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Today was turning out nicely. Akira had spent the whole afternoon in Akihabara with Mishima, who bought a whole load of new gizmos for their PC. A lot of which Akira didn't understand, but it made Mishima quite happy, which in turn made Akira happy (and Morgana gag). The two had since taken refuge in LeBlanc, Akira behind the counter and Mishima probably doing PhanSite things(Morgana had run off to Futaba as soon as they got to Yongen-Jaya). Their face scrunched up in concentration, looking so cute...
That wasn't why Akira's hands were disgustingly sweaty as he brewed a cup of coffee for Mishima and himself, though. See, when the two were strolling through those crowded streets of Akihabara, and a couple of times before, truthfully, Akira caught Mishima staring at some pretty skirt or dress. Akira isn't one to assume, but the way Mishima looked at those more feminine clothing... Something in him itched to see Mishima's face if they were given something like that.
So, just a couple hours ago –just before they were supposed to meet up, actually– Akira ordered a dress he'd think Mishima would like. Truth be told, Akira had no idea what Mishima would like to wear; he didn't even know why Mishima had been so silently enamored in dresses and skirts. Maybe they didn't even know that they were even looking at them, or there was a girl they liked they thought of when they saw those long skirts, but Akira told himself if this was just a mistake, he'd apologize and wear it himself(it was something he could fit in, just in case). But Akira really did hope Mishima would like it. Maybe even tell Akira why they-
Ah. That ring must be the package. Mishima looked up from their screen, in curious interest as coffee poured into a cup. Akira meandered to the door and quickly thanked and sent off the delivery man, getting a good hold of the quite light package. Thank you, one day delivery...
"Ah, what's with the package?" Mishima gave an awkward smile.
"Let's get the coffee done first," the other hummed. He fidgeted with the front of his bangs, making his way back behind the counter. Mishima eyed him, setting his phone down, looking quite interested (and a little scared) in whatever Akira had ordered. Akira wondered if Mishima should feel that way or not.
Placing the steaming pair of cups on the counter, Akira untied the apron and hung it up, giving one last attempt to make his hands not feel like they're covered with watery honey. He swung the box into his arms, and ushered Mishima to follow him. Mishima opened his mouth to say something, but closed it with furrowed brows.
Up into the much warmer attic, Akira heaved, placing the box on the couch. The two stood in complete silence, looking. While it must've been overwhelmingly awkward to Mishima, Akira was hoping whatever internal freakout was inside him stayed inside. Akira took a stuttering step, before gingerly getting a hold of the box, and opening it. Slow enough it felt agonizing.
Inside, a very wrinkly, simple dress rested. dark blue moon patterns decorated an otherwise white dress, a navy ribbon adorning the square neckline and end. The short sleeves only puffed slightly(a lot less than the picture), and Akira didn't dare look back to Mishima as he pulled it out. Akira held out the dress, eyeballing it to be ankle length on Mishima, and a little shorter than calf length on Akira. And the glimpse he caught of Mishima was terrifyingly confounded.
Lost for words he tried to prepare for, Akira motioned to Mishima. Mishima simply stared, a crack in his voice disrupting a wry laugh, no smile on his face.
"What… What's this supposed to be? Is it for me? Is it... A-a joke?"
Akira sputtered, "No? It… I thought you'd- Why would this be a joke?" Mishima only scrunched his face, pain looking disgustingly natural.
"Because why- why would you get a guy a dress?"
"Because I thought you'd like it?"
"Boys aren't,” Mishima choked, “they a-aren't supposed to like that stuff-"
"I like 'that stuff'."
"Tha-that's because y-you look good in that stuff-"
"Why wouldn't you be?"
"Because. Because I'm not- I can't-" Tears started to cling to Mishima's flushed freckled cheeks, a burning, sickening scowl between his eyebrows. Akira shivered, and he tried not to let a frustrated frown tug at his lips. Why was it turning out this way? If Mishima declined, like a normal person would, Akira would simply accept it, but Mishima had to act however which way they did. It made that rebellious side of Akira ache.
"Why can't you?" Akira, for once in his time here, couldn't stop his mouth from running something dumb.
"B-because people would look at me weird- you–you-you’d think it's ah-all so dumb! Why are you-you so hellbent o-on this dumb game?!" Went lines ran down past Mishima's scarred lips, snot starting to peer from their nose. Akira wanted to wipe those tears away, but something even dumber kept him grounded.
"Because..." Akira muttered, almost below a whisper. Some stubborn tears hung onto his eyelashes. "... Try it on. Please." His tone was nothing less than pleading as Akira shoved the dress into Mishima's arms. Something deeper than distress ran through the way Mishima looked at Akira, but they took the dress nonetheless and rushed to the bathroom downstairs. Akira slumped onto the leather couch.
Akira sat in silence on that, frankly, uncomfortable couch for what felt like forever. He mulled over Mishima's reaction, and simply scrunched his face in discontent. Why did he lengthen a conversation (some situation) that could've been some simple "No thanks, I don't like dresses!" "Okay, cool." Maybe he wouldn't have seen Mishima make that face, those tears. Like the ones Akira wiped away from his eyes; ones he had to lift his fake glasses for.
A creak of the stairs jumped Akira to fix his glasses, seeing first a glimpse of white cloth that didn't quite reach the ground, before seeing Mishima's puffed face, more tears staining his freckled face than before. It both panged adoration and pain in Akira's gut. Akira slowly rose to his feet, making his way over to a reasonable distance away from Mishima. Akira tried not to focus on how pretty Mishima looked; not what he should be thinking about right now.
"How does it fit?" It looked perfect.
"Why does it feel so nice? I-it's just a dress..." Mishima's voice was so soft, the cracks between their breaths the only thing above a whisper. Tears started to trickle down Mishima's cheeks again, and Akira couldn't stop himself this time from getting closer and wiping them away with a quick thumb. Instead of focusing on how much dumber he's starting to act today specifically, he gently pulled Mishima into a firm hug.
Mishima practically melted into Akira's arms. Their soft cries snowballed into abrasive sobs, most definitely getting snot on Akira's shirt (not like he cared, with Mishima in his arms), and clung and grasped onto the back of Akira’s shirt. The dress was soft to the touch as Akira weaved his scrawny arms around Mishima, trying to hold Mishima closer than physics allowed them.
When Mishima's cries softened to the softest sniffle (a gross snotty sound), Akira placed his hands delicately on Mishima's shoulders. His thumb tried to sooth the tension that had resided itself into Mishima's muscles, gently nudging Mishima's face away from Akira's chest. Mishima's face was flushed in rosy hues, a pout resided on their face; something akin to embarrassment. Akira tried to give a reassuring smile, which thankfully made Mishima's lips twitch from that wistful frown.
"Why?" Mishima's voice rasped, only making them flinch at the soreness of it.
"I thought you'd like it," Akira hummed, his voice only getting softer, "I hope you like it." Mishima's face couldn't get redder.
"I-I-I do. I don't know w-why, though." Akira didn't either. He hoped Mishima would one day.
Wrapping his arms lightly around Mishima's neck, Akira nestled his nose between Mishima's indigo hair.
"Does it matter? For right now?" Akira mumbled, his voice barely getting across to Mishima. The other was left quiet, before silently shaking his head.
"No." Akira could hear the soft smile on Mishima's face. It warmed something in his stomach. "Not right now..."
This was just a dress afterall: a very pretty, comforting dress on a very pretty Mishima.
After washing both their faces from their shared weeps, they laughed at some dumb conversation in the cramped bathroom. Out back to the counter, their coffees were cold as they could be in the evening July heat. That only made Mishima laugh harder, making Akira snort as he brewed up another two cups. This time, Mishima sat in the booth, a white dress hovering above the floor.