Chapter Text
He has to be sneaky, the first time.
Aquamarine light reflects off Akechi's skin. The jellyfish on display drift and bob in place, levitating through the water like they have been bound by supernatural means. The way the illuminance bounces off his cheeks and into his dark, coppery eyes could have been a spell of its own.
"Most moon jellyfish in the wild become adults and then die all within the same summer." Akechi hovers his fingers over the glass, avoiding the faux pas of disturbing the fish. "Sad, isn't it? Not much of a life to live."
Akira lines up the photo he is about to take with the viewfinder, visualizing the imaginary grid in his mind to adjust the composition. Akechi's face is framed by the light perfectly, chin tilted just enough to catch the angles of his jaw, his nose, the slope of his neck to his shoulder… The jellyfish in the glass surround him—larger than life.
His finger taps the shutter button, with an almost silent hum of satisfaction. The photograph slides out with a mechanical whirring. Akira plucks it from the feeder.
"Decided you needed a photo of more than just the fish?" Akechi had turned around in that moment, his tone somewhere dangerously between teasing and provocation. His eyes glare down at the photograph between Akira's fingers.
"Couldn't help myself." Akira adjusts his glasses. They had moved just a few centimeters while pressed up against the viewfinder. Akechi reaches to take the photo, Akira pulls his hand back. "Give it a second to develop."
"I'm sure you are aware of how impolite it is to take photos of someone without asking." Akechi turns his back to Akira, squaring himself off between his not-date and the cylindrical shape of the jellyfish tank.
"I wasn't going to get another chance at this one." Akira peeks at the developing image, pleased with how it had processed. He takes the few steps to stand shoulder to shoulder with Akechi, handing the image to him.
Akechi goes stiff. His fingers gently hold the image like a fragile object. His expression oscillates from shock to embarrassment to emptiness. After a long moment, he turns to face Akira.
"This is how you see me?" The intensity of his eye contact made Akira's heart flip.
All he can do is nod.
Akechi hands the photo back to him wordlessly, walking down the hall to the next exhibit.
The second time is less than ideal. They make it work.
The moody lighting in Jazz Jin typically would require flash to make out any sort of shape or subject in a photo. Akira knows this, but something about the way Akechi leans forward on the table as he watches the performance makes him want to try it, anyway.
Akira has made a habit of bringing his camera with him everywhere, just in case a moment calls to him. The photos he has been taking now adorn the attic walls, giving warmth to a room that is still notoriously bare. Photos of Ann, Ryuji and Yusuke have populated his room like they have wondrously populated his life with a new sense of meaning and connection. Akechi had carved his way into a much larger percentage of his life—and thoughts— over the last few months. He deserves a larger percentage of attic real estate to match. He pulls the camera from his bag, fiddling with a few buttons to turn off the auto-flash and lengthen the exposure time.
Akechi notices from the corner of his eye. He smiles.
"May I?" Akira points to the camera, returning the smile with his own.
He still doesn't look at Akira, stirring his drink with his straw in thought. Then, he props his chin in his hand, the smile refusing to leave his lips. "Go ahead."
"Stay still." Akira stabilizes his hands by locking his elbows on the table, bracing himself to keep from blurring the image.
He hopes a 50 second exposure is long enough to capture enough contrast to see the way Akechi's eyelashes fan under his eyes. He wonders if it will be long enough to make out the way his fingers press into the line of his jaw. Or, if it will be long enough to show the curve at the corner of his lips hidden behind his thumb.
Twenty seconds in, Akechi moves to face Akira. He looks straight through him, his smile turning into a devilish smirk. His hand remains on his jawline, waiting for the exposure to finish. Akira lets out a breathy laugh, unable to fully allow it to vocalize or risk rest of the composition. The gentle mechanical sound of the feeder cuts through the air.
"You moved." Akira flips the image over, superstitious about exposing the image to more light while it appears on the film.
"You like taking voyeuristic photos."
He was right. "Do you want to see this one?"
"No." Akechi turns back to face the performance, returning to absorb the present moment.
Akira places his camera back and slides the image into an inner pocket of his bag.
When he returns back to Leblanc, he pulls it out to place it among the other images. Akira still had the black and white film from some previous experimenting left in the camera. So, the colors of the venue are replicated in tones, shown within the monochromatic contrast.
It was perfectly flawed. Akechi knew what he was doing. The length of the exposure was long enough to pick up the edges of his being. The shape of his eyes. The curve of his fingers. The waiting on his expression, now identifiably because he had something else in mind. The brief, eerie blur as he turned his head… The knowing stare straight into the lens. Akira feels a chill through his spine. He holds it up to the wall, considering its placement.
Akira places his lips into a line, feeling his face heat up.
He opens the drawer of his desk that holds his unused film, and places it there.
It has already become a game, by the third photo.
Akechi is bent over the billiards table, lining up the cue with in his personal, precise way. Akira stands behind him, head somewhere in the clouds as he enjoys the view. Akechi pauses longer than usual. He points his chin towards Akira, catching his eyes from the corner of his own.
"I thought you would have taken that ridiculous camera out by now."
Caught red handed. Sort of—his camera is still in his bag. Akira wishes he had thought of that.
"Your loss, I suppose." Akechi shrugs, making his shot. He pockets two of his remaining balls before standing and awaiting Akira's move.
"I'm starting to think you like it when I take photos of you." Akira takes an assessment of the table, pondering his options in his head. He is going to lose this game. Maybe it was due to the distractions.
"How many have you taken?" Akechi taps the cue stick in his hand.
"Just the two."
"Really? That's surprising."
Akira misses his shot, entirely. His heart rate feels is so inconsistent he feels dizzy.
"Are you giving me permission?"
"Permission to what? Debauch yourself in public?" Akechi tilts his head, grinning. His hair hangs off the nape of his neck so softly. "You've already done that."
That's permission, enough. Akira props his cue stick against the table, shuffling through his bag to grab his camera and fumble with the settings.
When he glances through the viewfinder, Akechi is already bent over the table again. He tucks the piece of his hair that frames the side of his face behind his ear. The side of his face that Akira is standing on. His gaze is focused on his now-guaranteed win— jaw tense, eyes stern. He had already brought it to attention, so, Akira doesn't hide his intention of getting the curve of his ass as a focal point in the frame. It's infuriating how good he looks. Obviously, a TV star would know his best angles. Akira taps the shutter button, which Akechi uses as his queue to strike.
Akechi spins around after the last of the movement on the table settles. "My win." He winks. "One more before we leave?"
That weekend Akira makes it a point to buy a photo album he can tuck away somewhere hidden. Just for him.
The fourth time, Akechi's heart isn't in it.
It's 7:30 in the morning at the station. Akira just finished saying goodbye to Yusuke, after taking a quick snapshot of him and the newly completed painting he was lugging from Leblanc and back to Kosei for class. The bright colors of the station and the contrasted variance of the crowd served well as a background for the muted palate of his subject. Akira tries to find a safe place for the photo despite Morgana's presence in his bag. He settles on placing it between some pages in one of his notebooks.
"Hello, Akira." Akechi's voice is muted, hesitant. It's a newer sound for him.
"Goro." Akira pats Morgana, a warning to not start anything unnecessary.
"I don't think we've ran into each other at the station in awhile."
It's late October. Goro had just played his hand at Shujin. Akira feels like he is still reeling from the whiplash.
"Been busy?"
"Very."
He looks tired. Though the conversation is stilted, Goro still turns towards Akira. They both have things they won't say. Not here.
"Taking photos this early?" Goro nods down at the camera, still in Akira's hands.
"The right image can strike at any time." He gives a half-hearted smile. Goro stares at the tracks.
"You sound like Kitagawa."
Akira doesn't have much to say to that observation. It is a pleasantly odd thing for Goro to know small facts of the people he has grown close with over this past year. He wishes Goro could see how much he could fit right in with his band of misfits.
"Can I?" Akira raises the camera.
"Out of convenience or because it's 'right'?" He avoids Akira's eyes.
"Both."
"Whatever you want."
Akira grabs a new pack of film to replace the empty one. He drops the old cartridge into the bag.
Goro gives him a pose straight from his instagram. The hints of his distanced demeanor melt away. The slight scrunch of his eyes lets that regal smile meet them halfway. There's a graceful tilt of his head, posed perfectly to accentuate his favorite features. A shame for him that Akira can see right through it. He covers the half of the lens Goro stands in frame of with his index finger, clicks the shutter and swiftly slides the film loading door open just enough. Nothing exits the feeder.
"Odd." Goro squints. "Is it not working?"
"Maybe I need to replace the batteries." Akira lies.
"Oh well. Maybe next time." Goro shrugs, settling into a more natural state in his body.
Akira presses the shutter again. The whirring of the feeder starts, slowly providing him with a new photograph.
Goro gasps, indignantly. "You—!"
"I didn't like the first one as much." Akira pulls the photo from the feeder, holding it close to him.
"I can't stand you." He tries to take the photo from Akira's hand. Goro's hand grasps along Akira's fingers, accidentally trailing to his chest in his scattered attempt at reclaiming his image. It feels like placing his hand on a searing hot stove. Goro takes a sharp breath through his nose, pulling back. The tips of his fingers tingle from the burns.
"Want to come to Leblanc after class?"
Goro oscillates from shock, to embarrassment, to emptiness. Akira has seen this plenty of times before.
"I'll think about it." He lands on.
"Text me later."
Akira gets lucky with a seat on the train. When he checks the photo, he's pleasantly surprised. The half of the frame he covered with his finger remained dark, ideal for a double exposure. It also allowed for the second image of Goro to be framed in deeper contrast, rather than the bright, overexposed colors of the station that the other half of the image still had. Something about his face here looks troubled. The knit of his eyebrows. The dark under his eyes.
Goro had called it voyeuristic. There was just something different about a good candid.
The fifth time feels like the last.
Akira has already mourned the dozens of pages he would never fill in the album he purchased. Goro would follow through with his plan and Akira would fruitlessly hope he will still come back. He'd forgive him. Maybe it's insane.
They had a late night. Akira wakes up to see the pink and orange beginnings of a sunrise. And the back of Goro's head, sitting up and staring at the same early scene.
"Morning." Akira announces as he rolls over, placing his hand on the small of Goro's bare back. Even as he grows familiar with the feeling, he wonders how such a rigid man can be so soft.
"Morning." He leans into the touch, pulling the blanket up closer to his chest. "It's freezing in here."
It's November. Of course it's cold. The heater hums along in the background. Akira nudges closer, supposedly for warmth.
"I should leave." Goro muses. It stings. Akira holds himself back from begging. Please, don't. We can figure this out. It doesn't have to be this way.
"You don't have to." Akira offers an alternative. He's always offering the alternative. Goro won't take it.
"It'd be suspicious." He runs his hands through his sleep-tangled hair. "I don't think Futaba would appreciate it."
"Assuming she will be here this morning."
"I don't know her schedule."
"Well, I'd handle her complaints, regardless." Akira digs his nails into his skin. Reel it back.
"You're an idiot."
Akira swallows back the feeling of his heart trying to escape out his mouth. I know I am. You're an idiot, too. Why won't you listen to me? I think I love you. I hate you for it. I hope I feel something when you shoot the other me. Maybe that will be closure. This week is going to haunt him for the rest of his life. The potential of everything he could ever want is glowing next to him in his fucked up, makeshift bed and it's going to get dressed and walk out any minute now.
His bag is strewn next to the bed alongside the remnants of yesterday's clothing. Just within reach.
"I was wondering when you'd decide to bring that out."
"You can always tell me no." Akira fusses with the settings, knowing exactly what would be right for the moment. Now, not in a few days. And, definitely not in a few months when he opens up his photo album and wants to tear himself apart at the seams.
"I like it." Goro admits. He didn't have to. But, it's nice to hear it with his voice.
Goro turns his face to look at the camera. There's something vulnerable there that isn't the remnants of the night before and isn't the amount of skin he's showing and will never—not once—be said in words. Akira touches his face, placing a thumb to his lips. Goro closes his eyes, the bright pinks and oranges of the beginnings of a sunrise providing him with an angelic halo he would never see himself. The whirring of the film feeder cycles through his head. Pounds in his ears. Pulls at his skin. Buzzes inside his bones.
Later, he'd put this one in the album hidden in the drawer that's full of photos that belong next to his pillow. And he'll act like it doesn't exist.