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cyancherub · 2 years

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elements | hayakawa aki

this is part two of the series menthol.

PAIRING. aki x bff fem!reader

PLAYLIST. nightdrive + sesh

SERIES SYNOPSIS. after a string of casual dating mishaps leaves you unsatisfied, you find that the grass is greener in the front seat of your best friend’s car.

PART TWO LENGTH. 11.7k | coauthor @akishroom

PART TWO SYNOPSIS. during a midnight smoke beside the lake, with the heavy rains of a summertime thunderstorm pelting the windows of aki's car, he ruminates over the past, and you grasp at the future.

PART TWO WARNINGS. fem reader, nsfw (18+, minors do not interact): fantasizing; vaping, weed (smoking, hotboxing, aki rolls your joints for you bc he's sexy like that), violence (not toward the reader): fighter!aki (he beats ppl up for you HEHE don't forget he kicks ass in canon); aki is slutty and has a tongue piercing oops; aki calls reader 'princess' / 'spoiled brat'

NOTES ON DYNAMIC. reader has a personality and a backstory (single mom, no dad present), lots of history and childhood flashbacks between aki and the reader; somewhat dark/taboo dynamics because the reader views aki as an older brother figure before they get together (and he has a lot of internal conflict about this); aki and the reader are mutually obsessed; aki is overprotective and possessive, and also the slightest bit mean because he's frustrated and in love with u LOL

A/N. sorry i know i said there would be heavy smut in this but i had to give that its own part LMAO so the main filth will be in pt. 3 <3 thank you for all the lovely reblogs on pt. 1!!!! <33

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT.

It feels like it’s been forever since he was here with you last.

The last time was before things got too hectic for the two of you to make the long drive out. But here you both are, looking out through the windshield again, watching the moonlight shine on the placid water of the lake. Not a single thing about this place has changed; it’s just the same as it always was. It’s so static, so unchanging in time, that you could both be trapped in a memory, reliving some summer night from your past without even knowing it.

Windows down, warmth thick in the air. The cool breeze meanders over the water, then stirs the leaves in the trees, before slipping into the car and making it all temperate.

He’s missed this place. It was always safe here—a haven to bring you to when you needed to get away. Somewhere to heal, at least for a little while. Usually it was just for a few hours, but sometimes, if you really needed it, the two of you would stay until dawn. He remembers how you’d watch the sun rise through heavy eyes. Those mornings that followed the nights when you were so tired you could barely keep your eyes open, but you weren’t ready to go home yet.

He remembers waking up to a pale sky through a foggy windshield, his eyes shifting to you before anything else. Your sleeping form in his passenger seat: face peaceful, breaths steady, his flannel still wrapped around you.

This was an escape. A shared place; a secret belonging to you and him and no one else in the world, stumbled upon one night by chance, forever ago. At least, high school feels like forever ago. His memory of that night in particular is hazy with the dreamlike tinge of time and fondness.

It can’t have been long after he’d gotten his license and fixed up his first car. You’d called him that night near tears, with your voice wavering over the phone. That was rare; you never were the type to cry easily.

I wish I could get out for a bit, you said.

Less than ten minutes later he was watching you slip out of your bedroom window, sneaking past the little bird bath to duck through the hedges bordering your yard. Then you were jogging to his car, a flurry of rushed movements as you pulled the passenger door open and hopped into the seat, and then the little space was full of your presence (your voice, your laugh, your smile), as you said giddily, Hurry, hurry, before my mom wakes up.

Where do you want to go?

Somewhere far.

So that’s where he took you. Far away: up twists and turns and through miles of forest, and somehow you ended up here.

And then, after that night, you ended up here over and over again. Whenever you needed to get away, he’d take you on the long, winding drive that ended at the lake, and he’d spend as many hours here as it took for you to feel better.

Aki thinks that he could still be that kid he once was, because those times were just like this. Just the two of you, and the gentle waters of the lake lapping at the shore, and all your memories hanging in the air, as heavy as the humidity.

There’s a sudden gust of wind over the lake. The summer breeze drifts through the car windows, carrying the scent of your perfume over to him.

“We used to come out here a lot,” you say softly.

Aki looks at you.

He sees the way the moonlight falls softly through the open windows and illuminates your face: all the little details he knows by heart suddenly cast in a new light.

He doesn’t know how the light could be new if it comes from the same moon he’s seen you under countless times, but he does know that—for some unfamiliar, convoluted, and incomprehensible reason—if he lets himself look at you for too long, the promise he made to himself earlier tonight (to put everything back to normal) will be impossible to keep.

So he looks away, fixing his eyes on the water.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “All the time.”

“I was always going through some shit,” you laugh. “And you were always bringing me here when I needed it.”

“Things were hard back then. But they turned out alright, didn’t they?”

You’re quiet for a second, and then: “Because of you. You took care of me even then.”

He thinks he hears a strange quality to your voice, and when he glances over at you, your usual smile is absent, replaced by a look he can’t quite put a finger on.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he says—simply, immediately, sincerely.

He sees your eyes widen, watches your mouth open, hears you murmur, “Aki—”

The rain starts.

A heavy rain, a hot summer rain. Heavy droplets hit the windshield, then roll downward; the glass begins to fog, the humidity suddenly thickening until it stifles. Overhead, there’s a sudden roll of thunder. The fickle weather of summer changes quickly; in a matter of seconds, the roaring rain of a summer storm fills the air, and high winds blow droplets in through the car windows.

“Wow,” you laugh, your voice drowned out by another boom of thunder as you shake water off your arm.

Aki rolls up the windows, and then the sounds of the storm (rain pelting, thunder cracking, trees rustling) are muffled. He turns the AC on high and watches the fog on the windshield spread.

He’s opening his mouth to ask What were you saying? when your phone chimes.

Aki has the sudden urge to ask, Is it him?

But it’s not his business. So he lays his head back on the headrest and gets comfortable as you check your phone, occupying himself with nicotine instead. Hit after hit off the vape, and the whole time Aki’s wondering who.

He doesn’t ask. But as it turns out, he doesn’t have to.

“Six hours late,” you’re saying, raising your voice so he can hear you over the storm, “but hey, at least he texted me an apology for bailing on me.”

“He’s a real stand up guy, isn’t he?”

His words come out muffled, the vape caught between his lips. They come out harsh, bristling with irritation, and he feels a pang of guilt. He doesn’t mean to take his frustration out on you. It’s not your fault that this guy’s an asshole. And it’s not your fault that the guy before him was also an asshole. And the guy before him…

It’s just that he’s losing his patience watching it happen in real time.

What’d he say? he wants to ask. This asshole cancels on you at the last minute, doesn’t even give you a reason, and then he texts you at midnight? What’s his excuse for wasting your time?

It better be good, he thinks.

“He said he got caught up at work.”

Not good enough.

“He got caught up for six hours?” Aki can’t help but laugh out loud, and before he can stop himself, he’s saying, “Bullshit.”

You raise your eyebrows, eyes wide with surprise, and then his stomach drops.

In all the years that he’s known you, he’s never snapped at you like that. He feels so out of control—what the hell’s wrong with him? He tastes guilt on his tongue, acrid; but even that’s not enough to overwhelm the bitterness that’s watching someone take advantage of you.

“Maybe he got off work earlier but was busy with something after,” you shrug. “When’d you get so cynical, anyway?”

“A little cynicism goes a long way. Not everyone has your best interests at heart.”

But Aki doesn’t even know if he means what he’s saying; he feels jumbled; he should apologize, but you’re already opening your mouth to say something—

Your phone chimes again.

You both look down at your phone screen at the same time. And he knows it’s wrong to look, but your screen is bright, angled up, and he can see your messages coming in perfectly.

[ 12:12 am ] Maybe we can reschedule for some other time if you want.

The lack of enthusiasm in that message gets under his skin. Canceling on you, then putting the imperative on you to reschedule—classy, he thinks.

Another chime, a new message.

[ 12:13 am ] What are you doing now? Are you in bed already?

Aki grits his teeth, thinking, I could fucking kill this guy.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” you laugh.

Aki pries his eyes away from the screen just in time to watch you look up from it. He’s lucky you didn’t catch him looking.

“Believe what?”

“He’s asking what I’m doing now. Just like that.”

“I believe it,” he says drily.

“He just asked me if I was in bed,” you muse. “How much do you want to bet he’s gonna angle for nudes after all of that?”

While you laugh, Aki’s clenching his jaw, fighting a surge of irritation and the passing urge to snatch your phone up and figure out this guy’s address so he can kick his ass. It’s a nice fantasy, anyway: having you tell the guy you’ll come over, only for Aki to be the one ringing the doorbell. Rolling his sleeves up, so he doesn’t get them dirty, because he doesn’t want to have to clean up after this guy any more than he already has. He’d like to watch the door opening, the instantaneous change on that stranger’s face—the drop from conceit to confusion—putting a crooked smile on his own.

Hey, pal. What’s the matter? Were you expecting someone else?—before dragging him out by the collar.

He’d just rough him up a little, nothing major; but maybe he’d let one heavy hit go, let his right fist connect with the guy’s jaw, the ring on his middle finger puncturing the flesh of some asshole who never deserved you to begin with. Aki just needs to land one hit hard enough to bruise up his knuckles. The kind that leaves a lingering sting even after he shakes his hand out. That’s all he’s itching for.

He puffs on the vape, letting his thoughts run wild. The guy’s lucky, he thinks. Lucky you made Aki quit smoking, because if he were to find out you were treated any worse than what he’s already seen, he’d turn him into an ashtray for his smokes.

That’s enough.

He reels himself in. It’s a nice daydream, but that’s all it is. Acting on those impulses is out of the question, because he knows it’s not what you want. So he can’t offer it to you, and he can’t do it of his own accord. But if you so much as said the word…

You sigh wearily, still eyeing out your texts. “I swear he must think I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t text him back.”

It comes out too rough. He knows he’s overstepping; it’s not his place to dictate what you do, even if it is his place to protect you.

“You’re giving me orders now?” you snort, eyebrows raised. “What are you, my dad?”

You’re right. Aki closes his eyes, kneading at the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.”

He knows he’s being too intense, coming off too strong. He doesn’t know why he’s so worked up tonight, but it feels like there’s a switch on that he can’t turn off, no matter how hard he tries.

“What’s up, Aki? Is something bothering you?”

He inhales deeply. Menthol in his mouth, in his lungs; you in his head, in his chest; nicotine in his veins, but not nearly enough.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just…”

He rolls his head on the headrest to meet your eyes. In the dim moonlight that still filters in through the clouded windows, the raindrops traveling down the glass cast moving shadows on the face he knows better than any other. Your expression is so expectant it’s almost needy, and he feels his throat tighten, feels the imperative to do anything—anything in the world, anything at all—to give you whatever you need. To provide all of the things you deserve, to take care of you and protect you and keep you—

That’s enough.

He can’t keep you. You’re not his.

The menthol on his tongue tastes almost bitter at the thought. Stings. Another puff, and then the vapor from his mouth is clouding the space between you; he loses sight of you for a second, and all the while he’s thinking—losing you isn’t something he’d ever risk.

So Aki chooses his words carefully. Deliberately.

“If you’re not getting what you deserve,” he says, “if he’s not enough,” —but how could anyone be enough for you?— “then drop him.”

And then, because he’s worried it’s too harsh, that he’s overstepping again: “It’s your choice. I just don’t like to see you hurt. That’s all.”

Your face goes soft, eyes melting: fondness, maybe a little more than that—

No, he thinks. He’s imagining it; after all these years, why would there ever be anything more?

“I’m not gonna text him back,” you say. “You’re right. He’s an asshole.”

He can’t help but feel relieved. And you’re smiling again, joking: “Since no one is worthy of your blessing, it looks like I’ll just die old and all alone.”

He laughs a little, thinking, When have I ever left you all alone?

“You’ll find someone who treats you right,” he says. “Promise.”

There’s a line around the block. We just have to weed out the deadbeats.

You adjust in the seat to face him, tilting your head to rest your ear against the headrest. The storm’s still going outside the car. Thunder cracks; thick, rain-bloated clouds obscure the moon above, leaving the two of you in darkness. But there’s a flash of lightning far off, bright enough to illuminate your face for a second.

He’s struck by that sudden brightness; it casts you in bright blue, gives you a sudden intensity, but he can’t tell if it’s from the light or the look on your face that he sees before it goes dark again.

But then the clouds overhead are clearing, allowing the moonlight to filter back into the car, and your face is nostalgic as you murmur: “Back when we were kids…”

Back when you were kids…

It used to storm just like this, back when you were kids. He’d actually moved to town—to the foster home at the end of your street—at the start of the stormy season, that year his family died. But that year there’d been a dry spell, and for the few weeks that he’d spent getting acquainted with the daily walk from the foster home to the elementary school, there was only sun.

He met you on a sunny day, walking to school as he usually did—alone, with a quick stride, and his right earphone in. By that time he’d settled into the foster home (as much as he could, at least), and the walk to school had grown familiar.

Aki remembers, very clearly, hearing your footsteps for the first time.

Small footsteps behind him quickening to a jog, accompanied by a shout: Wait up!

A girl’s voice. And then the footsteps were at his side, and there was a head beside his left shoulder. There was a pipsqueak beside him.

That pipsqueak said, quickly and excitably, Are you new?

You didn’t even give him time to answer the first question before you fired off several more: Do you always walk to school? I walk every day, but I’ve never seen you. What time do you usually leave? What street do you live on? What’s your name? I’m—

You were a disruption to his usual routine. A little twerp who talked too fast. He put his left earphone in to block out the chatter and picked up his pace, hoping to leave you behind. But you picked up yours too, practically maintaining a jog to match his speed. When he glanced down at you, your mouth was moving, but he couldn’t hear you over his music.

He preferred to keep it that way, but you had the audacity to pluck his left earphone out and stick it into your right ear.

Hey—! he snapped.

You were already chattering again. Wow. What the heck are you listening to? It sounds so depressing. Who is it? Is this your favorite band? My favorites are—

You went on, and on, and on. Even when he crankily told you how terrible your taste in music was, you just laughed and kept pace with him. Eventually, he felt guilty about making you walk so fast, because you started to sound short of breath as you prattled on. Not that that deterred you from talking, but he slowed down a little nonetheless.

By the time you both arrived at school—the first bell ringing just as you passed through the front gate—you’d managed to wrangle out of him both his favorite band and what time he usually left in the mornings.

For whatever reason, he hadn’t had the heart to lie to you.

He couldn’t shake you after that first walk. Every morning afterward, you’d leave your own house early enough to walk with him, speeding down your driveway just as soon as you caught sight of him coming down the street. You’d pester him the entire walk to school, and then you’d pester him into the cafeteria, and through the breakfast line, and at the table—prodding at the food on his tray after you finished yours.

You were so annoying.

But then there was the day you didn’t show. The two of you must have been walking to school together for a month by then, at least, and your absence was palpable. No little nuisance came running down the driveway to meet him as he passed your house, but it wasn’t relief he felt as a result. It was the nagging feeling that, suddenly, something was missing, much like the intuition when you know you’ve forgotten something at home. Something you’re supposed to bring. An essential.

Aki figured you were running late. So he waited there in front of your house, frowning, with his hands shoved in his pockets. That was the first time he noticed the bench out front, and the leaning tree overhanging it, and the rays of sunlight cascading through the leaves to leave speckles of light on the wooden slats of the bench. Beyond that, centered in your family’s carefully-tended yard, was a stone bird bath full of calm water glinting in the morning light.

Aki waited there long enough that he started to memorize every flower in the little garden bordering the side of your house, wondering, absently, which kind was your favorite. But your front door still didn’t budge.

That was the first morning he spent alone since he’d met you. The whole way to school, he was wondering where you were, and if you were alright.

Arriving at school—late, several minutes after the first bell had already rung—he realized that he was lonely. Not in the way he’d become accustomed to after the death of his family (a strangely peaceful loneliness in the face of an irrevocable absence), but in a hollow way. Because the walk had been far too quiet. Because, if he was honest, he had missed you and your incessant, insufferable chattering.

In its absence, his thoughts had returned to the state they’d been in before he met you. Back to the hollow, lonely dark, and to his family. Then a realization hit him: he hadn’t thought of his family in the mornings for a long time, because he’d been too occupied listening to you. And without you, his only reprieve from his own thoughts, he felt lonelier than ever.

He waited for you again the next day. It was pouring that day—heavy rains that’d lasted through the night prior, tapping a rhythm onto the roof of the foster home. He was on the top floor, closest to the sky. Summer storms, the kid the next room over had said. We get them a lot here. Looks like the dry spell is over. Better bring an umbrella tomorrow—it’ll rain all night and all day.

When Aki woke up the next morning, the sky was still bloated and gray.

He was waiting by your gate with an umbrella when you came through your front door at the usual time—bright as the sun would have been, if it weren’t obscured by the dark clouds. Maybe even brighter, you were so glad to see him there.

Hey! You waited! With one hand over your head to shield yourself from the rain, you plodded your way down the driveway and then through a puddle to him. It’s so hard to catch up with you usually. You’ve got long legs. (You paused for a moment, surprised when he held the umbrella out to make space for you, then stepped under it.) You’re basically a giraffe.

Aki snorted. Well you’re basically a shrimp. A stupid shrimp. What happened to you yesterday, anyway?

At least I’m a stupid shrimp with clean teeth, you said with a big smile, hooking a finger into either side of your mouth to pull it open into an exaggerated grin. Dentist’s appointment. My mom let me skip the whole day. Which is so great, because I hate last period—

He didn’t even have the chance to respond before you launched into a monologue about your classes. You told him which you loved, which you hated; you chattered on and on as you followed him down the sidewalk, huddled close to him under the umbrella. And he was glad that you were there, and that he could listen to everything you had to say.

You missed me, didn’t you? you blurted suddenly, derailing your own train of thought. That’s why you waited.

What? he scoffed, scowling down at you. No way. If there’s anything I miss, it’s peace and quiet.

You studied him with a look on your face that was halfway between smug and shrewd. I bet you waited for me yesterday, too. Didn’t you?

No.

Liar, liar. Your cheeks are bright pink. Look at you!

You were beaming up at him then, and he found himself so overwhelmed by the adoration in your eyes that he had to look down at the sidewalk, sullenly kicking through a puddle as he listened to you snicker. The rain was running down the street; it was collecting in the grass, in the dips of the sidewalk. Your shoes were near-saturated, but you kept splashing through puddles, and he watched your shoelaces loosen with each pace until they came undone and dragged through the rainwater. But you didn’t seem to notice or care.

Aki stopped in his tracks; you stopped too, just a moment later, asking, What is it?

He sighed, turning to face you, and held the handle of the umbrella out to you. Hold this for a second, twerp.

You stood there, obediently holding the umbrella as he knelt in front of you to take the loose, rain-sodden shoelaces in his hands; and then he knotted them, looped them, pulled them tight. He was reminded of Taiyo, then, and how he used to do the same for him.

Thank you, Aki.

The sweetness of your tone made his cheeks burn.

It’s just because I know you’d trip and fall in a puddle if you keep walking around like that, he muttered. And then I’d have to go around with some dweeb covered in mud. You’re already embarrassing enough as it is.

You smiled. You know something? I’m really glad you’re my friend.

Despite his best efforts to curtail it, he could still hear the fondness in your voice. And despite his best efforts to deny it, he felt the same way.

Me, too, he said under his breath as he double-knotted your shoelaces, so quietly that the words were drowned out by the sound of the rain.

Droplets continued to fall all around the two of you, hitting grass and concrete and the rainwater already collecting in the low points of the sidewalk…

…More rain comes down, pelting the windshield harder. Aki exhales menthol, lost in the past, until another flash of lightning jolts him back to the present.

Another roll of thunder: the storm intensifies.

These summer storms are identical to the ones we got back then, Aki thinks. This town doesn’t change. And you…

Looking over at you, Aki knows he could easily fool himself into thinking you’re nothing like that little girl he grew up with. You’ve changed so much, grown so much, that he could convince himself you’re a completely different person. If only it weren’t for that expression on your face, the same look you’ve always given him: familiar, trusting. Adoring.

You’re exactly like you were back then.

That’s why he can’t give in to those thoughts he has about you. That’s why he has to stop thinking about you in ways that he shouldn’t. The fantasies from earlier are competing with years of history, and they’re losing; as much as he’d like to separate the you now from the you he grew up with so that he can truly feel all of the things you make him feel, he can’t. Because the you he grew up with is a person he came to love like the family he’d lost. And he still loves you in that way, which means he can’t love you in any other. It wouldn’t be right.

“...Back then,” you smile, “when we were kids…”

Your fond reminiscing snaps him out of his reverie, pulling him off that long train of thought and conflict destined to end up somewhere disastrous.

You smile. “...I used to think that the two of us should just make one of those pacts. If neither of us found someone we liked, we’d just have to marry each other.”

Just the whims of a little kid. Aki can’t help but laugh softly. “That’s cute.”

“Funny, right? I even remember telling my mom about it. You know she loved you.”

The thought of you saying that to your mom all those years ago makes him smile. He can picture you declaring it, a little kid with a personality twice her size and a mom who would nod along obligingly.

Your mom really did like him from the moment he walked in. Not that he really walked in; he was dragged in, more like, your vice grip of a hand pulling him through your front door as you blathered enthusiastically about all the DVDs upstairs that he absolutely had to see.

But before that, he managed to extricate his hand from yours in order to introduce himself to your mom. She was standing behind the kitchen counter, drying dishes with a strawberry-printed towel.

Can I help you with those? he asked.

Well, she smiled, aren’t you a nice young man? Give me a hand, then.

The plates went in the cabinet next to the fridge, the silverware in the drawer near the oven. When the dishes were done, your mom reached down to ruffle his hair, sending a grin your way as she joked: Maybe my daughter can learn some manners from you.

He could tell then that the two of you had already decided he was part of the family. And from then on he practically was. He was there all the time, because you invited him all the time, skipping up to the end of the street to let yourself in through the front door of the foster home (always left unlocked during the day for the multitudes of kids coming and going); you’d jog up the stairs, calling his name before bursting into his room to declare, We’re expecting you for dinner. You’re coming over, right?

Right, he’d say, tossing his book bag over his shoulders.

He always preferred your house. The foster home was too crowded, anyway. And there was something unnerving about the fact that all of the kids there were just like him: kids who had lost everything, kids who were all alone in the world. Even there in the home, where so many of them were together—where they were supposed to have each other—it felt lonely, impersonal; to him, it never really felt like family.

You and yours were different. Your house felt welcoming, full of the warmth of home—or at least an echo of the warmth he once knew. More often than not he’d go straight there with you after school. He remembers doing homework with you, your mom popping her head into the room to say Study hard!

You liked English, but sometimes you’d get stuck on math. Whenever that happened, you’d ask him for help; he was a grade ahead of you, so of course he was the authority on anything and everything you couldn’t figure out. He’d groan, but he’d help you nonetheless—because once you finished all of your homework, the two of you could go exploring or play games and watch movies until your mom called the two of you down for dinner.

He’d do the dishes after every dinner, and some nights he’d help your mom cook. She always liked having him around, because whenever he’d offer to help, you would too. The kitchen would be crowded, the three of you working together: your mom stirring a steaming pot, Aki chopping whatever vegetables she’d instructed him to, and you fumbling with a can opener that was too big for your hands. He’d usually end up helping you with your task after finishing his own.

Aki remembers every recipe he picked up from your mom. Several of them he still makes for the two of you on the nights you’re hanging out at his place—and he’ll sit with you at the dining table, reminiscing about your shared childhood, tasting every memory steeped in the flavors of his second home.

But he thinks his favorite memories must be of the summers.

It wasn’t just the school year he’d spend with you. After every school year, you’d invite him along for your annual vacation in the little beach town a half-day’s drive away. His foster parents always had so much on their hands that he barely ever had to ask for permission; they were more than fine with it, seemed almost relieved to have one less kid to worry about for the week he’d be gone.

The drive up to the shore was long and winding. He’d fall in and out of sleep every time, in the backseat with his head resting against the window and yours slumping onto his shoulder. You’d always drift off before him, snoring softly.

He’d smell the saltwater even before fully waking, some hazy dream about the ocean flitting through his mind for a split second before his bleary eyes would open to the real thing. The crashing of the waves was loud, audible even from inside your little vacation bungalow. You’d all drop your things off there first, and then—with the sun beaming down, the sand hot under his feet, and the ocean breeze buffeting against his skin—the three of you would make your way down the dunes, weighed down by beach chairs and umbrellas and coolers. You’d always take off ahead of them on the first day there, running down the shore and dropping your things haphazardly on the sand because you were so excited to touch the water.

The first year there, he made to follow you immediately after you took off. But your mom placed her hand on his shoulder, pulling him aside for a moment.

Watch the waves, Aki. Are you paying attention?

Her tone was serious. He nodded, looking forward, with his eyes on the ocean; but he wasn’t watching the waves so much as he was watching you among them—making sure, as you splashed through the water, that you were safe.

Good, he remembers her saying. Make sure you always look out for my little girl.

He’d already been doing that on instinct, but he took your mom’s words to heart. They’ve stuck with him; they’re something he still abides by now, over a decade later. The two of you are all grown up, but he still spends his summers with you—still lets you sleep on his shoulder when you’re tired, still makes sure you’re safe every time you step foot in the ocean. Every time you step foot anywhere, he’s looking out for you.

I used to think that the two of us should just make one of those pacts. If neither of us found someone we liked, we’d just have to marry each other.

In this little situation your childhood self thought up, he’d look out for you, too. If you couldn’t find someone else (and even if you could find someone else, because of course you could, he thinks, in passing) he’d take care of you. Just like he told your mom he would. Just like he always has.

But why would he dwell on a situation like that? He accepts that childhood dream of yours for what it is: a cute, far-fetched fantasy born from trust between kids who didn’t understand the implications of marriage. Kids who didn’t have to differentiate between one type of love and another, because the only love that existed for them was pure. Things were simpler then; these days, they’re different.

These days, he has to make sure he’s only looking out for you. Not looking at you. He’s toeing the line between one type of love—that pure childhood love that’s only strengthened through the years—and another. If he crosses that line, there’s no going back. That other kind of love, if it could be called that, is desirous, transformative. He’d cease to be your protector. Maybe wanting you in that way—the same way as all those other guys—would turn him into something just like them: a threat you need protection from. A shark circling that little girl wading in shallow ocean water all those years ago.

His obligation to you now is no different than it was to you then, back when you were a little girl. To protect you, he can’t want you. It’s out of the question.

“The things you used to think up. Little us, and a little wedding,” he laughs softly. His head’s still muddled with conflict; he’s hoping you don’t notice the strain in his voice, that he sounds normal.

“With little rings and everything,” you grin.

“And what’d your mom have to say about it when you told her?” With each passing second he feels more out of sorts, but he’s playing along as best he can.

“You’re her favorite. She was one hundred percent on board. Said you’d cook for me every night and always take care of me.”

Your mom always made it a point to entertain your whimsy. That’s all it was.

As lightly as he can, Aki jokes: “Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

“Definitely not. Really, we could keep everything the exact same, you and me.”

“Do you think so?” he murmurs.

This is just a silly little childhood fantasy, that’s all, he reminds himself, watching you root around in your bag for something. This conversation doesn’t mean a single thing.

“I know so,” you say. “In fact, you’d be eighty years old and still rolling my joints for me.”

Triumphantly, you come out of your bag with the grinder and rolling papers clutched in one hand. He’s relieved when you hold them out to him, expectant: it’s something to do, a shift in the conversation—a distraction from this topic.

He relaxes a little, taking the weed and papers from you before responding absently, “Would I?”

“You would. You’d treat me like a princess.”

Without a second thought, he’s popping up the console to pull out the rolling tray.

“Well. You are a princess, aren’t you?” But the words are teasing: light and fond. “A spoiled brat, too.”

“Can you blame me? You’re the one who’s always spoiling me.”

Maybe you’re right. Because other than the cigarettes, Aki never really cared to smoke like you do; that’s your thing, not his. But still he keeps the tray in his car to roll your joints on—and that old, empty cigarette box in the console is only still around because he tears pieces from it to make filters for them. Besides, how could he not spoil you? You look up at him like that—pleading eyes under heavy lashes, a slight smile on your mouth, your head tilted to the side (he can see your pulse, the quick fluttering under the skin of your throat)—and he’s weak; he’s always been a sucker for it. He’d do anything you asked.

That one look is enough to push the conflict out of his mind. He forgets, for now, about how wrong it is to want you—because he wants you, he does, how can he keep denying that?—and he forgets how out of sorts he is. For now, he allows himself to forget that it’s out of the question to want you, because that question is at the very back of his mind, and the single thing at the forefront is you.

Tray resting on the console, his hands twisting the bud in the grinder, he half-scolds, half-teases: “So you get on my case for the smokes, but you still make me roll your joints for you? That’s how this works?”

“That was a pack of cigarettes a day,” you pout. “This is just every once in a while. To blow off steam.”

“Right. And what if I refuse? I could tell you that you aren’t allowed.”

But even as he teases you, he’s untwisting the grinder and glancing down at the weed to make sure the texture is right to roll. The heavy scent of it has already saturated the air in the car when he looks back up to see you pulling out the full stops. Do you know what you’re doing, laying it on thick like that? Batting your lashes, knitting your fingers dramatically under your chin—do you really know what it does to him when you pout like the pretty, spoiled little brat that you are—

“Please, Aki? Don’t be mean. I need it so much….”

You don’t need to lean forward over the console to him like that, because then he can smell your perfume again; then he can see your dress falling open again; then he has to force himself not to look; he has to force himself to be normal, but he has no idea what normal is anymore—

“...I’m so stressed from everything, and you’re just so good at it…”

You don’t need to look at him like that; you don’t need to tell him how stressed you are; in fact, you really shouldn’t—because then he can’t help but think, just for a second, about the thousand different ways he could help you destress, about all the things he could do to make you feel so much better, about all the positions he could put you in; he can’t help but think of himself on top of you, of you face down in the backseat, his hand slipping under your stomach, fingers pressing into your skin—feeling himself inside, asking, Does it feel good when I get that deep? Can you take it all?

“...You do it better than anyone.”

You punctuate your words with a smile. Your eyes are wide, pleading—but you never had to beg. He was under your thumb from the very beginning.

God, Aki thinks, do you have any idea what you’re doing?

And with that question, suddenly another surfaces.

What am I doing?

You aren’t doing anything. It’s his imagination that’s at fault.

That realization is enough to bring the weight of his inner conflict crashing down, heavy enough to crush the desire blooming in him. Just in time, he remembers all the things he let himself forget for a little while: that you’re his best friend, practically family; that these things he’s thinking of are unsolicited, unreciprocated; that this is more than just wrong—you’d be disgusted at the things going on in his head. And he is, too.

His head clears, the you-induced delirium subsiding as he tears his eyes away from yours.

“Alright,” he laughs, strained, then clears his throat. “Alright. Fine.”

/ / / / /

Aki always gives you whatever you want.

You definitely didn’t have to beg. Despite all the teasing, you know he’ll roll you all the joints you want. He’d probably rob a bank for you if you asked him nicely. But not before emptying all the money from his account into yours and asking, Do you need some more?

That’s the thing about him. He’s not what he is on the surface.

Every guy you’ve ever gone out with hated him with a passion. It was sad, but you couldn’t call it surprising; you’d be hard-pressed to find a guy who’d cozy up to the idea of your best friend being another guy. And Aki was never just another guy; to all of them, he was a threat. Good-looking, tall, and so protective that anyone who didn’t understand the nature of your relationship could easily mistake it for jealousy. He’d look down his nose at anyone who made advances at you.

It was always a little funny to introduce Aki and the guy you were currently seeing. This is my good friend, Aki, you’d say to the boyfriend of the month, watching Aki begrudgingly hold a hand out to offer a terse shake. Nice to meet you, he’d say through his teeth, voice clipped—playing nice for you. But not too nice. The little things never slipped past you; he’d squeeze their hands hard, the cigarette between his lips jostling as his mouth turned up in a slight, artificial smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They remained critical and scrutinizing. A look in his eye that said, I don’t fucking like you. If you had grown up with a dad, that’s probably what he’d have looked like meeting the boy who wanted to take you to prom.

But Aki’s the only man in your life. That’s how it’s always been.

You know he made most of the guys you went out with feel small. His hands were always bigger; you’d notice that, watching the handshake while shifting your weight from foot to foot. He was always taller—tall enough to look down at most of them, but he’d still size them up until they went pale.

Overkill. The interactions were always a little funny at first, but inevitably, Aki would become a problem in every one of your relationships. A point of contention. Your boyfriends didn’t like the fact that the two of you were so close. You’d try to explain it to them—he’s like a brother to me, I’ve known him for over a decade—but they’d respond with skepticism.

You talk about him too much. You’re with him all the time. Didn’t you even mention that you would always crash at his fucking place before we met? Are you sure there’s nothing going on between the two of you?

You guess their instincts were right after all. They managed to see it years before you even felt it. Maybe that’s why no amount of convincing was ever enough for them. They didn’t like your history with him. They didn’t like him, and you guess you couldn’t really blame them for that; he was closed off, cold—suspicious and wary. And so protective of you. Any time any semblance of trouble came up in any one of your relationships, Aki would ask—Do you want me to talk to him?

You never wanted him to talk to them. Not in the way he was thinking, anyway. It’d end up just the same as the conversations he’d have with any guy who made you uncomfortable. It’d end up like the night some creep had harassed you at the bar when Aki had stepped away for a second: with Aki wiping blood from a split lip, and the other guy in much worse shape—doubled over from a knee to the stomach, one eye swelling shut, blood pouring from his nose to splatter onto the pavement. And Aki turning to you, asking, Are you okay?

Are you?

That’s the kind of problem solving Aki learned to do growing up in a foster home full of kids that pushed him around, and growing up in a small town that alienated him because of what happened to his family. That’s the kind of fighting Aki learned to do well enough to make money off of, after one of his foster siblings introduced him to the lucrative trade of throwing punches for the scumbags who bet on him at Foxclub.

You hate that place, still. The smell of sweat and liquor, it never becomes familiar; neither does the sight of him sitting on the locker room benches, counting his money—with his bare chest covered in sweat, his nose bloody, his knuckles purple with bruises, and a cigarette caught between his lips.

So whenever he’d offer to talk to your boyfriends, you’d always say no. No, Aki, I don’t want you to talk to him.

Not that it was him you were worried about.

But even without him interfering directly, the root of the inevitable breakups that came was always him. The guys would always ask, Is there something I should know? Why does he look at you like that?

And you’d deny it, tell your boyfriends one after another that they were imagining things; that Aki was just a friend. You’d say it until you were blue in the face, but there was fight after fight over him and he was none the wiser. You’d never tell him about the fights, or the real reason why you’d leave so many of those guys: so many of them would give you that ultimatum, him or me. And that choice was instantaneous, instinctual. It was always him. You’d choose that friendship every time, over everything else. It wasn’t even a question.

But you know that if you were to tell him about any of it—the amount of arguments you’ve spent defending him, the amount of heartbreak you’ve been through over him (even though every heartbreak was more than worth preserving your friendship)—it would devastate him. You know all he wants is for you to be happy. It’s just that, sometimes, in the process of trying to keep you happy and safe, Aki can go overboard.

None of them understood his intentions; they didn’t understand him.

But you—you understand Aki; why he is the way he is, and exactly the kind of person his trauma has molded him into: someone heavily guarded and suspicious of everyone. After what happened to his family, and the things he went through in his childhood afterward, he ceased to believe that this is a kind place. Aki doesn’t trust this world, or anyone in it. He’s someone lonely, self-reliant to a fault—this is the kind of person he was molded into, first by the death of his family, and then by the premature adulthood the incompetence of his foster family forced him into.

So no matter how much he feels on the inside, on the outside Aki remains frigid and apathetic. That’s the face he puts on for other people. That’s what he is on the surface. He’s cold to strangers, and he’s cold to himself. Cold enough to isolate himself, to afford himself no sympathy and deal with everything on his own.

But no matter how hard he tried to be lonely, you were there. And finally he let you in, and then you met the real him.

The same person who withholds so much from himself is also one of the most indulgent people you know. To those he cares about he’s soft, sacrificing, infinitely caring; someone who’d do and give anything and everything for the people he cares for. Time, money, effort; none of it’s an object. Aki never had a lot but it was always yours. Even when he started fighting in high school, if he was spending money on anything nonessential, it was always for you. And then, when he got his first real job fixing up beaters at the car shop, he got his first real paycheck and blew it on you.

He’s as indulgent now as he was back then, if not more so.

So of course he’s rolling your joint for you. All the pleading you did was just for fun—it’s always a little entertaining to put on puppy dog eyes and watch him melt through them.

And now you’re watching him get everything ready for you: leaned over the console (eyes down, long eyelashes brushing against his cheeks) as he tears a piece from an old cigarette box to fold a little filter for your joint.

He taps the weed from the grinder onto the paper. Quick, familiar, and with the same assuredness that his hands always have. With confidence. He’s been doing this for years. Even though he rarely smokes (with the exception of those times when you ask him to do it with you), he rolls up for you every single time.

His long, slender fingers cradle the rolling paper, rocking it back and forth until the weed is packed down. Both of you are leaned forward, closing the gap over the console; he’s intent on the joint, and you’re so intent on him that you can smell the menthol on him under the weed, see the slight shine of the ring on his finger. The tattoos on his skin are just amorphous shapes in the dim light of the moon that filters through the car windows, but you remember them better than you can see them.

He’s attentive: neat, accurate, consistent with everything he does. Especially this. Exactly the right texture, exactly the right amount every time—so precise that he never drops any while he’s rolling. And he’s always had a light hand, always been so gentle with everything for you.

He’s only ever treated you gently. You’ve only seen the rough side of him come out on your behalf, and even then he barely lets you see it. So tonight feels different. Not just for you—because by now you can admit that something within yourself, the way you feel toward him, has changed. But something about him feels different. Vulnerable. That he’s letting you see him so frustrated and so intense—that difference must mean something. A shift. A change.

But the movements of his fingers stay the same. Consistent, well-practiced; he preps the joint until it’s ready to seal, and then he’s tucking the lower edge down. It’s effortless when he rolls it upward between his fingertips. And you can’t stop looking at them.

You can’t stop that feeling building in the pit of your stomach that intensifies when you imagine him touching you with the same purpose—expert fingers on your body, and you know they’d know how to touch, because somehow Aki always knows what he’s doing, always shows you how things should be done the right way. That’s how it’s always been.

Eager to please, eager to give; you imagine him teaching you what that eagerness feels like with his fingertips.

He brings the joint up to his lips—licks up the top edge to wet the seal, the silver of the piercing on his tongue catching the low moonlight. And then you’re imagining it on you, imagining him running his tongue up your body the same way he’s treating the paper.

His tongue on you; his teeth on you.

The bite of the words on his tongue earlier—Don’t text him back.

Drop him.

He’s always been protective, but never quite like this. There’s something about tonight.

I could tell you that you aren’t allowed, he’d said.

Tonight, it feels like more than protection; it feels almost like possession. Like ownership. The imperative in his voice. You know the sting in it wasn’t meant for you, not directed toward you, but you like the feeling nonetheless. Maybe you like the feeling not just of being protected, but owned.

You suppose that’s the thing about you: you’ve always belonged to him in one way or another.

It shouldn’t have taken you so long to realize it. It’s been this way for years: craving his guidance over anyone else’s, his approval, both of those things as sacred to you as scripture; and what else could it mean—what else could it be but a desire for his control—that the only person you’d ever let dictate any part of your life, tell you what’s good for you, tell you what you need, is him?

What one person in this entire world would you entrust yourself to other than him?

And who deserves that trust more than him?

Take it further, you want to say. I know you want to. After all these years, it’s all hitting you at once, too. Isn’t it?

But even if it is, you know Aki is too good to take things any further. He’s too cautious—focused on the consequences of his actions, intent on protecting all the things important to him, after losing so much—to do selfish things on a whim. Aki doesn’t do things for himself; he puts all of his own desires aside to fulfill those of the people he cares for. Give him the option to give or take, and he’ll give up every part of himself before taking a single thing from someone else. So even on the off chance that he’d allow himself to accept whatever feelings he might have—even if Aki is dying to have more of you, all of you—there are certain boundaries he’d never cross alone. This is one of them: a little line in the sand separating the two of you at the point where friendship blurs into something else. He would rather help you find someone who treats you right and watch you be happy from a distance than risk a lifelong friendship by confessing that he wants more.

You want to say: It’s okay if you want to be greedy with me. I’m already yours.

Something isn’t really yours until you own all of it, right?

Maybe he’s too good to cross that line, but you—you want something, too; you want more, too; you want him to stop holding back so he can finally possess you with the same imperative that crept into his words earlier. You want to belong to him in a new way. To let him have you all the way.

Not just idling touches, but lingering ones that cover every part of you, leaving no inch of you unclaimed.

As much as Aki wants, for once, to take, you want to give him everything.

Maybe he feels you looking at him—all these thoughts passing in a split second as he seals the joint, fingers pressing the paper down until the seam adheres—because he looks up.

“What is it?” he asks, meeting your eyes, fingers still idling on the joint.

“I was just watching. You’re so good at that,” —(you’re so good with your hands, you think)— “you’re practically a pro.”

He smiles slightly, and you think it looks abashed as he holds the finished joint out to you between his fingers.

“Don’t flatter me, princess,” —he pulls back the joint slightly when you reach for it, as if to withhold it (but not by much)— “You just want to keep using me as your personal joint roller.”

“It gives you purpose,” you say, plucking it away from him. “Tell me you don’t live for being of service.”

“Depends on what the service is. And who it’s for.”

“Well. Aren’t I lucky, then?” you smile, leaning over the console toward him with the unlit joint waiting between your fingers.

He slips a hand into his pocket, comes back out with a lighter you’ve seen a thousand times before—because it’s the same lighter he used to carry for his smokes; and he still carries it now that he’s quit. There are no smokes left to light, and Aki doesn’t even need that lighter anymore. But he still carries it. Just for this, just for you:

Just to give you a light when you need it. When you’re leaned over the console like this, and it’s all so familiar that he knows exactly what you want before you even have to ask. He always leans in with you at the same time, actions synced, timing just right; his hand on the lighter—one flick, two, and then the flame is jumping to life in the small space between the two of you.

And in that little sphere of warm light, with the storm still coming down cold and blue and dark outside the car windows, you lean close to him; you bask in the warmth as you twirl the joint between your fingers, holding it over the flame he always lights for you, with a growing heaviness in your chest.

The fire eats at the paper; it catches, but the lighter’s still feeding the flame. You look upward. And there you find that Aki’s not even looking at the joint to make sure it’s caught. His eyes aren’t on the lighter he’s holding, either. They’re on you, watching your lips.

The heat flares, the orange glow on his face like firelight. He meets your eyes, and then that look is gone just as soon as you’ve caught it. The flame dies; he’s cast in darkness, in the indigo shadow of the storm. Aki tucks the lighter back into his pocket, and the car is dim again, except for the fire eating away at the end of the joint. It flares on the inhale.

Smoke in your lungs. A new strain from the same dealer, just to try it.

Something new, something different; just like all of this—for you, and now you’re absolutely sure of it: for him, too.

You bring your eyes up to his, exhaling smoke into his face.

“I can’t let anyone else roll up for me,” you smile. “No one does it quite like you.”

He holds his vape out through the smoke, and you bump it with the joint, the same as you used to do to his cigarettes—Cheers.

“To old times,” he says.

There’s something there. You’re sure of it. But maybe it’ll take a little push.

“New ones, too,” you say.

/ / / / /

Just like old times.

You kick back in his passenger seat and smoke until your eyes are low—until the air in the car is thick and hazy and swirling with the smell of weed and menthol. He breathes your secondhand smoke; you breathe vapor.

And when the first joint is smoked down, he rolls up for you again.

“God,” you laugh, taking the new joint from him with a lazy grin—voice relaxed, even more smiley than usual. “You always know how to make me feel so much better, Aki.”

That’s all I want, he thinks. To make everything all better for you.

You’ve always complained that he does too much for you. That it must be such a hassle to take care of you all the time.

Don’t you get tired of it? you’d asked him once.

He harbors a guilty little secret, something he’d never tell you: he’s a sucker for picking up the pieces. Don’t get him wrong—he hates to see you hurt, would do anything in the world to prevent it; but when you are hurt, Aki loves to be the one to kiss it better.

He’ll patch it all up for you, every single time, because he’s dying to make it all okay. If there’s a problem, he’ll talk you through it; and if that’s not enough—if you need more—he’ll give you whatever you ask. He’ll smoke you out until he can hear the relief in your voice, until he can see the relaxation in your posture. When you go up, and when you come back down, he’ll be there.

And there’s something about knowing that he’s the only one you’ll go to for it. There’s something about being the only one who gets to provide that for you that makes some dark part of him feel good.

The feeling he gets from tending to you never gets old; he’s had it since you were kids, knows he’ll always have it: the urge to protect you, to solve every problem for you. To keep you happy and safe.

So, no—he’ll never get tired of taking care of you; he’ll roll up joint after joint for you and keep leaning over just like this to light it, if only to keep a smile on your pretty face.

The lighter catches on the first flick this time, the flame illuminating your smile—dazzling in the darkish, hazy air of the smoke-filled car—as you twist the new joint over it. He can’t stop watching your face, the way the light falls on it, haze-obscured and beautiful.

Untouchable.

You’ve always been pretty; maybe too pretty for your own good, because there’s always been so much to protect you from. People who might look at you in ways they shouldn’t. People who might want you for the wrong reasons. And he’s always been here to shut it down, to guard you from it all; so now, why—why is he looking at you for all the wrong reasons?

Why is he looking at you in the exact way he shouldn’t? Why’s he imagining laying you down—getting you on your back, and watching all the expressions cross your pretty face when he shows you what it feels like to be treated right?

“Thank you, Aki,” you murmur.

The joint’s lit.

He’s slipping the lighter back into his pocket, throat tight. It’s hard to breathe. Not from the thickening haze in the car, but from the way you lean closer and closer the higher you get. Laughs lazy, movements sloppy. Dress straps slipping down your shoulders.

You’re always like this, and he’s always looking out for you. But this time, he’s catching a glimpse he shouldn’t. A split second of his eyes wandering and he’s looking down your falling neckline, seeing your cleavage and the lacy outline of your bra. And then—he doesn’t mean to, but he’s imagining pressing you down into the leather of his backseat, with your tits under his chest, and your thighs spreading to wrap around his waist, and your voice soft as you murmur into his mouth: You always know how to make me feel so much better, Aki.

He’s trying so hard to clear these thoughts—of making you feel better, putting his hands all over you and feeling how soft you are under him; of tasting the skin on your throat while he’s grazing his hands up your thighs, up your dress—as he slips the lighter back into his pocket with his heart hammering, watching you wrap your lips around the joint he rolled for you. He’s trying so hard he feels like it’s going to kill him when he forces himself to look away and rest back in the seat.

He takes another hit off the pen, needs the nicotine desperately. Something to tide him over. It’s quiet in the car, but the storm continues to thicken, heavy raindrops pelting at the windows. The odd roll of thunder. The car’s fogged up, full of smoke. Illuminated by the odd lightning strike from afar that casts the two of you, and the fog separating you, in split seconds of bright blue light.

“Can I admit something to you, Aki?”

He looks over at you through the haze. Your head back on the seat, eyes pensive, hazy as the air; you’re usually more talkative, which means something’s on your mind.

“Anything,” he says.

Another drag from the joint, and you blow the smoke out slowly, watch it hang in the thick air. “This whole casual dating thing is kind of a bummer.”

He shakes his head. “You know I don’t like to see you hurt.”

You force a smile. “I’m not hurt, Aki. I mean, it’s a bummer, but I’m alright.”

But you’ve always been like this, even when you were younger. I’m okay, Aki, you’d say, with a smile plastered on your face. I’m just fine—even when things were at their very worst, and you were one hairline fracture from shattering into a million pieces. But that was the point of bringing you here, where you could talk and wait and smoke it out until you really were okay.

“I’m just saying,” he says, “if someone’s not treating you right…”

“Then what?” you muse, with a fond smile on your face. “What’ll you do?”

“Whatever you want me to do to make it better,” he says simply.

You laugh, heavy eyes fluttering shut—lifted.

“I know you will,” you say, fixing him with a genuine smile as you bring the joint up to your lips again. “You’re a good guy.”

It’s quiet for a moment, both of you inhaling at the same time. You exhale; he holds his for a second, then breathes the vapor out a moment later, watching it join the smoke in the air. The two mingle, become indistinguishable.

“When I was younger I used to think all guys would be a little like you. Giving, selfless. Caring.” You pause to laugh, but this time it’s a little sardonic. “But I found out that most of them are the opposite.”

“How do you mean?”

“Depends on the guy,” you say. “Some are selfish. Some are just distant. Harsh. Cold. Among other things.”

He’s quiet for a second, puffing on the Juul—pretending that hearing about people being selfish, distant, harsh, and cold to you—among other things?—doesn’t get under his skin.

“I shouldn’t have let you set the standard,” you say through the smoke. “You gave them too much to live up to.”

Aki glances at you through the haze in the car as thunder rolls above, but you’re looking out through the windshield again. At the storm, at nothing in particular; the rain’s coming down so heavily everything outside is a blur. And your face is unreadable.

Set the standard? What do you mean by that?

That you’ve been looking for someone like him?

No, he thinks—he’s reading too much into it, too caught up in those fleeting thoughts from earlier and now he’s thinking all kinds of strange things. You couldn’t have meant anything by it.

“There have to be some good guys out there, right?” he says finally. “It can’t all be bad.”

That makes you laugh.

“Oh, it’s all bad,” you grin lazily around the joint. “I mean, I’ve told you most of it. But I never told you what a mess these guys are in bed, did I? That’s selfish on a whole new level.”

In bed?

Aki feels his mouth go dry, feels another image surfacing that shouldn’t be: that pretty dress pulled up, pulled off, leaving just the lace of your bra and panties beneath it, the rest of your skin bare; and then, hands on you—no, someone else’s hands on you—and that puts a pit in his stomach.

He grits his teeth. Takes another hit off the vape and mutters, “Oh. Really?”

Scumbag, he thinks, how are you any better than the rest of them? Maybe he’s the worst of them all. For fantasizing about you when you’ve trusted him like a brother your entire life. For the jealousy, and for the fact that the thought of you being with anyone else makes his skin crawl.

For the gutting realization that maybe these feelings aren’t because he wants to protect you, but for reasons that are far more selfish.

“Really,” —you study him through the smoke with a curious look on your face, and something in your eyes that’s almost mischievous, the punchline of a joke he’s not in on— “Do you want to know all the dirty details?”

He’s torn. Stuck somewhere between not wanting to know, and needing to know, the same way he needs to know about everything in your life that isn’t enough. Everything he can fix for you. All the things that fall short, so he can make them up to you.

But above all else—putting aside all these feelings that are as intense as they are confusing—when he says you can tell him anything, he means it.

“We can talk it out,” he says.

“Okay.”

And then you’re slouching forward over the console—just like old times: you’ve always been a bit of a gossip for him; you’d always run to him with the secrets you told your friends you wouldn’t tell a soul. You can’t tell anyone this, but… But you trusted him, made him the only exception to the rule, told him every single thing. You confided in him back then just like you are now: head tilted slightly to the side, joint between your fingers; so close, voice low, as if someone might hear—as if it weren’t just the two of you in the hazy warmth of his smoke-filled car.

On the bank of the lake, in the middle of the night, with the summer storm still coming down; with droplets rolling down the windows to melt your view of the surroundings, as if the entire world outside were made of water. And here, in this safe haven, it’s just the two of you, and you’re telling him all your secrets, the same way you always have.

You tell him secrets you know he won’t share with anyone else. Secrets meant for you and him only, just like this place, just like this proximity.

“Aki…”

Your lips turn up in a conspiratorial smile, the smoke drifting from your mouth; he waits, breathes in your secondhand, looking you in the eyes; and for a second, the closeness is dizzying, makes him feel as high as you look.

“... None of the guys I’ve been with have ever made me cum.”

author's endnote from @uppermocns: bello everyone, i hope u enjoyed the second part of menthol!! ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝) cassie and i are excited to be sharing what is easily one of our favorite elements of this story – fighter aki! we were inspired by chapter 45 of chainsaw man ("sorry for makin' you come by and school these guys!") so naturally, we thought – take aki's canon ability to kick ass, his protectiveness over dear menthol reader, and some other key moments of menthol aki's origins that will definitely be revealed in the prequel... next thing you know, menthol is like 850k and aki is a sexy badass that can and will beat up your exes. make sure u tell cassie how incredible their writing is & that u wuv them very much. the moment you've all been waiting for is coming soon!

#hayakawa aki x reader #aki x reader #aki smut #csm x reader #csm smut #REBLOGS ARE LOVED VERY MUCH. thank u so much for the support it means a lot ! ! ! ! ! all my love to u all #cherub fics #LETS GOOOOOOOOOOO

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