slowly presses the cream from one of his fingers onto his tongue. Akechi’s eyes flick down to Akira’s ice cream, then fall to his drink. “You should finish that.”
Akechi sips the eviscerated soda from the straw as Akira eats his melting soft-serve, sticky fingers each holding something neither of them will name.
This is a date.