In the attic of Leblanc, there was a small yet intense fire growing. Their time apart had been the tinder for the flames, but the time they spent in polite company, finally together again yet so distant from each other, was the fuel. Akira had barely waited for the cafe’s bell to jingle before grasping Futaba’s hand and pulling her to him, the weight of their mutual longing sending the two tumbling into the bed. Passion blazing ahead of good sense, Akira could no longer resist temptation, and--with all the gentleness winter’s first snow--he laid a single claim upon her lips. He pulled back, surprised at his own brazenness, but found himself even more surprised when she returned his claim, again and again, with the intensity of an avalanche.
When Futaba’s assault caused Akira’s glasses to fall askew, she stole them away with the speed of a master thief, yet with the grace of an aged trebuchet, knocking her own glasses off in the process. The fires within them cracked and flickered, steadily growing with each touch the two shared, eagerly swallowing their patience and inhibition. The light within them expanded, swelling within them, filling them with a raging, tender warmth. Akira hesitated. Though the fire had taken root and singed his cheeks, he found his mind racing, seeking obscure catastrophes to fear. A familiar void opened within him, sucking away the light within him ember by ember.
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