It isn't entirely wrong, no, because of course it couldn't be, but there really is no mistaking that Akihiko does his best communication with his fists.
He's never been good with words — neither of them have — and he supposes that might have been why they settled into friendship as well as they had, not needing words so much as an outlet for the ones they couldn't find.
He nods, but doesn't say anything, casting his smile down just the slightest bit, letting it slide into something a bit softer.
Because Shinjiro is always going to be able to read him like a well-loved book, creases in the spine and dog-ears on the pages, marking favored or memorable passages that he never would have claimed for himself, because he'd thought them inadmissible.
( And fucking listen, you heathen, it wasn't a chair.
It was a whole-ass sofa down in the commonroom, a sofa that Mitsuru had helped extricate him from without a word because she is both a queen and a lady and even still, he doesn't want to think about it because it's just one of those things that he wouldn't mind forgetting. )
Shinji might not press too far, at least not within his own boundaries but the implication alone is enough to bring another flush of color to Akihiko's cheeks, the highest points of them, and he tries to dart his gaze off, again, to some nondescript point in the middle-ground but that question brings him back around again, holds him rapt, because it is something he's been thinking about as of late.
Just. Because. His missing dick, it seems, is of no real consequence when it comes down to it.
He shrugs, folding both arms over his chest in a way that makes it look like he's being defensive, but it's not. Not really. "Not. Really." He pauses. Stalls in a way that might make it seem like it's more of a loss than he's conveying.
no subject
He's never been good with words — neither of them have — and he supposes that might have been why they settled into friendship as well as they had, not needing words so much as an outlet for the ones they couldn't find.
He nods, but doesn't say anything, casting his smile down just the slightest bit, letting it slide into something a bit softer.
Because Shinjiro is always going to be able to read him like a well-loved book, creases in the spine and dog-ears on the pages, marking favored or memorable passages that he never would have claimed for himself, because he'd thought them inadmissible.
( And fucking listen, you heathen, it wasn't a chair.
It was a whole-ass sofa down in the commonroom, a sofa that Mitsuru had helped extricate him from without a word because she is both a queen and a lady and even still, he doesn't want to think about it because it's just one of those things that he wouldn't mind forgetting. )
Shinji might not press too far, at least not within his own boundaries but the implication alone is enough to bring another flush of color to Akihiko's cheeks, the highest points of them, and he tries to dart his gaze off, again, to some nondescript point in the middle-ground but that question brings him back around again, holds him rapt, because it is something he's been thinking about as of late.
Just. Because. His missing dick, it seems, is of no real consequence when it comes down to it.
He shrugs, folding both arms over his chest in a way that makes it look like he's being defensive, but it's not. Not really. "Not. Really." He pauses. Stalls in a way that might make it seem like it's more of a loss than he's conveying.
But it really isn't. Don't read too much into it.