Frustration was blooming in his stomach. The writer was perched on the sofa, his purple eyes set on the man sitting in front of him. He couldn't tell what was on his mind, even though he tried hard to read the movement of his pupils as he studied. Silence had become a rarity between them but now that it was surrounding them like a cloud, he wasn't sure that he missed it as much as he sometimes thought that he did.

Truth be told, he didn't know what he was doing with him. On the outside, he seemed so sure, so confident that Misaki felt the same way about him, but part of him worried that, perhaps, wasn't entirely the case. When they had met, he'd been nothing more than a brat, the younger brother of a childhood friend; a childhood love. But now? What were they now? Lovers? Boyfriends? Room-mates?

He sighs, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. With his elbow now resting on the arm of the sofa, his shoulders release tension. Had he forced himself on him? Had he mistook gentle words and tears for that of love? No matter how many years he wrote about it or how many books that he'd published, love had always been a concept that he couldn't quite grasp.

"What are you staring for...?" Misaki asks, green eyes peering over the top of the book that he'd been reading, a pout visible on his lips. The older man simply watches him, void of real emotion. Why wouldn't he open up to him? It was puzzling.

"What?" He whines, closing the book with a far-too-loud clap. Akihiko moves without word, his fingers gripping the younger man's wrist, using his legs to pin him against the sofa. Misaki's eyes widen, a dramatic scowl flicking on his face.

"What the hell are you doing?! Quit it! Usag-" The student's breath hitches in his throat. Akihiko's own breath was warm, the tip of his nose cold against his cheek. Their mouths were so close that a shiver breaks at his sacrum in thought of what would come next.

But nothing comes.

Misaki eyes the writer curiously, brows furrowed and face flushed. Akihiko says nothing, his eyes remain closed but Misaki could tell that something was bothering him from the sheer paleness of his skin. Grip releases and palms push weight back into standing position but purple eyes fall somewhere just beyond the top of his head; he couldn't even look at him. Misaki frowns.

"Usagi...? What's going on with you?" He questions.

"I've run out." The writer announces, his tone steady and unsteady at the same time, holding an empty cigarette package as context to his prior words. To those who knew him well, picking up on the shake of his throat was easier than he believed it to be and Misaki's frown only grows.

"I'll be back."

"O-Oh, okay." Misaki says softly, chewing his bottom lip between his teeth. His thumbs clasp together, fiddling nervously in his lap. What was going on with him? He'd been cold and distant for weeks. Usagi wouldn't bring it up and when he did, the man simply looked at him as if he was supposed to know what was going on in his lover's brain. He tried to explain to him that he barely knew what was going on in his own brain half of the time, how was he supposed to understand what the issue was? But Akihiko had kissed him and made him forget all about his explanation.

Usami Akihiko would be the death of him.