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Harua drifted from sleep into morning, and opened his blurry eyes to a confusing landscape of soft angles and warm shadows.
A soft breath riffled through his hair, and he realized it was Yuma’s throat his eyes were failing to make sense of, because Yuma’s chin was level with his eyebrows. Harua was breathing into the dip between his clavicles, so close to his mouth he’d barely have to move at all, if he wanted.
It was a gentle morning. He was awake a few minutes before his first alarm, and always left himself time to hit snooze and sleep a little longer, so there was no rush. Not yet.
So maybe he did want to.
Where were his hands? One pinned between them, half under his tilted chest. The other lay over Yuma’s side, curled all the way around so that his elbow cradled Yuma’s waist and his hand rested on Yuma’s shoulder blade, just over his heart.
He tightened his arm just a little, pulled Yuma two centimetres closer, until he could press his mouth to the lip of Yuma’s collarbone just before it fell into the blunt V.
Yuma stirred. He slept deeply, according to his health tracker, but the slightest thing could wake him sometimes. Always some corner of his mind left awake and vigilant.
He had both his arms around Harua, one under his waist and one around his upper arm and shoulder, and he squeezed reflexively as he pulled himself up over the ledge into wakefulness.
“Oops,” he mumbled into Harua’s hair. “Did it again, sorry. …Uh?”
Harua didn’t flinch and pull back like he’d been caught doing something questionable. It wasn’t like he was ashamed, as if it was some secret that he’d never have the courage to give voice to. He’d already said it. Many times. He’d say it again whenever it seemed appropriate.
Yuma’s hand slid from his shoulder up over the nape of his neck into his hair, and Yuma tilted his face down slightly to kiss Harua’s head.
Harua needed to turn over, but he very badly didn’t want to move, either. He decided to bear with the discomfort for at least a few minutes longer and bask in the intimate warmth of the moment. How he loved to have Yuma so close, close enough to feel and breathe in and taste.
He ran his tongue down into the dip and savoured the subtle salt, and the way Yuma flinched and twisted his fingers a little tighter into Harua’s hair.
This could go somewhere, if they let it. It wouldn’t be the first time. Most likely not the last.
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