Warnings for POV switches that tax all patience and are very, very wrong, never do this. Also, this fic is weird. Why can't I write things that are normal. :-<
Permanent Press. 1,600 words.
So this is what happens that time Hikaru forgets that it's not Wednesday and shows up for his game with Akira anyway.
He gets there just as Touya Kouyou is locking the door and the family is piling into the Touya minivan.
(Of course the Touyas have a minivan. Of course they do.)
"Shindou-kun," says Akira's mom, as if she's delighted to see him. "We're just on our way to buy Akira a nice new suit."
"What? But I don't have to be anywhere until 4!" Hikaru yelps, like it's Akira's fault that it's not tomorrow.
Akira just slides a look of disdain on his face the way his dad's sliding on sunglasses. "Another time, Shindou," he says, in his most unimpressed voice.
His most unimpressed voice, as if he has somewhere very busy and important to be. As if he hasn't just been throwing a mild tantrum that his mother is insisting on buying him clothes when he's fifteen.
Granted, it was a very polite tantrum, and he wasn't actually screaming. And he didn't actually dare to suggest that at fifteen, one is supposed to buy one's own clothes, except through a carefully-pitched resistance in the way he said: "All right, mother, just let me get my coat."
Still, he felt the tonal quality had been clear enough.
Hikaru imitates Touya's screwed-up face, mocking his fake disdain (because they both know very well Touya'd totally rather be playing Go, and he'd rather be doing just about anything with Hikaru). "Touyaaaaa, play Go with me," he demands. Like Akira is actually going to ditch shopping with his parents with Touya Kouyou standing right there looking all stern.
Touya looks like he might actually be considering it anyway, though - at least til his mother says fondly, running her fingers lightly over his shoulder: "Would you like to join us, Shindou-kun?"
Touya's disdain topples off his face as quickly as it slid on, and what takes its place is stark horror.
Hikaru is so delighted by the idea of Akira wearing that expression for the rest of the day that he says yes immediately. And that's how they end up standing in front of a dressing room an hour later, looking like they've been hit by a giant purple tsunami.
"Shindou-kun," Akira's mom says sweetly, turning him round in front of the mirror like a rag doll. "Let me just make sure that tie is the right length."
The tie is purple.
Everything they are holding.
Hikaru has never seen so much purple. He didn't even know there were stores in Tokyo that contained this much purple.
He stands, unresistant, dazed and overwhelmed by all the purple, while she holds the tie up to his chest.
"You really don't have to do this," he says, for the thirtieth time at least since they walked in the department store. She had pulled out a mini-tape measure and started examining his hip-to-waist ratio. Akira had averted his eyes like a guilt-ridden bad-Samaritan. Actually, he still is. Hikaru tries to glare at him telepathically. He thinks it might be working - Akira's starting to squirm a bit - but then she's done with the tie and is shoving them both inside the changing room with a breezy, "I'll just wait outside!"
Akira, who hasn't actually said a word for the last twenty minutes because he's lost the power of vocalizing the bottomless depths of his trauma, hangs up his clothes in the same stunned silence and then turns apologetically to take Hikaru's.
Hikaru whispers, "How do you live like this?"
Akira rasps out, "I manage," in a voice that's supposed to be brittle with asperity but only manages utter mortification.
Hikaru pokes him in the arm. "I want to play Go!" he says.
Akira pokes back. "You want to play Go in a changing room?"
Poke. "No, moron, I just want to get out of here."
Poke. "You aren't suggesting we try and escape."
"We can't. Your father's blocking the exit." Hikaru angrily starts to tug off his shirt, and Akira's suddenly grateful to all the gods of Go and beyond that he's been looking away the whole time so he doesn't look too obvious now.
Hikaru gets his arms over his head, and then his sleeve gets snagged on the nearest clothes rack. "Mmrhph," he says, and Akira has to un-avert, has to un-snag Hikaru, fingers sliding over rough polyester, over smooth pale skin, and -
"Thanks," Hikaru says. "I got it now." He reappears, shirtless, cheeks bright cherry-red. His hair is standing out all over his head. Akira backs all the way over to the other side of the cube; this isn't something he's ready for. He turns away from Hikaru and the mirror, like that will magically prevent Hikaru from being able to watch him undress. Hikaru's blithely stripping on the other side, down to his boxers before Akira's even gotten the first button undone. It's not a contest, he thinks desperately, but he feels like he's losing anyway.
"Hey," Hikaru says. "Try the charcoal pants on first, they look the best."
Akira looks and sees three black pair of pants and one purple. He has no idea what Hikaru is talking about. "These," Hikaru tries again, pulling out the longest, smallest pair.
"I don't think these will fit me," he says dully, but he unfastens them anyway.
Hikaru is watching him with a strange expression now. "They'll fit," he murmurs, and Akira notes that the flush still hasn't faded from his cheeks and is in fact traveling steadily down his neck and over his collarbone.
Akira has to turn away quickly. Charcoal, he thinks. The color of these pants is charcoal. They are made of a silk-linen blend. I am going to be the only fifteen-year-old in Japan who wears silk pants.
Akira is ready to try on the pants now.
There's a weird, unsettling silence as they change, and Akira tries to make it quick, tries not to linger over his socks and his dress shirt. He's relieved that at least Hikaru's not watching him -
- except that Hikaru is totally watching him; Hikaru can't help glancing sneakily in the mirror to see the long sharp lines of Akira's waist and his legs.
Smallest changing room in history, and this is the worst Wednesday ever.
Hikaru shoves his way noisily into the set of clothes Touya's mom picked out for him, wanting it over as quickly as possible. Akira is quiet and finicky getting dressed, taking the time to tuck the undershirt and then the overshirt into the pants, tugging at the waist, smoothing out the creases.
When it's all done they look in the mirror, and even with his shirttail loose and his pants that are deliberately a size too big, Hikaru looks better. Not that Akira ever looks bad, Hikaru thinks. But if this were a contest, it's obvious who won.
Akira sighs. Hikaru frowns. Together they look like a field of poppies.
"I suppose we'd better go model," says Touya dejectedly, at the same time Hikaru says, "You know if you'd just - "
Touya halts, frozen on the spot. Hikaru reaches over and untucks his outer shirt, the darker purple, yanks it out all the way around. Then he undoes the first three buttons at the top, and Akira feels increasingly naked with each tug, each reveal of the undershirt beneath. But he can't say anything because, oh, because Hikaru is reaching for his waist.
Hikaru loosens the belt a little, lets the slim, tapered pants slip just a fraction, so the belt is slung low around Akira's hips. Akira's quivering a bit, like a wild animal about to bolt; and Hikaru doesn't want to make him run, but really, the belt and his hips and - and he's probably wanted to do this for an absolute eternity, so he does. He reaches up - Akira all but winces - and shoves Akira's hair over so that the part is on the left and not the middle. Akira lets the breath back out in a huff and glances warily in the mirror. His hair is falling over into his eyes, layered and uneven, and it makes him look more like a girl than ever. Hikaru can't help the breath he draws in at that. Really, he can't.
Akira looks away from the mirror and at him.
"Yeah," Hikaru murmurs, eyes pinned to Akira's face like a doomed butterfly. "Definitely better."
Akira grabs him and shoves him hard against the side of the cubicle and says, "You are so argh," and kisses him, presses against him, and he's ridiculously turned on but so is Hikaru, who's trying his best to say, "I'm argh? You're argh!" as articulately as he can with his tongue down Akira's throat.
Their hands are in each other's hair and their faces are twisted up in arousal and embarrassment when Akira jerks away. "No, wait - "
"Clothes. Fuck," says Hikaru eloquently.
They strip out of the clothes as quickly as they can, and the whole ordeal is so preposterously unsexy that by the time they are back out of them, there's no need to be.
They are nude down to their underwear once again, flushed and heated everywhere that shows.
Not looking, not looking, not looking.
"Boys," says Akira's mother. "Make sure you hang everything back up!"
Hikaru grins a wicked, wicked grin.
"We're all right," he calls. "It's hanging just fine."
Akira's eyes go round as dinner plates. "You," he whispers, advancing on Shindou. "You're going to hell."
Hikaru looks around the room and then back at him.
"Fine," he says, tugging Akira closer. "I hope they like purple."