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There's an odd familiarity in practicing alone with Akito, something that takes An back to when she was thirteen and singing alone on street corners, teenage voice crackling through her dad's old mic and speaker setup. Maybe it's the shadowed alley the two are hidden in— the only place on Vivid Street that had offered both privacy and shade from the afternoon sun. An's whale-shaped portable speaker lies a few paces away from them, blasting the setlist for Vivid BAD SQUAD's upcoming event into the dry air.
"Fuck, it's hot out here," Akito grumbles in between steps, wiping the sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand.
An shoots him the middle finger as the intrumental around them dies down. "Told you we should have cancelled when no one could come, but you needed this practice soooo badly."
The boy across from her groans and runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up in odd places, sweat turning the bright orange a few shades darker. The first few drum beats of the next song start to play, and An watches him stand up straighter and tighten his grip around his mic. His hands are shaking. "I'm serious. I've got a solo thing tonight too. We need practice."
Her eyebrows shoot up as fast as her heart drops. "Another solo? Didn't you literally just—" Akito launches into the verse, drowning her question out, and she has half a mind to stop the music and bite him. Unfortunately, only one of those things is possible without turning practice into a street fight, so An walks over and switches the speaker off.
"Let's take a break. I'm tired," she declares, cutting off Akito's noise of protest. Akito lunges for the speaker, and An grabs it before he can switch the music on again. "We've been at it for, like, an hour!" she yelps, dropping her mic onto the ground with a thud.
An plops down on the concrete and pats the floor next to her. She watches his face contort into maybe fourteen different expressions, before he seems to realize he's fighting a losing battle and sits down with a loud huff. Like a toddler, An thinks, crossed arms and all, but she miraculously restrains from voicing the thought.
"'S hot," Akito repeats, leaning back so that his head touches the wall.
"Do you not have water?"
"I do, just— gimme a second." He closes his eyes, mouth pressed into a tense line. He looks so much more tired than he did two minutes ago. An watches him, silence pooling in the space between them, before Akito straightens and grabs his water bottle.
Now that she's not so focused on practice, An can finally get a good look at him, for what feels like the first time in weeks. His hair is pushed back, messed up so that she can hardly see the yellow streak. It's longer than he would usually leave it. And now that she looks closer, there's a faint dusting of freckles across his cheeks. And— God, how had she not noticed earlier— dark circles underneath his eyes, prominent enough to look sort of like a bruise. If the bruise had been healing for a few weeks or so, or whatever, don't ask her about anything medicine-related—
"Whatcha lookin' at?" Akito grumbles, turning his head ever so slightly in her direction.
She's learned not to prod too much at him this past while, but worry tugs at the back of her head nevertheless. "Have you been wearing concealer?" An blurts, against her better judgement. She leans closer to him, squinting, and Akito swats at her head.
"What, a man can't wear makeup now?" He retorts, shuffling away.
"Not if it's to cover the huge panda circles around your eyes. You're overworking yourself to death, we told you—"
Akito heaves a long-suffering sigh. "An, lay off it. I'm fine."
Indignance rises in her chest, hot and furious. Why won't he listen? "Stop saying that!"
"I'm fine, you don't get it—"
"Fine, my ass! You look like you haven't slept in days, and you keep ignoring—"
"Can't any of you let me off the fucking hook?" Akito snaps back, chest heaving. His eyes glow with anger as he whips around to face her. "None of you get it," he says, quieter this time as he leans back against the wall.
An is so utterly helpless. She can feel desperation pulsing through her veins, and she doesn't know how to get it out. "Then make me get it. Why?" I think you're reaching your limit, and I'm terrified. Why aren't you terrified? Why can't you stop?
She shuffles closer and throws both her arms around him. He nearly squeaks in surprise; any other day, An would have teased him relentlessly about it. The two are a fantastically awkward tangle of gangly limbs, and the concrete is scraping at An's knees, and Akito is kind-of-sort-of patting her back in response. The tension in the air is palpable; they don't ever hug, not like this.
"An. We're both sweaty," he murmurs, oddly close to her ear. She can feel him breathing.
An laughs. "Yeah. But, Akito, um. Please. You know I care about you, and the others—"
He interrupts her, shrugging her arms off his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah." He's not quite looking her way; instead, his eyes are fixed on some point on the graffiti-splattered wall ahead of them. And An sits dumbly, arms hanging at her sides, and somehow she knows that he's still going to get up and go to the solo event, that this won't change anything. "Let's get back to practicing."
Her heart crumples. As he grabs his mic and stands up, sun rimming his familiar form, An can't help but think that he looks the least alive she's ever seen him.
Akito looks down, waiting. A knows she could drag him back down onto the floor, hold him there until she thought he'd taken enough of a break. She could yell at him a thousand times over about how much everyone liked his voice, how talented he was, how integral he was to the group. She could grab him by the shoulders and shake him and shake him and shake him. None of it would work.
An picks up her mic. "Okay."