A poor kicked kitten, that’s what Akira resembled as. After taking the hit Minjae blows on his arm, he winces more in slight surprise than of the pain the impact made on his muscle. The kid has the side of his head against the transparent tinted window of his friend’s car, his body curled protectively – and just like the instinct he had overgrown to, he kicks his shoes off the carpet floor to plant the heels of his feet on the edge of the cushion. Fetal positions like this makes him feel the most comfortable and he only ever does this when he’s alone in his room or a scenario with Minjae is happening. Scooting the farthest away from Minjae as he shoots him a look of pure hurt, there are eyes that glint in a layer of fake tears. He clutches at the fabric of his shirt close to his chest, pretending to be heartbroken and it’s absolutely wrenching, the face he makes – accompanied with Akira’s voice cracking in the middle of the sentence.
“Ah, man. This hurts my pride, really. You think my talent is easily sabotaged by a few sticks of tobacco? Truly, you don’t believe in me, hyung. I feel betrayed.”
Akira drops the subject in the end, closing the glove compartment with his toes, feet resting on the dashboard and he’s enjoying his position, really. His forearms on his knees and his head tucked neatly into it, smiling to himself as he secures his face out of Minjae’s sight, he’s grinning in secrecy, almost like a child getting the first taste of rebellion on the very tip of his tongue, too determined to let the trivia of such vice to slip off of his lips. This is why he’s hiding his cackling, he doesn’t know what’s funny, in all honesty, but he finds the words his hyung is saying too spontaneous. The younger misses this. They barely had time to hang out, it’s the schedules, sometimes it has something to do with Akira’s business of being busy and in other cases, he’s too wired at fretting. ‘Ah, a phone call would bother him, that I am sure of,’ ‘he must be practicing – what if he’s at rehearsal, maybe another time.’ Akira pops all these questions on his brain the same way he does with a bottle of champagne on the nights he gets his free time. He’s always so damn jealous of Minjae’s friends and he can’t hide it even when he tried, So, he’s thanking that finally – finally, this trip happened in a whim, the hours of driving, the sudden plans, the organized vacation that only took one phone call. For one short weekend, Akira is sure this will be the longest (and only) bond he’d be able to snatch from the male before reality snaps back at them in the neck and powder the heavy weight of responsibility on their backs when they return to the time-consuming lifestyle at Seoul city that awaits for them.
Back at topic, Akira’s inaudible chuckle becomes obvious when he’s shuddering at the passenger’s seat, head shooting up, the back hitting the head rest with a solid thud and he’s gasping for air, face red. “You wouldn’t know what a torched asshole would smell like, unless you eat ass.”
The boy’s corny like that.
Akira is crawling to Minjae, he kneels on the chair he was sitting at moments ago, hands heavy on the boy’s shoulder blade. The boy’s leaning in, whispering lips blowing air into his hyung’s earlobe. He snorts, finally muttering a coherent sentence. “Do you wanna try that on me, though. Hmn, Min-kkuma?” He’s throwing his head back, going back to his seat, arms hugging his stomach and he’s shrilling in delight.”I’m kidding, I’m – ah,” He wipes a tear (real, this time,) off the side of his eye, finally catching his breath, a lazy smile on his face. “Okay, for real, I’ll open the car window, I’m taking one drag.” He notions a thumb behind his back before feeling for his pants pocket, half an empty pack – Akira stands corrected, there’s three sticks left, two now – and pinches the lighter out of his breast pocket. He looks over at his hyung, lips already closed on the end of the cigar, eyes hopeful yet obedient, as though waiting for a signal of permission or a shake of a head.
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