Work Text:
Yotasuke dreams of the blue Shibuya morning.
When he opens his eyes and sees the blue of it all, he does not know what Yatora thought of the sight when they saw it in person, and he realises that he does not quite know what he thought of it either.
In front of him now is the exact same scenery, and the morning light almost blinds him. He closes his eyes. He can still see the blue. It is almost as soft as Fumi's fur, yet as bright as the morning light from before.
That is all there is, he supposes. Blue and bright; that is all there is to Shibuya mornings.
No, there is something else; there is someone else, next to him. Someone who is staring at him way before he notices it. Someone whose gold eyes are painted blue, yet they do not turn green. Someone whose eyes defies the basic rules of colour, like how their owner defies all of Yotasuke's thoughts.
He looks blue too, like he is also painted blue by the morning.
Yotasuke does not know if he deserves to see him like this. He does not know if he even deserves to see the Shibuya morning.
―――
He wakes up, and finds his back sore. The canvas he is leaning against is thankfully not damaged, so he sighs in relief. He turns, and he sees Yatora.
Even with bleary eyes, Yatora has enough energy to smile brightly at him. Yatora always smiles with his eyes closed when he is truly happy, so Yotasuke gets only a little bit disappointed that he cannot see his gold eyes. In the brief moment before Yatora smiles, however, he thinks he can still see some blue over the gold of it all, reminiscent of the blue morning they saw at Shibuya.
"Good morning," Yatora chirps, too cheerful for someone who has only been awake for five minutes or less.
Yotasuke shakes his sleepiness away, glancing at the clock. It is way past twelve in the afternoon, yet he does not bother correcting Yatora, nor say the correct greeting himself.
"Morning."
Yatora continues smiling. If anything, his grin gets wider when he hears Yotasuke's reply. Yotasuke looks away. It feels warm, and he wonders if it is just his coat.
Still, he finds that he does not quite mind this.
He allows himself to bask in the warm silence.