Never ✧ KnB x Reader Oneshots

Akashi Seijūrō (3)

⚞ a lot of times when i look through my old wips, i cringe. i actually deleted a few bc i just couldnt keep it in my google drive. this, however, was a great idea. good job, old pinki! consider this an apology for all the really bad akashi fics i wrote in the past ⚟

Three Kinds of Kisses

"So wrong writhes this, and this gives strife unto thee."

The class gives a mellowed applause as the student runs back to their seat. "Great, great! Just, ah, work on your English pronunciation next time," the teacher says over the slight murmur of students, restless from what feels like an eternity of presentations. "Next up, we have... ah, Akashi-san! Please, go ahead."

The classroom goes quiet, a rarity for any Seirin class. But when it comes to the heir of the Akashi name, there can only be silence. She walks up to the front of the class, head held high and back straight. Her hands are folded neatly over her paper as she stands before her dumbstruck peers. She has her father's piercing gaze and her mother's disposition, an inherited grace that makes even the most mundane assignment feel ceremonial.

"My poem," Akashi says, Japanese clipped with an unmistakably British tone, "was written by my mother."

There's a murmur at that. Most students had simply chosen to read out Shakespeare, so a reprise from the Bard is happily received. The teacher smiles, intrigued.

"It was written during her honeymoon, in a diary I had recently uncovered from the attic," she continues, eyes steadily looking at the class. "It's about... Well, I suppose I'll just read it to you."

Somewhere across town, two people who have ruled boardrooms and dinner parties alike share an odd sinking feeling in their guts.

Akashi begins to read.

The poem is gentle, borderline reverent in nature. It speaks of a longing not measured in meters, but in years — of a love so all-encompassing that it makes the hearts of her classmates flutter.

It speaks of three kinds of kisses.

By the time she finishes, the room is silent. Then comes applause, soft at first before growing more earnest.

Akashi bows her head politely, cheeks warm. She can't help but to think of her parents in this moment, especially how her mother will be beside herself with embarrassment and how her father will congratulate her regardless.

(...)

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 'Oh, list,'
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,

You are a child when you first meet Akashi Seijūrō.

Too young, really, to understand what an arranged marriage means. You only know that it's important enough that your father's voice is careful when he speaks to you. You know it has something to do with this large complex in a foreign country, impossibly larger than your two-story home back in England. You know that the boy standing in front of you, watching you to figure out where you stand in this game of life, is key to it.

You are English, taught by your mother to be polite to the point of distance, and he is Japanese, raised by his father to rule rooms with only a single look. You feel entirely different to the boy.

Now, you now sit next to each other in a sunlit room. A maid hands you tea. There's no handle like you're used to. You keep looking between the offending cup and the maid in confusion. The rules of decorum say nothing of what to do, and you find yourself terribly afraid of making a poor judgement in front of such important people.