[Akira wakes as though it's June. He could be thick in a forest, one dense and damp and trapping heat. It smells amazing. Better than fresh foliage, this swelter bears down on Akira in a way that makes it hard to breathe, but the scent is one Akira wants to take in slowly. The side of his face is pressed into Hikaru's pillow—the side of his mouth—and he breathes in deeply through his mouth as if he can swallow all this comfort. Eating it up, mouthfuls of affection, safety bite by bite. In the humidity, so like summer, Akira feels like he could start spewing fireflies. Like Hikaru's scent could bring all that sparkling out of him. If he sighs, it might start to glow.
But the room stays dim, when he does sigh. The blinds spell twilight, a bare blue light between the slats, more like a murmur than Akira's heart. There's the red-lit face of Hikaru's clock, too, which lets Akira know he slept longer than he meant to. It's almost properly night, by now, and he'd meant to spend a while pinning Hikaru to the couch by curling up against his side. He didn't want to miss out on that by sleeping as much as he did.
Oh, well. Maybe he should just stay the night, in that case.
Once he's decided that, he sinks a little bit, softer and gentler into Hikaru's bed. It's relaxing. Picturing himself here with Hikaru for hours and hours more is such a relief that Akira could nearly go back to sleep. He watches Hikaru for a while, instead. He's quiet and studious in the way he is when he watches Hikaru play a game. His eyes are full of that same lustrous appraisal. Unseen, he glints in the low light of Hikaru's bedroom, taking stock of all that Hikaru is: warm, and tired, and his. Akira watches him a little more, and then he shifts their knees together. He tucks his head up beneath Hikaru's chin, which requires him to make himself smaller than he is—it feels like the right thing. Like the necessary thing. And he clutches at the side of Hikaru's shirt with one hand.] Hikaru, [he says, at a normal volume, like he's beginning the sort of conversation they'd have any other time.] Hikaru. Hikaru, I'm hungry. [This isn't the whine of a child, breathless and hopeful, the sort of thing he'd say with a chime to his voice when he was little. It's a command. It's the way he talks to a three-time title holder who's played a hand he disapproves of. Akira isn't rude—this is Hikaru. Akira can say anything to him. He can say Hikaru laid down a stupid sequence, and he can say Hikaru is the most brilliant adult in the room, and he can say,] Come on. It's time for dinner. Hikaru.
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But the room stays dim, when he does sigh. The blinds spell twilight, a bare blue light between the slats, more like a murmur than Akira's heart. There's the red-lit face of Hikaru's clock, too, which lets Akira know he slept longer than he meant to. It's almost properly night, by now, and he'd meant to spend a while pinning Hikaru to the couch by curling up against his side. He didn't want to miss out on that by sleeping as much as he did.
Oh, well. Maybe he should just stay the night, in that case.
Once he's decided that, he sinks a little bit, softer and gentler into Hikaru's bed. It's relaxing. Picturing himself here with Hikaru for hours and hours more is such a relief that Akira could nearly go back to sleep. He watches Hikaru for a while, instead. He's quiet and studious in the way he is when he watches Hikaru play a game. His eyes are full of that same lustrous appraisal. Unseen, he glints in the low light of Hikaru's bedroom, taking stock of all that Hikaru is: warm, and tired, and his. Akira watches him a little more, and then he shifts their knees together. He tucks his head up beneath Hikaru's chin, which requires him to make himself smaller than he is—it feels like the right thing. Like the necessary thing. And he clutches at the side of Hikaru's shirt with one hand.] Hikaru, [he says, at a normal volume, like he's beginning the sort of conversation they'd have any other time.] Hikaru. Hikaru, I'm hungry. [This isn't the whine of a child, breathless and hopeful, the sort of thing he'd say with a chime to his voice when he was little. It's a command. It's the way he talks to a three-time title holder who's played a hand he disapproves of. Akira isn't rude—this is Hikaru. Akira can say anything to him. He can say Hikaru laid down a stupid sequence, and he can say Hikaru is the most brilliant adult in the room, and he can say,] Come on. It's time for dinner. Hikaru.