Random ficlet, because I CAN. ^_^
Because after seeing Mai-HIME, my muse has been insisting on Akira/Takumi fanfic relentlessly. And I agreed, because I adore that pairing so much.
...and I really don't know where this came from, but it's a little odd. And unbeta'd but spellchecked. Soooo.
Title: Reality
Series: Mai-HIME
Pairing: Akira/Takumi
Rating: ehhh, PG-13ish?
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 17 and earlier. ^__^
Bathing was the best and worst of the world.
On edge, triple-checking the lock, pulling curtains tight across the tub in case somehow the lock should fail; ready at any second to jerk, dip, dive beneath the surface of the water, to hide any incriminating evidence of her gender and secret. Her ears she kept tuned to the door, waiting for the familiar creek and call of another person. This was how she first dealt with her new roommate, a scrawny stem of a boy whose presence sent all her instincts into high gear -- this is how she would continue to deal with him, she told herself coldly, until a single room opened up somewhere and she could leave.
Father said she could never be found out, and by all her clan stood for, Akira never would be.
So locks were checked and re-checked; wrappings were bound ever tighter; and everything in her messed up little world grew a little more chaotic.
But it was worth it.
It was worth it, for the moments of time that would be hers and completely hers; amidst the steam and sweat of the bath, breasts unbound and resting lightly against her chest, muscles relaxing in the warm water -- she could not be a boy all the time, however much of her own personality she twisted and twined into his false little world. Akira was Akira, sex be damned, but those little things, like being able to cup a hand against her breast and feel not tape but soft, pliable skin, those were what separated the realities.
But as time passed, so did her dedication.
Takumi, for all his unassuming brilliance at times, was not in any way a cunning boy. There were times when Akira wondered if he would even notice if she made a tiny slip-up -- bindings perhaps too loose, word choice too feminine. He really was not the type of person to notice such things, she decided after a time of studying. Takumi paid attention to people, but not to bodies or words; the first time he offered her food, Akira was so taken aback she had to bite her tongue not to accept. Instead, she fell back on to familiar lectures on manliness, denying his offer insistently.
"Oh, I see what you mean," Takumi would agree, smiling in that odd sort of way he did. "So, would you like some food, Akira-kun?"
Takumi was infuriating at times -- frustrating nearly always -- but he was not one for noticing details.
So slowly, over time, her nerves began to dull. Takumi's presence registered in her mind to the point of fading into the background, like a pleasant hum: present but no longer particularly noticeable to her more jumpy instincts. During the rare times that they had visitors -- Takumi was rather shy, for all his kindness, and Akira felt no urge to seek out people --, she would be on alert again, strict and careful in all she did. It was so much so that once, after a couple boys in their study group had gone home, Takumi politely asked if she was feeling okay and needed to lie down. (Akira spent the night after that trying to calm her nerves by spending more time with other people. Within twenty minutes, other people bored her and she spent the evening training instead.)
Takumi didn't seem to notice any variations in her mask, except the few times she tried too hard. And all things considered, Akira didn't see any reason why he should -- he certainly wasn't a imitation of utter masculinity, and in fact, Akira was pretty sure she made a much better man. Her cousins growing up would have supported that: Takumi cooked and spoke softly, wore aprons and teased gently, all things more befitting of a woman's nature than a man's. Every night, he offered Akira dinner, until finally she got sick of being walked in on so regularly and just acquiesced, because it was easier than yelling at him to stay on his side of the line every time. The kitchen remained spotless, the room itself remained neat, and considering Akira never touched anything outside her own fabric barrier, she could only assume that Takumi did it all.
It felt nice to be taken care of, even if she didn't ask for it.
Akira supposed that, if nothing else, instigated it all. A strange sort of possessiveness she had never truly known before, one that looked at Takumi's shaky breathing and frail physique and accepted it all, upbringing be damned. Takumi didn't need to be powerful or quick, like Father had claimed all boys should -- he didn't need to be any of those things if Akira was there, because she was all those things and could be strong for him.
And with that began a strange, symbiotic sort of friendship.
That friendship, formed of insistent offers and protective urges, began to slowly dismantle all of Akira's carefully constructed barriers. They came down one by one, so naturally and quietly that suddenly, she was teasing him at the festival for being such a bad athlete, and he would pout and reply, "Hey, Akira-kun, you're just rubbing it in!" He'd look up and meet her eyes, laughing despite his protests, and for a brief split second, nothing else was at all important.
That was when she first realized her mistake, but by then, it was too late. Soon, Akira kept finding excuses to touch him, poke him, prod him, slap him on the back; all for the purpose of feeling his form underneath her hand. Never anything too much -- every move was impulsive, yet purposefully mastered -- but never quite enough either.
And Akira began to feel her realities slipping, inch by inch and foot by foot, until it was hard to separate the two anymore. It simply wasn't fair that he got Takumi all to himself, and she -- she, of the hazy steam and clear water -- would come out unexpected, saying things only barely kept in check.
Her edges never slipped -- locks remained checked and checked again, curtains remained pulled, and the tight walls around her secret remained solid.
But Akira often wondered, within the heavy heat of the bath, what would happen if the doors unlocked. If Takumi, as carelessly and guilelessly as he did everything, were to walk in, calling, "Akira-kun, I made dinner--" and see her there. (She knew what would happen, in reality, but this was not real and Akira let herself sink deeper into the warm, engulfing water.) He would flush, stammer, and probably panic at seeing his naked roommate, soft breasts and slowly forming curves--
And usually, that was where she stopped. Shivered in the heat, eyes nervously darting around for false enemies witnessing her embarrassment.
Other times -- particularly trying days, and when Takumi was gone to visit his sister --, she would relax enough to continue the fantasy, and wondered what it would be like to see Takumi beyond his own barriers; envisioned what it would be like to touch a shoulder not covered in cloth, one which streamed down into a thin torso and soft abdomen. It was during these moments, and only these, that Akira allowed herself to close her eyes, focusing in on thin lips and a long, pale neck. Her hand dipped below the water as silently as she breathed, and Takumi in her mind would smile just as kindly as he always had, eyes on her and only her.
And when Takumi returned, long after Akira was dried, bound and clothed again, she would feel a wrenching sort of guilt in her chest.
But Takumi never noticed -- Akira was good at playing pretend.
Perhaps it was fate's idea of a joke -- when it all finally came crashing down around her head -- to end it all within the bathroom. Takumi opened the door and saw, and Akira could feel her fantasies dissolving in the water of her own sins. They stared into each other eyes, but only until Takumi gasped, fretted and turned abruptly, dashing out of the room as quick as his frail body could handle it.
In that moment, everything that had been bent was broken, and Akira could feel the last barrier on her heart shuddering and holding still.
A snap and flurry into action--
Reality collided.
...and I really don't know where this came from, but it's a little odd. And unbeta'd but spellchecked. Soooo.
Title: Reality
Series: Mai-HIME
Pairing: Akira/Takumi
Rating: ehhh, PG-13ish?
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 17 and earlier. ^__^
Bathing was the best and worst of the world.
On edge, triple-checking the lock, pulling curtains tight across the tub in case somehow the lock should fail; ready at any second to jerk, dip, dive beneath the surface of the water, to hide any incriminating evidence of her gender and secret. Her ears she kept tuned to the door, waiting for the familiar creek and call of another person. This was how she first dealt with her new roommate, a scrawny stem of a boy whose presence sent all her instincts into high gear -- this is how she would continue to deal with him, she told herself coldly, until a single room opened up somewhere and she could leave.
Father said she could never be found out, and by all her clan stood for, Akira never would be.
So locks were checked and re-checked; wrappings were bound ever tighter; and everything in her messed up little world grew a little more chaotic.
But it was worth it.
It was worth it, for the moments of time that would be hers and completely hers; amidst the steam and sweat of the bath, breasts unbound and resting lightly against her chest, muscles relaxing in the warm water -- she could not be a boy all the time, however much of her own personality she twisted and twined into his false little world. Akira was Akira, sex be damned, but those little things, like being able to cup a hand against her breast and feel not tape but soft, pliable skin, those were what separated the realities.
But as time passed, so did her dedication.
Takumi, for all his unassuming brilliance at times, was not in any way a cunning boy. There were times when Akira wondered if he would even notice if she made a tiny slip-up -- bindings perhaps too loose, word choice too feminine. He really was not the type of person to notice such things, she decided after a time of studying. Takumi paid attention to people, but not to bodies or words; the first time he offered her food, Akira was so taken aback she had to bite her tongue not to accept. Instead, she fell back on to familiar lectures on manliness, denying his offer insistently.
"Oh, I see what you mean," Takumi would agree, smiling in that odd sort of way he did. "So, would you like some food, Akira-kun?"
Takumi was infuriating at times -- frustrating nearly always -- but he was not one for noticing details.
So slowly, over time, her nerves began to dull. Takumi's presence registered in her mind to the point of fading into the background, like a pleasant hum: present but no longer particularly noticeable to her more jumpy instincts. During the rare times that they had visitors -- Takumi was rather shy, for all his kindness, and Akira felt no urge to seek out people --, she would be on alert again, strict and careful in all she did. It was so much so that once, after a couple boys in their study group had gone home, Takumi politely asked if she was feeling okay and needed to lie down. (Akira spent the night after that trying to calm her nerves by spending more time with other people. Within twenty minutes, other people bored her and she spent the evening training instead.)
Takumi didn't seem to notice any variations in her mask, except the few times she tried too hard. And all things considered, Akira didn't see any reason why he should -- he certainly wasn't a imitation of utter masculinity, and in fact, Akira was pretty sure she made a much better man. Her cousins growing up would have supported that: Takumi cooked and spoke softly, wore aprons and teased gently, all things more befitting of a woman's nature than a man's. Every night, he offered Akira dinner, until finally she got sick of being walked in on so regularly and just acquiesced, because it was easier than yelling at him to stay on his side of the line every time. The kitchen remained spotless, the room itself remained neat, and considering Akira never touched anything outside her own fabric barrier, she could only assume that Takumi did it all.
It felt nice to be taken care of, even if she didn't ask for it.
Akira supposed that, if nothing else, instigated it all. A strange sort of possessiveness she had never truly known before, one that looked at Takumi's shaky breathing and frail physique and accepted it all, upbringing be damned. Takumi didn't need to be powerful or quick, like Father had claimed all boys should -- he didn't need to be any of those things if Akira was there, because she was all those things and could be strong for him.
And with that began a strange, symbiotic sort of friendship.
That friendship, formed of insistent offers and protective urges, began to slowly dismantle all of Akira's carefully constructed barriers. They came down one by one, so naturally and quietly that suddenly, she was teasing him at the festival for being such a bad athlete, and he would pout and reply, "Hey, Akira-kun, you're just rubbing it in!" He'd look up and meet her eyes, laughing despite his protests, and for a brief split second, nothing else was at all important.
That was when she first realized her mistake, but by then, it was too late. Soon, Akira kept finding excuses to touch him, poke him, prod him, slap him on the back; all for the purpose of feeling his form underneath her hand. Never anything too much -- every move was impulsive, yet purposefully mastered -- but never quite enough either.
And Akira began to feel her realities slipping, inch by inch and foot by foot, until it was hard to separate the two anymore. It simply wasn't fair that he got Takumi all to himself, and she -- she, of the hazy steam and clear water -- would come out unexpected, saying things only barely kept in check.
Her edges never slipped -- locks remained checked and checked again, curtains remained pulled, and the tight walls around her secret remained solid.
But Akira often wondered, within the heavy heat of the bath, what would happen if the doors unlocked. If Takumi, as carelessly and guilelessly as he did everything, were to walk in, calling, "Akira-kun, I made dinner--" and see her there. (She knew what would happen, in reality, but this was not real and Akira let herself sink deeper into the warm, engulfing water.) He would flush, stammer, and probably panic at seeing his naked roommate, soft breasts and slowly forming curves--
And usually, that was where she stopped. Shivered in the heat, eyes nervously darting around for false enemies witnessing her embarrassment.
Other times -- particularly trying days, and when Takumi was gone to visit his sister --, she would relax enough to continue the fantasy, and wondered what it would be like to see Takumi beyond his own barriers; envisioned what it would be like to touch a shoulder not covered in cloth, one which streamed down into a thin torso and soft abdomen. It was during these moments, and only these, that Akira allowed herself to close her eyes, focusing in on thin lips and a long, pale neck. Her hand dipped below the water as silently as she breathed, and Takumi in her mind would smile just as kindly as he always had, eyes on her and only her.
And when Takumi returned, long after Akira was dried, bound and clothed again, she would feel a wrenching sort of guilt in her chest.
But Takumi never noticed -- Akira was good at playing pretend.
Perhaps it was fate's idea of a joke -- when it all finally came crashing down around her head -- to end it all within the bathroom. Takumi opened the door and saw, and Akira could feel her fantasies dissolving in the water of her own sins. They stared into each other eyes, but only until Takumi gasped, fretted and turned abruptly, dashing out of the room as quick as his frail body could handle it.
In that moment, everything that had been bent was broken, and Akira could feel the last barrier on her heart shuddering and holding still.
A snap and flurry into action--
Reality collided.