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Eita could never consider himself a morning person. But sometimes - more often, now - he wakes up before the sun.
He treasures that moment on Sunday mornings when the sun slowly begins to rise, sending streams of warm light through the window and casting golden patterns across Tendou’s still-sleeping face. His hair looks especially warm mixed with the honey of sunlight; if it didn’t risk waking Tendou, Eita would give in to the temptation of tangling his fingers in the scarlet and scarlet-gold mess.
On this particular morning, Eita is extra warm. Their legs are tangled together beneath three different blankets - two from Tendou’s room because Eita only ever sleeps with one but Tendou gets cold easily at night - and Tendou has one arm resting across Eita’s hip.
The sun traces rhombuses across Tendou’s cheeks and nose.
Eita reaches between them and grabs the hand not draped across his body, intertwines their fingers. In his sleep, Tendou lets out a breathy sigh.
His breath on Eita’s face is hot and smells semi-sweet, like warm milk.
Eita wants to kiss him.
But Tendou looks so at peace, eyes closed and lips parted just slightly, hair down and falling softly across his cheeks and forehead.
(Eita likes when Tendou’s hair is down, likes that he’s one of the only people who gets to see him like this. Once, while taking a study break, he’d managed to get most of Tendou’s hair into a ponytail at the top of his head so that every time Tendou moved, it would bounce around. Eita’d laughed so hard that they’d had to wrap up their study session early.)
So Eita doesn’t kiss him, instead watching the sun lay patterns on Tendou’s face like it does every Sunday morning and waiting for him to wake up.
When Tendou does wake up, his brow creases just a little, and his eyes squeeze shut a bit tighter, and he closes his mouth to breathe heavily through his nose and groan.
When Tendou opens his eyes and sees Eita smiling at him, fond and just a little (a lot) in love, he grins. “Hello, Semisemi,” he says, voice just above a whisper. The quietness is unnecessary because they’re the only ones in the room and the walls aren’t thin enough for anyone to overhear, but it makes the morning feel more special, more intimate. “How long have you been awake?”
“I don’t know,” Eita says back.
Tendou leans forward and bumps their noses together, still smiling.
Eita closes his eyes and presses a kiss to Tendou’s lips, soft and lingering. His heart feels warm.
On Sundays, Eita wakes up before the sun; and then, the sun wakes up with him.