"Sight," Persona 3 (Akihiko/Junpei)
Title: Sight Author: sheffiesharpe Fandom: Persona 3 Pairing: Akihiko/Junpei Rating: PG-13 Length: 1200 Spoilers: Minor for July full moon Prompt: aftermath/the day after - "Just so we're clear, I'm only helping you out because I have no other choice." A/N: Epic fail of lateness. So, so sorry, dear March 12.
After the hotel, Junpei won’t so much as look at him. He avoids the others, too, Akihiko sees, and that’s some slight comfort, but at least he’ll make eye contact. When Akihiko walks into rooms, Junpei walks out of them, and Mitsuru’s been giving him those arched-brow, expectant looks, as though he knows what to tell her. As if he could. But that’s between him and Junpei, whatever it was. The memory is so clouded in sweet haze, the sharpest part of it Fuuka’s voice, that he’d swear it had been a dream, something simply hallucinated, but hallucinations don’t leave hickeys. There had been one below Junpei’s shirt collar, low enough that the undone buttons were clearly a thing of purpose. And Akihiko’s gloves had been off, and the tuck of his shirt askew—that’s the part he’s not thinking about. He doesn’t want it to be more than the vague haze, because if it solidifies, if he finds clarity in the back of his mind—no. Junpei’s already not looking, not talking, not seeing him. Anything Akihiko wants now won’t help. So he keeps his peace, says nothing about it, says nothing to Junpei at all because what could he say that Junpei would listen to? What could he say that wasn’t more of whatever it is about him now that keeps Junpei in separate rooms from him, unless the mission—the Chairman, Mitsuru—dictates it? It’s been almost functional. And eventually Junpei will wear down. He’ll forget or stop caring, the way he goes from glaring daggers at Minato’s back everytime he’s walking some new girl home from school to swapping video games and CDs like they’re oxygen. It’ll blow over. It has to.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and the weather’s too bad to risk a run—rain sideways, hail, lightning—Polydeuces or not, he’s not stupid. He stands at the window and watches the trees whip, his palms itching with idleness. He’s dragging the armchairs back against the wall before he knows what he’s doing. There’s enough room in the lobby that he can at least shadow-box, run himself around the ring in his mind if the gym’s closed for the weekend and he can’t go for a jog. The chairs are pleasantly heavy, the coffee table awkward enough to take real effort, but the couch is a problem. Heavy as it is, it must be a pull-out—the lounge is suddenly more interesting for that—and it’s got the kind of beat-to-hell metal feet that won’t slide on the carpet. He picks up one side as best he can, shuffles it a step, feels the catch and resistance and if he messes up the carpet, rips it with the dragging, that won’t be good. He puts it down, and thunder claps, and there’s electricity in the air from the storm and the friction static. Picking up the other side, he shuffles another step, the couch not even pivoting for him. It’s not that heavy—it just won’t move, and he’s considering just using the space he has, but it’s not quite regulation and that bothers him. He startles when he sees Junpei at the corner of his eye, and Junpei tosses a handful of cardboard squares at him. Of course they don’t hit, only flip flat against the air and drop, too heavy to drift. Junpei rolls his eyes, kicks the closest one forward. It’s part of a box form a computer game, and the other half of it is by Akihiko’s left foot. The other two are from a notebook cover, the blank side graphite-blackened with Junpei’s doodles (and all of them are on fire, little sketchy flames curling up). Akihiko stares. He’s not sure what just happened.
Junpei lifts his hat, resettles it, turns it backwards like he did at the beach. “Gekkoukan’s Golden Boy doesn’t know how to move a couch?”
“It’s moving.” Akihiko bends, hooks his fingers under the bottom of the couch once again, and tugs it another six inches.
“Barely.” Junpei is standing closer than he has in days. “Move,” he says. “Last thing we need is you getting a hernia or something.”
Akihiko wants to argue, to say he’s fine, that he doesn’t need help, but this is almost like normal except that Junpei still doesn’t look at him. So he steps back, enough that Junpei can kneel beside the couch. He takes one of the cardboard pieces—he has to reach for it, almost overbalances, almost but not quite, just like every time he swings his sword—and puts it under the couch’s front foot. Straining muscle cords his forearm, and when he scoots to the back leg on his knees, Akihiko hands him another piece of cardboard, then lifts. Junpei glares again—three degrees to the left of Aki’s face—but he slides the makeshift coaster under the leg while Aki holds the couch. They both reach for the next piece at the same time. The static discharges in a spark Akihiko can see, and Junpei yanks his hand clear when their fingers touch.
“Man, save the zapping shit for Tartarus.” He walks around the couch, grabs the last coaster on his way. He keeps his back to Akihiko, but he shifts enough that Akihiko can lift the couch again, places both at once. When they’re settled, Junpei stands, and the set-up makes sense. Junpei gives the couch a push, and he has to put his weight into it, but the couch slides, fairly easily. “There. Now you can do…whatever you were doing.”
“More boxing.” Akihiko’s shrug is almost an apology. Junpei told him before he needs to take a day off, to relax, but that’s not today. “Thanks.”
Junpei turns his hat forward again. “Like I said. Can’t afford to have you messed up again just because you don’t have any other hobbies.” He’s still not looking at Akihiko, but when Aki puts his hands on the front of the couch and pushes, Junpei waves him down to the other arm, and it slides clear to the wall, like it was on rails.
He’s back upstairs again before Akihiko finishes lacing on his regulation gloves, and the thunder pulses again outside, lightning flashing white at the windows. It’s not three minutes later—he knows how time elapses while he’s training—that the whole place goes dark, the faint hum of the lights and the constant sound of Junpei’s computer on the floor above silenced. There’s enough light from the window that he doesn’t have to stop, though the back of the room falls black. By the time he’s gotten to his imaginary third round, his shoulders feeling loose and easy and his feet light, he thinks there might be someone sitting back at the bar. He won’t look, but he knows when he’s being watched. He wonders how long it will take for it to happen again in plain sight, but looking over his shoulder every other punch won’t help, either. He throws two right jabs and a left hook, shattering something in his memory—those damn mirrors, he decides—and does it again. Break them all, until the only thing anyone is seeing is what’s there.