Ship: matsukawa issei/hanamaki takahiro Fandom: haikyuu Major Tags: none Other Tags: future fic, college era Square: idle thoughts at 2 am Word Count: 571
was trying something new but idk if i managed to achieve it; here's some sleepy cuddles anyway
***
The digital clock on the nightstand says it’s 1:58 am. Takahiro blinks blearily at the wall, still trapped in that strange space between wakefulness and dreaming. He’s not entirely sure what woke up him. His body still feels too heavy, mind too hazy. Rolling over, Takahiro burrows further into the blankets. It’s warm, almost too comfortably so. He’s suddenly aware of another body occupying the space beside him.
Slowly, Takahiro turns on his side, and through the dim light coming in through the closed blinds, makes out the shape of Matsukawa. The other boy is sprawled out beside him, fast asleep. His lips are parted slightly, chest rising and falling evenly, an arm thrown over his stomach.
Takahiro doesn’t remember falling asleep last night, and he certainly doesn’t remember how they ended up in the same bed. This is Matsukawa’s bedroom, he realizes, spotting the corner of that one obscure movie from the nineties, the one that makes zero sense to Takahiro no matter how Matsukawa explained it. He must have dozed off in between completing his paper and working on upcoming assignments. Matsukawa’s room, just a couple doors down from his own dorm unit, is much quieter and cleaner and Takahiro has always preferred to study in here. It helps that the familiar presence of his best friend is at his back when he needs it, too.
The bed isn’t really built for two lanky boys. Takahiro’s close to falling off the edge, and Matsukawa’s body looks like it’s scrunched up against the wall. The blanket is one he brought from home—Takahiro recognizes it from the few occasions he slept over during high school. It’s meant for a queen-sized bed, but it’s warmer this way. Takahiro hasn’t felt his secure and at home in a long time.
Matsukawa shifts onto his side fully. Takahiro does his best to keep from being shoved off the bed. He looks up, and feels his mind slow down. He stares.
Matsukawa’s curls are frizzy from sleep. They frame his face and smush against the pillow, but they somehow still makes Takahiro’s fingers itch to run through them. The muted silver-blue light slinking in from the city outside casts shadows onto Matsukawa’s face, in between the sharp cheekbones, that defined jaw, the proud nose. Matsukawa isn’t pretty; he’s always been sort of long and awkward at first glance—except when he’s on the court. When he’s on the court, Takahiro is filled with pride because his best friend moves with an effortless, confident grace that, in his opinion, rivals the great Oikawa Tooru. But after years of staring up at this face, learning and mapping all the expressions—neutral poker face, lazy smirks, playful grins, frustrated frowns, and now, peacefully asleep—Takahiro wouldn’t mind staring at this face for the rest of his restless nights and early mornings.
Matsukawa shifts again, and this time he stirs awake. Dark eyes blink open, and Takahiro blinks back. “What’s up?” Matsukawa says, voice rough and barely above a whisper, yet loud in Takahiro’s 2 am thoughts.
“Nothing,” Takahiro says. He shuffles forwards until his forehead hits Matsukawa’s collarbone. “Go back to sleep.”
Matsukawa hums, and Takahiro feels the vibration against his skin. A hand comes to rest at the back of his head, long fingers stroking his hair once, twice.
Takahiro closes his eyes and, with the steady rhythm of his best friend’s breathing grounding him, drifts off to sleep.
FILL: team akaashi keiji/bokuto koutarou, B2, [G]
Fandom: haikyuu
Major Tags: none
Other Tags: future fic, college era
Square: idle thoughts at 2 am
Word Count: 571
was trying something new but idk if i managed to achieve it; here's some sleepy cuddles anyway
***
The digital clock on the nightstand says it’s 1:58 am. Takahiro blinks blearily at the wall, still trapped in that strange space between wakefulness and dreaming. He’s not entirely sure what woke up him. His body still feels too heavy, mind too hazy. Rolling over, Takahiro burrows further into the blankets. It’s warm, almost too comfortably so.
He’s suddenly aware of another body occupying the space beside him.
Slowly, Takahiro turns on his side, and through the dim light coming in through the closed blinds, makes out the shape of Matsukawa. The other boy is sprawled out beside him, fast asleep. His lips are parted slightly, chest rising and falling evenly, an arm thrown over his stomach.
Takahiro doesn’t remember falling asleep last night, and he certainly doesn’t remember how they ended up in the same bed. This is Matsukawa’s bedroom, he realizes, spotting the corner of that one obscure movie from the nineties, the one that makes zero sense to Takahiro no matter how Matsukawa explained it. He must have dozed off in between completing his paper and working on upcoming assignments. Matsukawa’s room, just a couple doors down from his own dorm unit, is much quieter and cleaner and Takahiro has always preferred to study in here. It helps that the familiar presence of his best friend is at his back when he needs it, too.
The bed isn’t really built for two lanky boys. Takahiro’s close to falling off the edge, and Matsukawa’s body looks like it’s scrunched up against the wall. The blanket is one he brought from home—Takahiro recognizes it from the few occasions he slept over during high school. It’s meant for a queen-sized bed, but it’s warmer this way. Takahiro hasn’t felt his secure and at home in a long time.
Matsukawa shifts onto his side fully. Takahiro does his best to keep from being shoved off the bed. He looks up, and feels his mind slow down. He stares.
Matsukawa’s curls are frizzy from sleep. They frame his face and smush against the pillow, but they somehow still makes Takahiro’s fingers itch to run through them. The muted silver-blue light slinking in from the city outside casts shadows onto Matsukawa’s face, in between the sharp cheekbones, that defined jaw, the proud nose. Matsukawa isn’t pretty; he’s always been sort of long and awkward at first glance—except when he’s on the court. When he’s on the court, Takahiro is filled with pride because his best friend moves with an effortless, confident grace that, in his opinion, rivals the great Oikawa Tooru. But after years of staring up at this face, learning and mapping all the expressions—neutral poker face, lazy smirks, playful grins, frustrated frowns, and now, peacefully asleep—Takahiro wouldn’t mind staring at this face for the rest of his restless nights and early mornings.
Matsukawa shifts again, and this time he stirs awake. Dark eyes blink open, and Takahiro blinks back. “What’s up?” Matsukawa says, voice rough and barely above a whisper, yet loud in Takahiro’s 2 am thoughts.
“Nothing,” Takahiro says. He shuffles forwards until his forehead hits Matsukawa’s collarbone. “Go back to sleep.”
Matsukawa hums, and Takahiro feels the vibration against his skin. A hand comes to rest at the back of his head, long fingers stroking his hair once, twice.
Takahiro closes his eyes and, with the steady rhythm of his best friend’s breathing grounding him, drifts off to sleep.