[Hikaru mumbles. Hikaru's throat gives physicality to the sound of him. Akira can feel his voice spreading over his scalp, into his head, sinking into the basest parts of him. It vibrates in a way that asks to be felt, like tight strings and their promise of music. Like that, Akira wants to touch the side of Hikaru's neck, and have him speak some more. More than that, he wants to press his face there, nose to dip, mouth to Adam's apple, while Hikaru talks to him. When he thinks about this, his one hand holds more tightly to Hikaru's shirt, in a preemptive fear of being pried away. He lies against Hikaru, and he's quiet for a moment, the thoughtful sort of quiet, his eyes open through the twilight and watching nothing in particular. Hikaru's chest rises and falls, and it helps create the cradle of him, along with the curl of his arm. If Akira chose to stay right here, he could do that. He could get away with it for a while...
But Akira slowly loosens his grasp on Hikaru's clothes, and then, with weighted effort, drags his hand across Hikaru's abdomen and back instead to himself.] Ugh, [he says, and then he pushes himself up out of his comfortable curl. He climbs across and over Hikaru's body with the ease of a lover: familiar, at home, and aggressively comfortable with all the shape and breadth of him. He has no qualms about crossing Hikaru to get to the edge of the bed, and he isn't clumsy when he does it. He's not clumsy when he stands, either, not even through the head rush, a quick wash of white. Something about prolonged exertion, but it isn't important.] You eat too much pizza. It's not good for you. [When he looks down upon Hikaru, Hikaru in bed, Akira thinks he could have been kind enough to let Hikaru keep sleeping. But then they would have had even less time to spend together, so it's worth it now for them both to get up. Even while Akira's face and voice hold disapproval, he's saturated with an immeasurable fondness. He's fond enough to pull back his hair so it can't fall around his face, and then to hold it with one hand while he opens one of Hikaru's bedside drawers, looking for an elastic hair tie he could have left here some other night.
He finds one after not too long. It just takes a little fishing. Then he ties it into his hair, takes in a deep, deep breath, and scrubs at his face. Wakefulness is a total joke.] I need you to come make tea. And start your rice cooker. [The room is quiet in such a thick way, and the night promises all the best qualities of cotton, and it would be easy for Akira to climb right back into where he was. Hikaru's warmth is the best sort of bait. And that's exactly why Akira, squinting through his grogginess, spins on his heel and out of Hikaru's bedroom. The reality of having had breakfast at 6 in the morning is hitting him too hard.
The apron in Hikaru's kitchen doesn't get much attention. Akira used it about two weeks ago, and he won't be surprised if it hasn't been touched since then. He ties it at his own waist now with less docility than he's ever seen his mother tighten hers. She seems to have had it very easy. She never waited long to be a bride...
Once Hikaru reaches the kitchen, Akira is already making domineering work out of the mushrooms he pulled out of Hikaru's fridge. He chops them with quick hands, harsh hands, hands that must hurt for all their tension. Off to the side, the counter top holds a mishmash of things: bonito flakes, rice crackers, pickled plums and ginger both... he just rifled around in Hikaru's cupboards until moderately satisfied. Between this and the tea and the rice he's demanding, he must be making ochazuke. It's a simple thing, but he's determined to make Hikaru warm now that he's drawn him out of bed. The sight of Akira belongs to the morning, with his mussed hair, pajamas, and his sleep-narrowed eyes, but here he is on what should be a school night. Well, that's obviously not going to happen. He can sacrifice another day to absence if it means being allowed to stay over at Hikaru's.
In his bleariness, he sniffs a little, maybe to try to jump start his brain...] And could you heat up a pan, please. And get two eggs for me. [He pauses his chopping, then starts it again, and without looking up, asks,] Do you have any wine on hand?
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But Akira slowly loosens his grasp on Hikaru's clothes, and then, with weighted effort, drags his hand across Hikaru's abdomen and back instead to himself.] Ugh, [he says, and then he pushes himself up out of his comfortable curl. He climbs across and over Hikaru's body with the ease of a lover: familiar, at home, and aggressively comfortable with all the shape and breadth of him. He has no qualms about crossing Hikaru to get to the edge of the bed, and he isn't clumsy when he does it. He's not clumsy when he stands, either, not even through the head rush, a quick wash of white. Something about prolonged exertion, but it isn't important.] You eat too much pizza. It's not good for you. [When he looks down upon Hikaru, Hikaru in bed, Akira thinks he could have been kind enough to let Hikaru keep sleeping. But then they would have had even less time to spend together, so it's worth it now for them both to get up. Even while Akira's face and voice hold disapproval, he's saturated with an immeasurable fondness. He's fond enough to pull back his hair so it can't fall around his face, and then to hold it with one hand while he opens one of Hikaru's bedside drawers, looking for an elastic hair tie he could have left here some other night.
He finds one after not too long. It just takes a little fishing. Then he ties it into his hair, takes in a deep, deep breath, and scrubs at his face. Wakefulness is a total joke.] I need you to come make tea. And start your rice cooker. [The room is quiet in such a thick way, and the night promises all the best qualities of cotton, and it would be easy for Akira to climb right back into where he was. Hikaru's warmth is the best sort of bait. And that's exactly why Akira, squinting through his grogginess, spins on his heel and out of Hikaru's bedroom. The reality of having had breakfast at 6 in the morning is hitting him too hard.
The apron in Hikaru's kitchen doesn't get much attention. Akira used it about two weeks ago, and he won't be surprised if it hasn't been touched since then. He ties it at his own waist now with less docility than he's ever seen his mother tighten hers. She seems to have had it very easy. She never waited long to be a bride...
Once Hikaru reaches the kitchen, Akira is already making domineering work out of the mushrooms he pulled out of Hikaru's fridge. He chops them with quick hands, harsh hands, hands that must hurt for all their tension. Off to the side, the counter top holds a mishmash of things: bonito flakes, rice crackers, pickled plums and ginger both... he just rifled around in Hikaru's cupboards until moderately satisfied. Between this and the tea and the rice he's demanding, he must be making ochazuke. It's a simple thing, but he's determined to make Hikaru warm now that he's drawn him out of bed. The sight of Akira belongs to the morning, with his mussed hair, pajamas, and his sleep-narrowed eyes, but here he is on what should be a school night. Well, that's obviously not going to happen. He can sacrifice another day to absence if it means being allowed to stay over at Hikaru's.
In his bleariness, he sniffs a little, maybe to try to jump start his brain...] And could you heat up a pan, please. And get two eggs for me. [He pauses his chopping, then starts it again, and without looking up, asks,] Do you have any wine on hand?