THEIR DAYS ARE LIKE GRASS
by Tari Gwaemir
An all-too-temporary moment.
Umeda is sprawled back in his chair, with his arm over his eyes and a tired droop to his mouth. Akiha stops in the doorway to admire the sight: his hands frame the photograph he would take if he had his camera with him. As it is, he can only note the mellow color of Senpai's bright hair in the dappled afternoon light, the crispness of his white coat against the limpness of his white neck, the melancholy expression of his unmoving face.
Akiha tiptoes through the office and sits on the floor by the chair, soundlessly drawing his knees up to his chin and resting his head, ever so gently, against the edge of Senpai's chair. He closes his eyes, feels the light breeze from the window against his cheeks. It is an all-too-temporary moment, he knows, for soon Senpai will wake and push him away all the more vigorously for having seen him in such a vulnerable position.
Akiha smiles and shifts his head a little closer to Senpai's knee.