[ It shouldn't surprise him. He knows Akechi loves them, talks about them to his friends. Surely it stands to reason that he also tells other people, but–
Still. There's something particularly touching about hearing that he's told a near stranger about Maruki. ]
[ Jazz Jin is exactly as Akechi's long, long list of attractions described – tucked away, darkened, peaceful. The atmosphere is warm and calm, the staff unobtrusive but pleasant. The music that plays from the band onstage has a way of washing over one's mind to calm and clear it.
All at once, it makes sense why Akechi loves it so much. They've done their best for their son, but he has always been someone who thinks too much. Even as a child, running headfirst into trouble, it was never because he wasn't thinking. The circuitous track his mind ran back to his mother's death, over and over, wore all three of them out at times.
Muhen's face lights up with fondness when Maruki introduces himself at the bar and mentions his son gave him the recommendation. Akechi is known, seen, appreciated. He's a kind man. Discrete. The kind of adult Maruki would want Akechi to be able to depend on if he weren't around.
Why wouldn't he be around?
Rumi's parents are getting older. Maruki's own passed away while he was in college, just barely older than Akechi. The already small circle of their family will slowly get tinier. They've been having difficult conversations lately. About an old dream of moving to the countryside versus the practicality of staying in the city, and what to do with the house when it does get passed to them, and visions of their future surrounded by children and grandchildren as they enter their own old age that won't come to pass after all. They aren't unhappy with their life. Far from it. He tells Rumi all the time, lips pressed to her temple and eyes closed, that he's the happiest he could be in any reality, and he means it. These are just things they have to deal with as humans in the world. It's okay. All three of them face everything together.
He sits at one of the tables, whiskey sour in hand, and watches the singer take the stage.
Her voice is lovely, rich and resonant.
He feels like crying.
Why does he feel like crying?
He blinks. He isn't crying, but his eyes sting like he is. Dark lashes grow a little heavier when they catch dampness. Out of the blurry corner of one eye, he thinks he sees–
A mop of brown hair, a red scarf bundled into a tan overcoat, a terrible posture and a multicolored drink in his hands.
He turns his head. The singer shifts into her next song. The brief vision is gone, if it was ever there to begin with.
There's a weight on his chest like a small child who can't sleep alone. There's an ache around his wrist like someone clinging on for life. There's a cavernous space at the back of his skull that never had a reason to be filled with the weight of the world's pains.
There's his phone in his pocket, buzzing with a message from Rumi asking why he's telling their son stories about that pathetic cult, and then with a message from Akechi, a photo of his winning darts score against Akira.
There's an old bedtime story about a prince and a castle resurfacing in his mind.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i lied, i have a mean wrap for you soon. but not yet. you're not free yet
Still. There's something particularly touching about hearing that he's told a near stranger about Maruki. ]
You have?
oh? mean? to me? for WHAT
There is no reality where you aren't known among those I associate with.
: )
Go have fun. I'll text you my full review when I get home tonight. (ɔˆ ³(ˆᴗˆc)
no subject
♪♪♪
[As if it isn't permanently affixed to his person ANYWAY. Don't @ him about it.]
no subject
All at once, it makes sense why Akechi loves it so much. They've done their best for their son, but he has always been someone who thinks too much. Even as a child, running headfirst into trouble, it was never because he wasn't thinking. The circuitous track his mind ran back to his mother's death, over and over, wore all three of them out at times.
Muhen's face lights up with fondness when Maruki introduces himself at the bar and mentions his son gave him the recommendation. Akechi is known, seen, appreciated. He's a kind man. Discrete. The kind of adult Maruki would want Akechi to be able to depend on if he weren't around.
Why wouldn't he be around?
Rumi's parents are getting older. Maruki's own passed away while he was in college, just barely older than Akechi. The already small circle of their family will slowly get tinier. They've been having difficult conversations lately. About an old dream of moving to the countryside versus the practicality of staying in the city, and what to do with the house when it does get passed to them, and visions of their future surrounded by children and grandchildren as they enter their own old age that won't come to pass after all. They aren't unhappy with their life. Far from it. He tells Rumi all the time, lips pressed to her temple and eyes closed, that he's the happiest he could be in any reality, and he means it. These are just things they have to deal with as humans in the world. It's okay. All three of them face everything together.
He sits at one of the tables, whiskey sour in hand, and watches the singer take the stage.
Her voice is lovely, rich and resonant.
He feels like crying.
Why does he feel like crying?
He blinks. He isn't crying, but his eyes sting like he is. Dark lashes grow a little heavier when they catch dampness. Out of the blurry corner of one eye, he thinks he sees–
A mop of brown hair, a red scarf bundled into a tan overcoat, a terrible posture and a multicolored drink in his hands.
He turns his head. The singer shifts into her next song. The brief vision is gone, if it was ever there to begin with.
There's a weight on his chest like a small child who can't sleep alone. There's an ache around his wrist like someone clinging on for life. There's a cavernous space at the back of his skull that never had a reason to be filled with the weight of the world's pains.
There's his phone in his pocket, buzzing with a message from Rumi asking why he's telling their son stories about that pathetic cult, and then with a message from Akechi, a photo of his winning darts score against Akira.
There's an old bedtime story about a prince and a castle resurfacing in his mind.
There are no more what ifs. ]