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Fingers glide against Natsuhi’s temples, a sweep of warmth brushing his hair back, and Akira comes to full view once again.
Akira’s bangs are pinned back by a blue clip, some cheap thing taken as an arcade prize when they went the other day; it allows Natsuhi to clearly see bright green eyes, all focus, attention lasered in on doing something silly, no doubt, with Natsuhi’s own bangs and the plastic frog hairclip from their festival excursion last summer. Natsuhi has no idea why Akira is determined as he is to use it, but months of wheedling and whining won out, and he finally conceded to letting Akira do as he wished.
Well, this isn’t so bad, Natsuhi muses. Akira is sitting on his lap, a rare act of straightforward affection, and both of their respective jackets are shrugged off at the end of the bed, leaving that many layers less between them. It’s good, it’s nice – Natsuhi can hold Akira close like this, can feel how solid Akira is with his own hands, can look at him all he wants without Akira’s usual fluster and averted eyes. Akira’s fingers graze his temples yet again, thin paths of fire burning in their wake, and Natsuhi’s eyes flutter shut. He already has Akira in his arms, but he wants more, to savor every bit of warmth, to have all of it for himself and forever; however, before he can stop Akira’s hand with his own, press his face into that palm, Akira tosses his arms up with loud triumph.
“There, done! Natsuhi-senpai, can you see better?” says Akira, all grins with his success.
He stares back, unamused.
“C’mon,” Akira whines, “your hair is way too smooth, the clip kept slipping off…a ‘thank you’ would be nice.”
“You were the one that wanted to do this, not me,” Natsuhi points out.
“Eh!” Indigent, Akira pouts; the pout only intensifies after a few seconds of thought concludes that Natsuhi is indeed correct. He sighs, but pivots – “Then, fine, Natsuhi-senpai, you did well holding still. Good job, good job,” and with laughter, Akira pats Natsuhi’s head.
So warm. Akira always is.
“When will you drop the -senpai?” Natsuhi asks. Eagerly, he drinks in the heat that flushes across Akira’s face, blazing red and glowing; unabashed hunger drives Natsuhi to hug Akira even closer to him than before.
“Something like that, I can’t do that so suddenly,” mutters Akira, eyes avoiding his.
“It’s been about half a year since we started dating,” counters Natsuhi. “Am I still going to be your senpai when we graduate?”
Sputtering, struggling, Akira can only say, “Natsuhi-senpai, you’re being too greedy…”
Greedy? Of course. How can he not be? He has more than the world in his arms.
He has the sun.
In the silence that follows (Natsuhi can’t be bothered to say the obvious out loud), Akira hesitantly meets eyes back with Natsuhi’s. In Akira’s embarrassment, or in his joy; his focus, his care, his everything – something radiant will always ignite deep within Natsuhi’s heart to warm his entire being, and there’s really no stopping it now. He leans forward to meet Akira’s lips, and –
Natsuhi wakes up with his arms outstretched, leaning forward into nothing but cold, empty air.
He blinks once, then twice; soon, there’s no memory of any dream beyond the fleeting warmth of someone’s fingers skimming across his face.
Natsuhi sees Amachi on the way to school in the morning. As usual, he doesn’t call out.
Watching the backs of others was always good enough for him.
When Amachi turns his head to talk to the girl – his girlfriend – Natsuhi lingers on the green of his eyes, dazzling in his liveliness even from so far away.
Green eyes, panicked. “It looked like it was in the way!”
Natsuhi grimaces.
Why remember that now?
He wonders if he spent longer than he realized ruminating about Christmas, of Amachi’s brief touch on his face.
Amachi and his friends turn past the school gates.
Natsuhi’s hands flex, but what for?
What else is there to do?
He sighs and looks up. Snow has begun to fall.
Winter is always so cold.