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4:56 A.M. The bold ruby numbers are the only light in the room as Oboro Shirakumo awakens, blinking tiredly at their digital glow. For a moment, unfamiliarity—those aren’t the neon-green digits of his own alarm (themed fittingly to pro hero O’Clock)—but the jarring snore to his right reminds him quickly where he is. Indeed, he can just start to make out the details of Aizawa’s room in the dark, including Yamada’s snoring body somehow sprawled on top of his sleeping bag.
Shirakumo slides upright, trying his best to quiet the crinkling of his own bag. The spread-eagled Yamada merely twitches a finger in response, and Shirakumo glances up towards Aizawa’s bed, where the dark-haired boy curls cat-like on the mattress. Indeed, he finds it fascinating how differently his friends sleep…He wonders if either of them have noticed his own sleeping habits, until he recalls an anecdote Aizawa had once shared, where he’d woken for a drink and spotted Shirakumo’s misty locks fluttering like a baby-blue campfire in his sleep. He feels his cheeks warm at the thought of Aizawa watching him in such a candid moment, and rubs at his face to will away the inevitable pink—not that his friends were going to see it, conked out as they were.
Shirakumo glances to the clock again: 4:58 now. What time had the weatherman said the sunrise would be today? Even mid-sleepover, it was an age-old habit of Shirakumo’s to greet the sun as it awakened, and the summer season saw earlier sunrises with each passing day. He stretches thoughtfully, feeling the muscles in his back tense and release. Shirakumo looks again to Aizawa. Takes in the gentle rise and fall of his friend’s breathing in the dark.
The nylon of his sleeping bag sticks to his bare feet as he rises. The boy creeps onto the edge of Yamada’s bag, where he nearly slips on the fabric, but manages to steady himself and elicit only a drool-drenched snore from his friend. Heart thundering from the near-fall, Shirakumo takes a breath and lets his feet meet the cold hardwood.
He feels the stretch in his arches as he tiptoes as quietly as possible. The ground is a minefield of slumber party leftovers: stray scraps of paper with which he’d tried—and failed—to teach the others origami last night. Aizawa’s belt tossed carelessly on the floor next to Shirakumo’s own goggles, glinting under the streetlamps filtering through the blinds. Yamada’s soundboard-styled suitcase wide open, a mess of belongings exploding from its chest. His startled heartbeat finally quiets until he reaches Aizawa’s bedside…Then his thumping pulse starts right back up again.
The boy before Shirakumo is an unparalleled type of delicate. It’s not necessarily evident in Aizawa’s physique—lean, sure, but too toned to call him fragile—but rather, in the way he nestles against the mattress, dark locks flowing across his pillowcase, hands tucked close to his chest as if they’re the only thing keeping his heart inside. It’s no secret that during the daytime hours, Shouta Aizawa’s appearance borders on slovenly. But right now, he looks like an illustration one would find in a fantasy novel: some ethereal thing cocooned in the petals of his bedsheets, a secret sight that Shirakumo feels lucky to witness.
Shirakumo glances at the clock again. 5:03. He almost feels guilty disrupting his friend’s peaceful sleep, but at the same time, the necessity is welling in his chest. This is a special piece of his mornings that, for once, he wants to share with Aizawa. Not his fault that the event’s on a limited timetable.
Shirakumo reaches forward, taking Aizawa’s shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Shouta.”
No reply. Shirakumo shakes him lightly, the bed creaking under Aizawa in response.
“Shoooooooutaaaaa,” he coaxes in a sing-songy whisper, but the only reply Shirakumo gets is a half-choked snore from Yamada that startles him half to death. After catching his breath and checking that Yamada didn’t in fact just die in his sleep, Shirakumo turns back to Aizawa, sinking gently to his knees at his friend’s bedside. With a quiet sigh, he settles his head onto the mattress’s edge, watching Aizawa breathe the quiet in deep, in and out.
“Hmph. You’d wake up if I were a cat,” Shirakumo chuckles quietly, batting at the tips of Aizawa’s hair as kitten-like as he can muster. Still no sign of stirring. The playful gesture settles into a tender brushing of Aizawa’s locks, and Shirakumo is lost in thought as he curls the soft strands around his fingers, split ends and all.
Without warning, Aizawa shifts, and Shirakumo recoils quickly, nearly bashing himself in the nose in his haste. Misty hair fluttering with wild worry, Shirakumo holds his breath as Aizawa turns his way…but he lets it out within seconds, when it becomes clear that he still hasn’t roused his friend one bit.
But still, Aizawa’s face is mere inches from his at this point, and the arrangement makes him flush. He swallows thickly, shame nipping at the warmth under his skin. These flustered responses are getting ridiculous. After all, he’s no stranger to planting playful kisses on his friends: sloppy, soy sauce smooches on Aizawa’s cheek to piss him off at lunchtime, tickling pecks on Yamada’s ear to tease him into laughter during training. Shirakumo chastises himself for being so illogical, and that alone nearly makes him laugh; even his inner critic sounds like Aizawa. But it really is different—not a joke, nor a running gag between friends—this is him and Shouta, inches apart, Aizawa’s mouth tinged sour from sleep and Shirakumo’s bone-dry with anticipation.
But he decides against it. Feelings or none, he’s not some creep who’s going to make out with his best friend in his sleep. With a quiet sigh, Shirakumo keeps the thought as a daydream, smiling sadly as he brushes a strand of hair from Aizawa’s face. He glances back at the clock. 5:08. The sun’s going to be up any minute now. He looks back to Aizawa, taking in the sight for a moment longer.
“Shouta,” he whispers again. “Hey, c’mon, we’re gonna miss it.”
Damn, this kid can sleep. It’s a miracle Aizawa isn’t the type to fall asleep during class, or else he’d sleep clear through every lesson. And the thought crosses Shirakumo’s mind again, but…something less invasive. Something gentler. And before he can think it over too much, he leans in, closes his eyes, and gives Aizawa’s forehead a soft, careful kiss.
“Mmn…Oboro?”
Shirakumo jolts back, hoping the dark of the room will hide his undeniable blush. He forces a smile, stretching broadly to distract from the emotive billowing of his hair. “Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” he greets quietly.
“It’s not…morning…” Aizawa groans, squinting at the clock from across the room. He looks at Shirakumo, blinking quietly for a moment in his dazed confusion, and then finally flops onto his back, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Oboro, it’s like…5am…”
“5:10, actually,” Shirakumo says. “And around this time of year, the sun comes up around like…5:15? Crazy early, honestly, but—”
“Good for the sun,” Aizawa grumps.
“…You wanna watch the sunrise with me?”
Aizawa scoffs, curling back into his blanket, and for a moment Shirakumo feels his heart sink into his stomach. After a moment of silence though, Aizawa peeks back over, and then quickly shifts upright.
“Oh,” he says, massaging his fingers against his eyelids. “Sorry, I thought you were joking.”
“Eh, understandable,” Shirakumo shrugs it off quickly, rising to his feet. “It’s not for everyone. I’ll let you sleep, okay?”
“No, no, I’ll come with you,” Aizawa yawns, clumsily pulling the covers from his body. It’s only when the bedsheets become tangled in his feet does Shirakumo realize truly how tired this boy is, and he responds with a quiet chuckle.
“Shouta, no, it’s all good, really,” he says softly.
“You want to see it.”
“I’ve got feet! I’ve got eyes! I’ll go out and see it, then come back.”
“You want…me to see it,” Aizawa’s cut off by another yawn, and Shirakumo reaches down to untangle the covers. “What’re you doing…?”
“Tucking you back in,” Shirakumo says, finally unearthing the bedsheet from Aizawa’s legs. He flaps the sheet a few times above his friend, who responds with the weakest groan of protest before finally lying back on the mattress.
Shirakumo smiles mischievously, releasing the sheet in the air above the bed. It parachutes down upon Aizawa unceremoniously, covering up his body—and his unamused face—and leaving two pale feet sticking out.
“Wow,” Aizawa says flatly. “You’re terrible at this.”
“Rude,” Shirakumo chuckles, bending down to properly fix the covers for his friend. He flips the sheets from Aizawa’s face, and Shirakumo’s heart skips a beat: He’s already drifting off to sleep so peacefully again, lashes fluttered shut against the dark swaths under his eyes, parted lips drinking in such gentle breaths. He’s beautiful. He’s the disheveled, ever-gloomy, cat-hair-always-somewhere-on-him Shouta Aizawa, and he’s so damn beautiful.
“That better?” Shirakumo’s voice is so quiet he almost can’t hear himself.
Aizawa lets out a quiet hum, and Shirakumo takes that as a yes. He tucks the last bit of blanket under Aizawa’s dozing form, and it takes everything he has not to plant another kiss on his forehead, or his nose, or anywhere else that his eager lips can reach. But he simply settles for placing a simple touch of farewell at the foot of Aizawa’s mattress.
Shirakumo once again tiptoes across the bedroom, snatching up his clothes as quietly as possible and shrugging them on over his boxers. Sure, he’s a bit saddened that Aizawa won’t be joining him, but he’s thankful the guy’s at least getting his rest. And that kiss on the forehead…Shirakumo feels his haze of hair dancing against his scalp just thinking back on it. He doesn’t regret it, and in truth, he’s glad he didn’t kiss Aizawa on the mouth. For all he knows, it could be the boy’s first kiss—and first kiss or none, Shirakumo isn’t about to steal it in his sleep. Someday he’ll earn it, on Shouta’s accord, the right way.
For now, he’ll do some sappy thing to secure that future. Wish on the last stars he can catch out there—if there are any. And if there aren’t, he’ll make up his own superstitions: Wish on a streetlamp flicker, or a passing airplane, or the first cloud he sees cloaked in newborn sunlight. Whatever works.
Longing in his chest but hope in his smile, Shirakumo makes his way to the door.
It’s 5:15. He has a sunrise to catch.