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“We have to be quiet.”
It's almost like a secret, the way Oikawa whispers this. His breath tickles the shell of Hajime's ear, and he shivers even when it's much too warm here under their comforter, with too little space between them—non-existent, he’d even dare say, when they’re pressed against each other like this.
“Go back to sleep,” Hajime mumbles.
He tilts his head away, lazily so, when Oikawa starts to nibble at his jaw. Eyes kept shut, he hears the rustle of their comforter, of hands finding purchase in threaded sheet, of clothes rasping against one another, of skin unsticking from skin. The weight lifts from his chest.
Hajime just blinks up, bleary from leftover dreams.
From above, Oikawa finds him right back.
“Hey,” Oikawa says, unprompted like always, lips parted slightly. Hajime tries to recall if he’d slept through the post-waking up kiss.
There is no case of morning breath, because they’ve been taking a rare afternoon nap until now, but it's still not the most pleasant. Hajime breathes in the smell of him, anyway; it is nothing specific, nor noteworthy enough to name—it's just how it is. It lingers in well-worn bedsheets, his favorite comforter, the galaxy one, peppered with nebulas and stars, that’s surely past its due date for laundry. Something he’s been conditioned to over the years, the decades, and Hajime thinks he wouldn't ever have too much of him.
His arms ache a bit from the position they’d been forced to keep while he slept, but he reaches up, brushes a curious red smudge on Oikawa's cheek, pinkish in the dusk streaming through the blinds. Still dazed, he frowns, when it won't fade, and then chuckles as he realizes it's only pillow creases imprint. Oikawa lets his hand stay.
“Hey,” Hajime says.
He’s probably grinning so stupidly enamored. He thumbs at Oikawa's cheek, his skin soft, a bit oily after a day’s worth of work. Hajime doesn't mind.
“Shh,” Oikawa chides. “We have to be quiet, Iwa-chan.”
“Yeah?” Hajime replies through a yawn. And another one. “Why’so?”
Oikawa stares at him.
“Oh, gods.” He groans, burying his face in Hajime’s chest, his fists forming even more wrinkles in Hajime's shirt. He raises himself a second later, peering at Hajime with wide, determined eyes. “Do that again.”
“Wha’?”
“Yawn. Talk. Blink. Anything. You’re so damn cute, what if I can't resist myself—”
Hajime smacks him with a pillow, for that.
Predictably, Oikawa whines. Hajime sighs, chuckles, nestles both hands on his waist and lifts him and brings him farther up his lap, enjoying his indignant squawk.
“Why do we have to be quiet?” Hajime asks, between trailing languid kisses across Oikawa's forehead.
It might just be Oikawa Tooru, in all honesty, like his emergency phone calls at one in the morning to talk about some alien conspiracy theories he’s thought up, or share “these stupid dogs videos Iwa-chan would totally love that I accidentally found” (and he's always right), or initiate a banter so he can hear Hajime's voice just because.
They're in their apartment, safe and sound. The city traffic below is a background noise they’ve gotten used to, the smooth, pitching rumble of cars as they pass by ever-present until the dead of night falls and signals the end of day, a time to rest; and it's calming in a way the pitter-patter of rain is for some people.
Right from this distance, eight stories above the ground, filtered through thin walls, it lets them know they're here, where they belong—
Home, to put it in a single word.
Oikawa works a mark somewhere on his collarbone for a while longer. When he finishes, signing it with a kiss, quieter than usual, he breathes in, slowly, and exhales.
With the way they lie on one another, Hajime feels every rise and fall of his chest, every breath he takes and lets go, in sync with his own.
It has been said that your heartbeat will sync with the person’s you’re walking with, and he wonders if it's true—when it's true, for two people who've run alongside each other their whole lives. He wonders how it'll stay, in the days to come.
“Like this,” Oikawa says, with eyes closed in something like trust. He bumps his forehead to Hajime's, their noses in the way.
“Like this,” Oikawa whispers. Head turned sideways, he presses an ear to Hajime's chest, and keeps on breathing.
Hajime runs his hand through Oikawa's hair, closes his eyes, and listens.