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Goro lay beside Akira on a plane of grass, the golden sun filtered through the leaves of a nearby tree, the usual hustle and bustle of the city faded into the gentle rustle of the wind blowing through the trees. It was probably a bit too cold to have a picnic, and neither of them had a blanket so they’d had to sit straight on the grass, but Akira had gotten it into his head that he wanted to go to the park and what Akira wanted Akira got.
I’m spoiling him
, Goro thought to himself as he ran his bare fingers through the damp grass beside him. Indulging his every whim, insisting on paying for the pastry Akira wanted even though he knew the other had more money than he knew what to do with, letting him remove his gloves without a sound of protest, letting him twine their fingers together and run his thumb over his scarred knuckles with such care and adoration it sent shivers through his body.
Ridiculous. Laying beside his rival, his enemy, the boy he would ultimately have to ruin one way or another like they were lovers. But… weren’t they? He tightened his grip on the grass. What were they? How did Akira see him? As a friend? A rival? A lover? A boyfriend? And how did Goro see him? He felt the grass strands snap beneath his fingers. Rivals. They were rivals. They were both insistent on that, as strange as it might seem to others. But rivals didn’t kiss. Rivals didn’t cuddle up beside each other on a dusty, rickety couch. Rivals didn’t lay together on a plane of grass with their hands intertwined and the sun painting their skin golden.
Or did they? Him and Akira did. No matter how much Goro might protest, might argue, both with himself and Akira, might try to pull away, to put distance between them, to end this inane relationship Akira insisted on cultivating, they still ended up here. Ended up beside each other. Ended up pretending they were something more. Something like friends. Like lovers. Like boyfriends. It was Akira’s fault. It was all Akira’s fault. It was his fault all Goro’s plans had been put in disarray, his fault the act he’d perfect for years was cracking, his fault he couldn’t bring himself to pull away, even though he knew he should.
Akira, with his knife sharp, challenging smirks. Akira, with his ridiculous, messy hair. Akira, with his gunmetal eyes knocking the breath from his lungs anytime he removed those stupid glasses. Akira, with his stubborn insistence on
justice
and seeing the
good
in the world. He was naive. Naive and stupid and headstrong and stubborn and saccharine and so infuriatingly, agonizingly, horribly
good
. He was a mystery. Strange and unsolvable. And perhaps that’s why Goro found himself getting pulled back in every time he tried to distance himself. Drawn in by mysteries he couldn’t solve, quirks he couldn’t explain.
He turned his head to look at his rival. He was smiling. Smiling that big, dumb,
fond
smile he always got on his lips when they were together. He was beautiful. Annoyingly beautiful. Infuriatingly beautiful. Beautiful in the way that made you want to
ruin it
. Or maybe that was just Goro. Maybe that was just his personal, fucked up way of looking at the world. He didn’t know. All he knew was that when Akira smiled like that he wanted to
break him
. To close his hands around his throat and run his nails down his back until he drew blood and bite down on those stupid, soft lips until they were bruised and bloodied and all Akira’s saccharine sentimentality faded into a beautiful mix of fear and excitement and
arousal
. Maybe that was just their personal brand of fucked up. Maybe that was just their own messed up version of something that was meant to be soft and kind and loving.
Akira’s head tilted to face him, grey eyes cracking open to watch him, smile softening into something even more painful as his pupils dilated and his cheeks blushed. He looked soft. Fond. Smitten. Goro swallowed past the lump in his throat and covered the grimace tugging at his lips by kissing him. Akira hummed against his lips and squeezed his hand and brought his free arm up to cup his cheek, kissing him back softly, easily, lovingly. Like they were something more than what they were. Like they were something more than two boys pretending this could end in anything other than heartbreak.