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There are many ways that Akashi Seijuuro discerns the world in accordance with his feelings.
The first is for the things that he"s deemed average, perfunctory, and very much ordinary. The world is brimming with these things: cooked rice, math problems, crowded streets, warm-ups at practice.
These are the things that Akashi deals with normally; without question nor inquiry. He simply accepts them as they are, plastered smiles and all, lips mouthing neither a bother nor a complaint. The boy is smart enough to understand. These are what he considers a reality.
(To be honest, for the most part, he actually finds it quite boring. But such is the fate of human nature, Akashi thinks. Isn"t that why people always seek thrill? Or search for adventure? So often does man romanticize the possibility of a future, brighter and unlike any other, that he often falls short of being able to live, truly live, in the glory of the present. It is his flaw, his weakness. He is always at a loss, his thirst is never quenched, all because he fails to find pleasure and appreciate the beauty of the mundane.)
The second is for the things that he despises above all else. These are the things meant to be eradicated, whose existence he desires to eviscerate from the surface as soon as possible. Things that he means to be dealt with swiftly - and by swiftly, he means a quick brush of a blade and the drawing of blood or souls or spirit or skin.
Noise. Sweet and sour sauce. The itch that forms at the back of his throat signalling the start of the annual flu that never spared him of laryngitis. Vanilla-scented perfume, so sweet it"s almost sickening. Out-of-tune violins. People who don"t know their place, lacking in their show of respect, and who are unable to act accordingly. People who show weakness. People who cry. People, in general.
Well, maybe the last one is an exaggeration. Akashi contemplates on it in trice and decides that he doesn"t quite lean into the favor of the thought of being forever alone in the world.
Now that he thinks about it, people would probably better fall under the first category. It seems more fitting that way, he thinks, with a solemn nod of his head.
The third is for the things he actually likes; or to be more exact, things he views positively enough that he wouldn"t mind dealing with them on a regular, everyday basis. Encyclopedias and mystery novels, the pocket watch his father gave him on his thirteenth birthday that his fingers were always found to be coiling around it protectively whenever he shoves his hand in the snuggle of his left pocket, scissors, basketball, and - quite possibly, maybe - his teammates at Teikō.
He wouldn"t go so far as to call them his friends, that term is far too familiar, too clingy to the point he deems it indecent. Besides Midorima, who he"s spent the most time together with out of all the members of the Generation of Miracles - and whose sentiments he only understands in terms of his shooting habits and shogi play strategies - he barely knows them.
(Sure, he"s had their backgrounds researched - such was to be expected of the Akashi family security, screening all of his acquaintances for any possible threats to the young master"s safety, or rivals to the family bloodline - but he"s never had time to actually interact with them on a personal level, much less converse and speak and share feelings and emotions and other things like that. Akashi, as prideful and reluctant as he is to admit it, has never really been good at those things. It"s embarrassing, the boy reasons, and he hasn"t had the time.)
The fourth is special. Of the aforementioned three, none would compare to the way he treats this, the last – a category he considers is only reserved for the rare and chosen few. All the others can perish from the world in a matter of minutes and Akashi wouldn"t- couldn"t care less.
(In fact, he"d be relieved at the dismissal of the second category. It"d put his mind at ease and his headaches to rest.)
The fourth is for his memories, of the things he likes, the things he loves, the things he almost always prefers not use. And when he does, he does so sparingly - as though they were reserved for special occasions, and he only granted himself such luxuries in the most of opportune of moments - and with the greatest, utmost of care. Like rewards, prizes, treasures, or treats. They are too precious, Akashi believes, and mean the world to him that he wouldn"t dare to risk the possibility of their vanquishment. These are the things that he wants nothing more but to tuck into the nest of his palms and the cage of his chest, safe from the harm of his enemies and faux business partners who view him no more than a vessel of his family"s bloodline or a successor to hefty sums of an inheritance; all with hungry gazes of money-minded greed and cold, prying eyes.
They are as follows:
His first pair of riding gloves.
An Akashi family heirloom, a cross-hybrid between a music box and a picture holder.
A family photo taken when he was four, when his mother was still alive, framed in said heirloom.
His team jacket from Teikō, the kanji of captain stitched on the side of the left breast.
The second button from a certain boy"s school uniform, gifted to him when he attended the Seirin commencement exercises nearly four years ago.
Kei-ma, the knight"s piece in shogi. He rarely uses it, but when he does, it is only for the moments he deems best to ensure victory. Granted, he never uses the king"s piece either. But the lack of touch for the o-sho and gyokusho is born more out of disgust than precaution, which is ironic, many would say, because one would normally associate him to adore the role of the king. But the king of shogi is weak in the eyes of Akashi; the game revolves around the king, yes, but it is a foundation built solely on weakness of the piece and its desperate need to be protected.
Clearly, the knight is more superior, always moving forward, capable of taking leaps over those who block his path, defying the conventional rules of any and all who oppose him. Granted, the king can move in all directions to his advantage, but only one step at a time.
(What was the point in going backwards, anyway? Akashi ponders on this question to himself later on in the midst of a certain insomniac episode in the night.)
His eyes, shades of citrine and scarlet. He used to always hate them as a child, before his mother told him otherwise.
(He remembers her saying his eyes were her favorite trait of his, compared the colours of his mismatched irises to the fiery crimson that blazed in the sky every five hours past noon when the gods called forth the sunset, languid dusks bleeding into evenings and giving way to the gold of the moon for it to shine through. And, his mother would add with a gentle ruffle and a pat on his head, their shades matched perfectly with the rose red of your hair, Seijuuro.)
His eyes, the warmest of hazels that shone in the limelight.
A letter from his grandfather on the eve of his graduation.
A notebook, littered with novel ideas of poetry and quotes and philosophical notions he likes to think about when he"s in his most idle state of mind. It is somewhat like a journal for him, its entries significantly longer since the spring of his freshman year. He likes to write, enjoys the cathartic feeling of the release of his words being jot down on paper, ideas baptized in an air of permanence left behind in stains of charcoal, graphite, and in most cases, ink.
If there"s one thing Akashi knows about writing, it"s that the first rule is this: when he writes about relationships, he never writes about his own. The moment they held hands, the first time they kissed, the way they whispered I love you to each other. He writes about the emotions inspired by those events, but never about the events themselves. For that is a secret only shared between two, a story that belongs to the both of them - it"s not something he can so selfishly dispose at his perusal for the characters he whimsically creates. For it is their own story, their own secret, not just his, not just the boy"s, nor anyone else"s.
(When Mibuchi asks him why, Akashi thinks of Furihata - of the crisp lines tracing his jaw, of the shimmering porcelain coating his skin, of the glazed marble defining the eyes that stared deep into the other"s soul. The boy is beautiful, down to every detail that the redhead could recall; breathtaking even, his heart ruminates, in every sense of the word. The captain purses his lips, humming thoughtfully to himself before finally muttering his response to the taller shooting guard.
There is value in the things you keep hidden, Reo.)
A pressed flower petal - a rhododendron germania to be precise, proffered by a boy whose reasons he could not decipher why at the moment he received it.
The worn and torn discount coupon he used on his - no, their - first date.
(The ghost of a kiss that they shared underneath the flickering bar lights, and the quiet but oh so very gentle Sei-kun murmured in his ears that same date.)
His engagement ring, or rather, a mood ring – bought from a charm store beside the downtown arcade. From Kouki.
(They"d decided to do it after Akashi returned home from a particularly long business trip and an even longer argument born from a lover"s spat exchanged over Skype. The brunette had meant to buy him a real one, but he didn"t have the funds given his job at the cafe, so Akashi had to settle for a makeshift improvisation. Besides, Akashi preferred the twisted band over the thousand-dollar, thousand-carat brooches and gemstones that adorned the necks and hands of so many of his relatives. The sentiment of the ring held more value than any other jewelry that he knew of.
It spoke of apologies, the promise of forgiveness, and the premise of forever.)
His wedding ring - a real one this time, for the ceremony next week in Lartigolle– forged with silver and peppered with shards of diamonds; a matching pair settled in a velvet box with ivory-coloured lining and soft base cushions. To Kouki.
And last, Akashi thinks fondly with the smallest traces of a smile –
Kouki.