Leblanc is quiet after a busy coffee-filled afternoon. The cafe has been closed for over an hour now, but it still smells of savory curry. To Akira, it smells like home — like Tokyo, the place where he met his friends. And Sojiro, who is fiddling with jars of coffee beans behind the counter. There isn't much left to clean up or even organize, and yet he remains when usually he would be rushing home to Futaba by now. He taught Akira well, and everything has already been wiped down and set in its proper place.
Sojiro keeps sighing, too, and Akira can't help but smile at this.
"Is there something you need?" he asks, a hint of playfulness in his voice as he folds up his apron and sets it on the counter.
"It's just — my back," Sojiro complains, hand at his waist as he stretches.
"Of course." Akira nods, gesturing toward one of the cafe booths for Sojiro to have a seat. Sojiro's shoes scratch against the floor as he takes his time moseying over to him, and once he finally sits down, the cushion on the bench squeaks beneath him.
Then Akira sets to work, rubbing at his shoulders through the fabric of his dress shirt. His fingers trail up his neck, and Akira leans in to feel even more of that slight quaking he tries to hide. Sojiro is thinking of something else for his fingers to do, something more, and Akira wants to give it to him — if he'll only ask. He's tracing along the shape of his shoulder blades with his thumbs when Sojiro reaches back to touch his arm.
"You can do it harder. I'm not gonna break."
Now, as Akira massages him, Sojiro huffs with appreciation. His eyes are closed, and Akira watches the calmness that paints his face, the relaxation he's letting himself slip into. It's a tight fit, but Akira hops up onto the bench to sit in Sojiro's lap, bodies pressed together even as he still rubs circles into his shoulders. When he kisses Sojiro, the rims of their glasses bump and his beard scratches at Akira's chin, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He tastes like coffee and curry, all the flavors Akira has come to know and love.
"You have no idea what you do to me," Sojiro says, hand dipping beneath the hem of Akira's shirt to touch his waist. His fingers are cold, but Akira loves the feeling of his skin against him, of the intimacy they share. People always seem surprised at the loving nature of their relationship, but that doesn't bother him. They have no idea what Sojiro is like when they're alone, how happy he makes him behind closed doors.
Akira shakes his head, pressing his hips closer, curling his fingers in Sojiro's hair. He kisses him again, tongue tracing his lips as Sojiro's hand slides lower and lower.
No, he has a good idea of how exactly he affects Sojiro.