for the writing meme on tumblr, as requested by xballia. prompt: ghost/living person au

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another . . . . .,

. . . . . . .time

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The side of the bed next to Akashi's is empty, with crinkled sheets and blankets strewn so messily that they reach out, yearning, to the cold floor. The warmth is there, lingering like the coffee cup rings on the table that Furihata likes to consider as his tiny workplace during the weekends. Furihata never was one for saucers, and his sharp intakes of breath whenever he sees stains on his paperwork is as fresh as a daisy in Akashi's mind.

Akashi stares at the empty space for about five minutes before the alarm goes off, the shrill sound not even surprising anymore.

The dip under the covers as he slowly gets up is disappointingly shallow, all from heavy bones and loose shoulders and feeble fingers that have grown brittle from the loss of contact. Never mind this, he thinks, silencing the clock on his bedside table. The room is once again silent, except for the rapping of the wind against the window.

His nose picks up the wafting aroma of toast and bacon.

Patting the sheets to at least smooth out the wrinkles, Akashi lets his weary feet take him to the kitchen, where an all-too familiar hum reverberates in the walls. He forgets, every day, that Furihata had insisted on situating the kitchen right in front of the lawn just so he could read the morning paper in the company of the scent of grass. The sun is already overhead, and Akashi blinks the momentary blindness away.

The sizzle of oil is the first to greet him; the second, Furihata's astonishment, a squeak at the end of, "Sei."

The familiar name unravels the knotted threads in the pit of his stomach. Akashi smiles, the sunlight just hitting his irises right to make them radiate with something that's he's lost more times than he could count. "Kouki," he says, the lone word tasting like nectar and ashes and lies, but he walks forward anyway and reaches out, arms gravitating to where they're supposed to be. He buries his face in the curve of Furihata's neck. "I wasn't aware that you were already awake."

"I'm always up before you are," Furihata laughs, turning back to the stove to turn it off. He gathers the bacon strips and sets them on a white plate. It takes Akashi much of his will to stand up and withdraw his hands. "What's the matter, Sei? You're unusually...cuddly."

"You left the windows open," Akashi tells him, very well knowing that his expression does not give anything away. "I'm attempting to share some warmth."

Furihata has a fork in his hand, ready to eat breakfast, when he cocks his head to the side and says, "Ah, did I? Sorry about that."

Akashi does not reply immediately, inwardly sighing at another unnecessary apology. Whatever Furihata has to say is always in excess: his affections, his solace, his remorse. Akashi doubts that he can accept them all. "That's fine, Kouki," is the only thing he can say, pursing his lips soon after because he finds that none of the words he's made up in his head dare to come out, to spill.

They lapse into a comfortable silence on a Sunday morning, with Furihata leaving water rings on the table and Akashi observing as the brunet hastily wipes the side of his mouth once he starts chewing absent-mindedly. Outside, the wind is blowing lightly, ticking the leaves scattered on the ground.

When Akashi looks up again, the kitchen doesn't smell of breakfast and his alarm is ringing once more, completely in sync with the low rumble of his stomach. The morning paper is there, the crossword section half-finished, and the date reads something like six months ago.

Akashi opens his mouth to say something, but nothing is ever spoken as he traces the imprint of coffee stains under his palms.

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[. . .]

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Sometimes Furihata is in the garden when Akashi finds him, fleet-footed on greens and plucking marigold petals off of their stems. Other times, he's washing the dishes, or earnestly learning the piano through his memories of Akashi's nimble fingers, or doing the laundry, or sleeping on the couch, or simply waiting by the front door until Akashi comes home. The time is never set in stone, but Akashi can at least tell when he's close to seeing Furihata again using the caustic thrumming in his veins as the precursor. When it hurts, it all comes back to him. Damnable how it's clung to him so tightly that he thinks pain is something so vital to him now; otherwise, he'd have nothing else left to feel.

Today, Furihata is pondering on which book he should read to pass time. Just as he grabs a leather-bound one from the shelf, Akashi opens the door, the creaking slow and drawn out as if Akashi is walking on a tightrope. The pallor on Akashi's face is inevitable.

Furihata doesn't mind him, examining the cover of the seemingly old book with furrowed eyebrows. "I've never seen this one before," he remarks, puffing air at the cover to blow the accumulating dust away. He flips the pages gently, careful not to crease them anywhere, until he realizes, "Oh. I didn't know you kept a diary, Sei."

"It's not," Akashi tests his voice, eventually coming to the conclusion that it's still ragged. "It's not a diary."

Humming to himself, Furihata reads and says "A journal, then. I'd recognize your penmanship anywhere in the universe."

Even when your hands are shaking and the words on the pages are blurred, still damp with the mixture of ink and something else, Akashi hears as an afterword, tasting bitterness on the edge of his tongue. The room is a pit for the scents of papyrus and Furihata's favorite cologne-old and old coiling around each other in reassurance that yesterday is still there.

"I've been diagnosed," Furihata lets his index finger guide him through a paragraph that has been scrawled with apparent, heavy impressions on the last letter of every word. Dismissing the fact that the handwriting screams pauses and blankness and hollowness in place of something that should be there, Furihata murmurs, "I've had dreams, hallucinations...the hyperactivity of my imagination is rather unsettling. I need the real, the alive, the present.

Why is he still here?"

Akashi's hands tremble at his sides, willing his mind to be weak, to be less powerful for it to be unable to conjure such a reminiscent picture of what Furihata would have said if he were-if he were still here.

But he is here, and Akashi has to squeeze his eyes shut, hoarse syllables forming echoes. "Why are you still here, Kouki?"

The sound of the journal being closed is audible throughout the room in spite of the care that Furihata feeds into his actions. He doesn't say anything for a while, only sliding the journal back into its place, once again tucking it into a dusty corner of things to be forgotten. His eyes dim with melancholy, and even as he smiles, the only thought that comes to Akashi's mind is how brilliant and twisted and deceitful his own eyes are for making him see Furihata breathing and standing and alive, like this. Always like this.

Furihata's voice is small and soft when he says, "I should ask you that, Sei."

"I never desired this," Akashi says, anger bubbling underneath-he's suffocating and he wants Furihata to stay, to be here with him because he's the only one making tiny noises in an empty house. Akashi's throat constricts but he forces himself to speak as if he is still whole and unbroken. "Never have I asked for this. I never meant to keep you here."

"Meant and did are two very different things," Furihata replies lightly, the chilly wind sifting through the curtains. "That's not to say I blame you. But this isn't healthy-"

At the brief mention of the word, Akashi stiffens and murmurs, seething, "Don't. Of all things, Kouki, don't tell me what I can't do."

"I wasn't going to," Furihata chuckles under his palm, shaking his head in disbelief that Akashi hasn't trusted him enough to discern that Furihata knows him too well. This time, his image is flickering-his wrists and eyes, in particular, disappear once in a while-and Akashi has to still himself to suppress the panicked thoughts of don't go, don't go-yet running like madmen in his mind. Furihata notices this in Akashi's widened eyes, and he takes a step forward to reach out and brush his fingertips across Akashi's cheek.

He smiles, and it scares Akashi more than it relieves him-only because Furihata is exactly the way he was before in spite of the change in everything that Akashi's ever known. Real or not, Akashi closes his eyes to Furihata's fleeting touch. "I won't leave, not until you tell me to. Definitely not until you're ready."

When will I ever be, Akashi thinks, but when he finally looks to Furihata for answers, there is nothing but the space of his study in front of him.

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[. . .]

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"Do you remember the first time that we met?" Furihata asks, the sunlight framing his face as Akashi takes his slippers off and relishes the sensation of his feet sinking along with coarse sand. The therapist did suggest for him to visit someplace that calms him, and he'd chosen the ocean-the vastness of it all tells him that he should not feel sorry, for he is not the only one who's alone.

He flinches slightly at the cold water rushing up to his ankles. "I haven't forgotten. I doubt that I ever will."

What he receives in return is a nostalgic sigh as Furihata pockets his hands and treads in spite of the waves that chase him. "Ah, I'm embarrassed, to this day. First impressions aren't exactly in my domain."

Akashi allows his lips to quirk in the subtlest way possible. The memory is fond, even after all these years. "I wasn't quite aware then that I could be as intimidating as I was. Then again, you did fall face-first when you were appointed to guard me during our match, so I suppose that both of us bear the fault for having met each other that way."

"It's not that you're threatening," Furihata laughs, his voice drowned out by the impact of seawater against jagged rocks. "I just thought that you and others held yourself so high that I didn't think we stood on the same ground. But now that I think about it, you seemed to have wound yourself too tightly."

Not bothered by the change in Akashi's expression, Furihata continues wistfully, "I really wished that you could've let yourself breathe, even for one moment. Your path had been paved long enough before you learned that you had a choice."

The ocean is as quiet as Akashi is-a trove of sounds and screams and calls of the lost in its depths yet remaining peaceful on the surface. Akashi stops in his tracks, turning his head so he can see only one set of footsteps behind him. It's slowly melding into the nothingness as the waves swallow it.

"But I'm glad that I was able to know you beyond what you've decided to show the world," murmurs Furihata, eyes crinkling as his face splits into half with a grin. "I will always be grateful for that."

A shell cracks with a painful little noise under Akashi's heel. It doesn't even do as much as make him bleed. "Is this where you'll say goodbye?"

The question arrests Furihata, and he remains fixated on the never-ending horizon stretching to form the blue calm. Akashi instinctively holds onto Furihata's stationary hand, entwining their fingers to the point of bruising knuckles and etching their sharpness on his own skin.

When he turns back to Akashi, Furihata exhales, gripping Akashi's hand tighter than he ever had. "You'll have to be the one to say it, Sei."

Ah, I knew that that's what you were going to say.

"Give me one more day," Akashi answers him, so certain yet uncertain at the same time. He's shaking, the breeze fanning his clothes, staving off the dread with a promise that he will never deceive himself again after he grants himself one last thing. At his resolution, Furihata smiles, his eyes wide open and full of color that it's almost similar to the sight that one sees when gazing into a kaleidoscope.

"One more day," Furihata repeats, his thumb swiping over Akashi's own. He says it like a vow, and Akashi doesn't know if he should feel betrayed that Furihata doesn't want to stay, disappointed that the hollow ache in his throat would disappear only when he tells what he means to, or relieved that he is finally, finally trying. That he's trying to take a step forward.

"Moving on doesn't mean you're leaving everything behind, you know," says Furihata so softly, fragile as butterfly wings. He takes a deep breath, eyes closing at the steady force of the wind that's fuelled by the rolling waves. Seagulls cry as they land on the rocks, their sounds raw and piercing to the ear. "It's kind of like backpacking across the globe. You've got a whole world to see, Sei - don't spend so much time in the airport waiting for your lost baggage when you could be looking for something else."

Akashi has to purse his lips. "Since when did your speech become so figurative?"

The question stirs Furihata from his blissful taking in of their surroundings, and he laughs softly. "It's all in your head, so I suppose that you're filling in what you think I'd say. In the end, you know what you'll have to do."

A clenching motion of a jaw, a pained intake of breath. I don't know, Akashi admits, confesses, insists - I don't know, I don't, I don't, don't, I -

At the same time the vileness comes up his chest, Akashi barely registers when Furihata loosens his grip and eventually lets go of his fingers. Furihata runs, smiling when the water splashes against his feet. He waves his hand animatedly, sometimes his arm slowing down like flaws in time or vanishing into thin air as dust. "Catch me?"

Always, he wants to say. Run away after you, run away with you. Always with you. But the only thing that Akashi can utter out loud, the prickling on his eyes still there, is, "Alright."

Three things Akashi finds when he starts to move: one, there are only his footsteps on the sand, gradually being whisked away. Two, his eyesight blurs, and he only halts when he can't see too well to discern that the shoreline is deserted and the sun is beginning its descent in the sky.

Three - chasing empty air has given him the most freedom he's had in a while. So he gives back to the sea, saltwater tainting the sand as drops that, as all things, disappear.

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[. . .]

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Years of being soaked to the bone with things - unfair, exacting things that Furihata didn't deserve - never did reap his sincere smiles as he looks over his shoulder to see if Akashi is still following him. Of course, he doesn't need to, especially when Akashi's hand is in his and he doesn't intend to let go. Maybe eventually, but not now.

"I remember being terrified," Furihata says, open-mouthed in awe when he sees the gleam of the metropolitan gymnasium's glass panes. "I can't believe that everything is exactly as it was when we were teenagers. I remember feeling hopeful, scared, worthless...but basketball taught me to stand in the light, to be proud, to trust."

He turns to Akashi, who is also caught in an inundation of memories. "What makes me laugh is the moment when I first saw you...I must've seemed so insignificant to you back then."

"The time wasn't right," Akashi simply says, swallowing at the distant recollection. "I never thought I'd come to need you as much as I did - as much as I do."

In spite of the dampened atmosphere, Furihata grins, squeezing Akashi's hand as he searches for the stairs where fate threw them into converging paths ages ago. "Remember when you nearly stabbed Kagami with scissors? That was a classic, and now that we're here, I actually think that you should tell him to put that in his resume - 'survived a nearly fatal encounter with a certain Akashi Seijuuro'."

Akashi allows himself a small smile, and he shrugs good-naturedly. "Perhaps I could do that."

They hop onto a bus next, never mind the fact that Akashi doesn't know if the other passengers would mistake the clenching of his fist into some stress reflex instead of a gesture of holding someone else's hand. He nearly pays for two seats; thankfully, the driver just looks at him in skepticism and returns most of his coins.

"And this is where I happened to see you strolling by," Furihata recalls, looking at the row of golden ginko trees whose leaves dance until they reach the ground. "It was autumn back then, too, if I remember correctly. You were sitting on-" Furihata points to his immediate right, expression brightening with excitement -"this bench, reading a novel. That time...I was quite bewildered when you looked up and had red irises. I never noticed that during our line-up."

Silence passes, and Furihata amends, the conviction in his tone strong, "But it doesn't matter. Who you are in spite of everything is whom I cherish."

"And you were there, every day," Akashi says, sighing at the warmth in his hand and the leaves that miss his face by a fraction of an inch. "We'd stare briefly, only waiting for that second-long blink until we went back to our own worlds again."

"Until you finally approached me, that is," Furihata murmurs, a fleeting sense of blissful lethargy painting his features. "Would it be too terribly awful if I said that I decided I was in love with you then?"

Akashi shakes his head discreetly. "You can't decide about such matters in an instant, Kouki."

"But I did," says Furihata. He sits comfortably on the bench, unmindful of the leaves that settle on the top of his head. "And that makes all the difference, because if it was anybody else it wouldn't have been the same. Sometimes it creeps me out because...we've got the universe out there, and I passed by you every day not knowing that I've already found you. And it kind of just happened. Without a preamble. Without a lengthy 'before'."

The water from the fountain directly in front of them reaches Akashi as nothing more than a light spray, a breath of fresh air. He sees families sat on picnic blankets, students engaged in chatter, probably one about the most recent developments in a show, people next to each other, close but not holding on too tightly in fear that they may fall apart. The image of Furihata flickers beside him, but their fingers are still entangled, and that's all that matters.

"It'd be nice to sit like this," Furihata says a few moments later, fiddling with Akashi's hands. "Appreciate the scenery with you. Watch the leaves change color and hold your hand for as long as I can."

Akashi's lip quivers, and he blinks back the wetness on the back of his eyelids. "Yes, that would be very pleasant."

"And even if we didn't speak," Furihata traces the dip of Akashi's knuckles, the pressure slowly fading away, "you'd know what I'd say, anyway. I'd still tell you, over and over again, but you'll know."

There's so much I couldn't, and didn't say. Akashi shifts so their shoulders can press instead of just brush past, so he'd make the most of what he still has left. And I am uncertain if you know all of those things in spite of not having heard them.

"Kouki," Akashi says, the name usually able to brand itself on Akashi's whole as a scar, but it doesn't, this time. Today, Akashi only senses a dull ache in his chest, not bound to disappear anytime soon but signaling that slowly, only slowly, what was once hurt is healing. He breathes for all he's worth, because everything still doesn't fit into the scheme of the right and the just after all these months. Perhaps he can afford to take the breath he's been trying to hold to see if dying would be easier than waking up with the lasting memory of hazel eyes that, when illuminated by the sun, resemble all the colors of the universe.

Furihata turns to him, their hands still clasped. His gaze is expectant yet tender.

The shudder that runs through Akashi is unforgiving. "I...I think I can let you go now."

His smile not faltering, Furihata stands up from the bench, pulling Akashi up as he shakes the leaves off of his clothes. If anything, Furihata appears to be more present than he ever was in the past six months that Akashi was left with reverberations of the past.

"Well, then," Furihata declares, and Akashi is strangely calm in the midst of everything. "I guess you should properly say goodbye."

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[. . .]

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This day marks the first time Akashi's had the chance to talk to somebody else besides the emptiness and himself in a while - he's faced with sad smiles and statements of reassurance and pats on the back and unnecessary condolences, but that's okay. This isn't about everyone who's had to pity him.

This is about him standing in a cold room with machines that beep of tire and apologies and lives that never ended, the ones that paused as half-sentences and never got to be written out. This is about him staring at the empty vase on the bedside table, at the unopened envelopes of Get Well Soon's and Hope You'll Wake Up's and We Will Miss You's. This is about him walking towards the bed, with heavy feet and trembling hands and the invisible thorn lodged in his throat.

This is about him staring at the rise and fall and rise and fall and rise - at the small peaks on the heart monitor that edge dangerously close to a flat line. Again, it's okay: he will never have to look at it again with something else that's entirely different from hope. Akashi touches Furihata's tangible fingers, lightly caressing them at first then clasping them too tightly, and he doesn't show surprise when the hand in his is cold.

If this were the first time that they'd had physical contact, Furihata would have flinched; perhaps he could have easily reddened at a mere passing of Akashi's touch.

If this were one of the times when they thought they couldn't see an end, Furihata would have smiled at him warmly. He could have whispered a word or two, but he definitely would have returned the gesture and clung on.

"Kouki."

Akashi's voice is hoarse, and in a span of minutes he realizes that he's spent six months wasting himself on yesterdays. Every day is a new opportunity to improve his recollection of how Furihata might act in particular situations, and he has to bitterly laugh because he's perfected it all. He's mad - mad and broken and hollow, but he promises himself that this is the last time. That it will be alright, soon enough.

He leans towards Furihata's forehead and lets his lips linger, solemnly closing his eyes to the sound of lifeless machines. When he pulls back, he holds Furihata's immobile hand up and traces the gold band on his finger. It's identical to the one that he owns, but his is more lustrous due to months of having been hidden away in the cabinet.

This is not giving up, and this is not forgetting. This is not losing you.

This is not being afraid, nor is it saying goodbye.

This is accepting.

This is letting you go,

because I know that someday,

you'll come back to me.

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You will, won't you?

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Akashi hears something faint brush his ear, and it's almost as if he's listening to Furihata's reply.

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("Sei -

Of course, I will. ")

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He presses one last kiss to Furihata's stiff lips, and when he's mustered enough courage to pull away, he lets his hand go.

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(may we meet again,

in another world,

another time.)