He likes to hold her when they're finished, likes to wrap his arms around her butterfly-fragile frame as she perspires on his sheets. Sometimes he doesn't even change the white cotton that they sleep on, just because he wants to remember everything that happened, until he remembers such things are unsanitary. Then he makes Shuuji do it, makes Shuuji touch his bed where Akira and Nobuta have done it and Shuuji doesn't even know.

Shuuji doesn't know because he doesn't ask but Akira has been wondering lately if that means that he does know, that perhaps Shuuji is more of a pervert than he lets on and he enjoys doing such things--but no, that's kind of disgusting. In fact, a lot of things are disgusting lately. He loves Nobuta and wants nothing from her, except what they do in bed so he takes what she gives him (which is not much, and could Shuuji offer more?).

For all this, Akira is rather sick of himself during the night, when he is naked, because he doesn't like himself naked--doesn't like Nobuta naked. He doesn't like those sheets he rolls around in, because Shuuji has touched them and he can't have Shuuji because he is having Nobuta. And isn't that enough? He can't even remember anymore.

This is why he hugs her afterwards, sticky and hot and breathless; this is why he sings to her. Sings her that song, I like where you walk. The sidewalk you walk. The roof you are on. Except the words have been changed so it's, I like the pillow you rest on. I like the window you touch. (But I don't like how you look at me after dark.)

Akira doesn't know how Nobuta feels, though he knows he should--but even if she loves him it won't make a difference. Maybe if he could erase everything that happened before other things happened it would be better, but Akira is not God, Akira is not omniscient. He is in one place at one time, grudgingly accepting each day as it comes, and that is nothing. There's a lover at eleven and someone he loves at six but they aren't the same person, and he isn't two different people.

The clock reads 3 AM and Akira is sighing into his fresh pillow, watching the secondhand tick away, thinking that the clock looks strange; cleaner. Did Shuuji clean it? He is always at home when Shuuji is, but Shuuji likes to wash and wipe alone and Akira lets him have his way because he can't bear to stand in the same room if he's not going to be able to say, change these sheets and I'll have you on them. Because what I have right now, it's not nearly enough, or close to what I want.

(So he stands in the doorway, watches the fresh sheets rid themselves of folds and wrinkles, watches Shuuji pat away the imperfections…)

"I like," Akira whispers into the crook of his arm, "your fingers on my bedspread."

Nobuta puts her hand on his wrist. It is dark, as he likes it to be during these times, but he can still see her ghostly fingertips brushing his skin.

(She knows everything, of course.)

I like, I like that boy who changes my sheets, Akira wants to say, but he has Nobuta whom he loves, who maybe loves him, and he's going to marry her because he has every reason to. And for now Shuuji just tucks his corners in and rearranges the pillows and wipes the clock and says, you are stupid, I will come back next week, with a small grin and a key to the door and hands smelling of laundry detergent.

In fact, all three of them have come to inherit the scent. Akira finds it disgusting. 

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