Like a cat, Shirogane never blinked. Once Akira had realized, it became something he couldn’t help noticing all the time. There were those moments when Shirogane would tug the brim of his hat down, over his eyes, and just smile (and those irritated Akira more than nearly anything else)–but he never *blinked*. Not unless it was “cute” or pretending confusion, and those times didn’t count.
It nagged at Akira like some unreachable itch, and the effort it took to be annoyed just irritated him further. If it were Kengo, he could just smack the idiot and be done with it, but Shirogane had also mastered the art of narrow dodges: Akira’s fist was always ten seconds too late to make contact. He ignored it when he could, and when it wasn’t possible, he glared back. Not that it ever really deterred Shirogane; even after months, Akira hadn’t gotten used to sometimes waking up with the sense of someone *watching* him–even if Shirogane’s back was turned, it felt like his eyes were tracking Akira’s every movement. Maybe the bastard had eyes on the back of his head, hidden in that mass of hair; just because he *looked* human meant nothing–and he looked at Akira like there was *meaning* to it, some kind of secret joke he was waiting for the rest of the world to recognize.
Even though Shirogane rarely touched, he hovered, and that was possibly worse: he always stayed close enough to be felt, but never outright touching. Akira’s personal space bubble had been warped to accomodate this new person, and he knew he didn’t like it. Getting close to people–or responding when they got too close–took more effort than he really liked to put forth. He liked distance because it meant less noise and distraction, but Shirogane didn’t seem to understand that part. Even when not acting as Akira’s shadow he lingered within less than arm’s reach. For a man of shadow, wrapped in heavy clothes, he gave off a lot of heat.
Complaining did no good: it only made Shirogane smile, blue eyes half-visible under the brim of his hat, never blinking.