#kunimi akira living on my mind rent free wassup

[wantaichi]

vibrance | kunimi a.

synopsis: you’re careless and drunk and in love at one am, and so is akira. genre: fluff, self-indulgence (hahaha) word count: 546

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cobalt bled into magenta on the ceiling, washing over your skin as you twirled around draped in his oversized shirt, not so teal anymore under tinted pixie lights. a sliver of lace peeked from beneath the shirt. teasing.

melancholic synths began to seep between the cadence of percussion, to which you spun around and swayed and interlaced your fingers above your head as if performing a ritual - like you were offering yourself to him and only him and, briefly, kunimi thought it should be the other way around. 

the sight of you was nothing short of ethereal; a sensation like he was spiraling into a place where time and space ceased to exist. a barren dimension where it was just the two of you—and it was.

here, in the dregs of this miyagi neighborhood, in this run down apartment of yours with walls decorated in gaudy, vintage floral wallpaper. kunimi had looked at them with distaste the first time you brought him home. they conjured a depressing image in his mind, of lonely old ladies who fell asleep on the couch with the television still on, dully illuminating their frail bodies - he considered asking you to move out of this shithole.

but as nights of staying over trickled into weeks, as tender mornings greeted him less with the white walls of his apartment and more with the faded patterns of yours, the more they grew on him—like small weeds making him a part of your home.

they reminded him of things you both had in common. the blotted stains left by past owners. the slightly ruined and peeling corners, revealing patches of sullen, gray concrete behind its pretty exterior. the misaligned vines and stems struggling to connect so that whoever was looking made sense of the image.

only you made sense out of each other.

kunimi put out the lit end of his stick and discarded it on the ashtray on the floor. he lay sideways on the couch, propping himself on one elbow and watching you dance your silly moves at the center of your living room. careless and drunk and in love at one in the morning while the city was asleep.

your eyes met in the middle of your twirl and you smiled, sauntering towards him, holding an arm out.

“dance with me.”

“make me,” he laughed.

“akira..”

and just like that, with his name on your lips, he felt an ache of futile tenderness in him and impulsively reached out, the dull-colored wires inside him flickering with heat and discharging bright colors as vibrant as once upon a time.

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