#im so illlll i cant stop thinkign abt him

[chihirolovebot]

cw. killing game ment, nightmares, light angst.

Something that nobody in the world knows about but you is that Byakuya Togami gets nightmares.

Most people would claim that the guy was so stoic he probably barely even dreamt. Those who knew him a little better - your fellow survivors, mostly - would tell you differently. That the things that had happened in the killing game and in Towa City had definitely affected him.

They just didn't know how much. And they never would.

He wakes with a stifled gasp, because even at his most vulnerable his brain works to try and suppress it, jerking to sit up in the stuffy blue-dark of the bedroom. His glasses, folded neatly upon his bedside table, do not lend him their sight, and so for five bleary, terrifying seconds Byakuya does not even know where he is. It's dark and too warm and he can't see or feel, and for a minute he thinks he'll roll over and see an apocalyptic city in smoking ruins, or his fellow survivors dead with no warning. His breath comes through a pinhole in his tight, panicked throat - and then there's the soft brush of warm skin over his arm.

He stutters, blinks, looks down. Fingers curl loosely over his wrist, which is trembling, he notes unhappily. But finally, as his eyes move up to your face, Byakuya finds that he can breathe a little easier.

Your eyes blink open groggily, and you push yourself to sit. "You woke me," you murmur, keeping your distance. You want to put an arm on his shoulders or card your fingers through his hair, but you know him well enough by now to know that Byakuya values his space when vulnerable. He's like a skittish animal in that regard; you're surprised he hasn't gotten out of bed already.

Byakuya swallows dryly, and says nothing in return. He wants to apologise, but he knows you're not expecting him to. Your sleep-softened statement had been a query in disguise; are you okay?

He can feel the dull tap of your pulse upon his wrist - slow and steady, in sharp contrast to his jackrabbiting one. For a good few minutes, he sits rigidly, letting your breaths wash over him, feeling the warmth from your skin seep across the gap between the two of you and warm him in turn.

You're so full of life, it almost overwhelms him at times.

"Lie down," he asks of you, and oh, aren't you both speaking in tongues now? His command is a plea in disguise, wrapped in trembling vulnerability that he prays you will be kind enough not to unpack.

You shift back onto your back; Byakuya can only glimpse your expression in the semidarkness, but he can see the glint of your eyes shining back up at him, wide and attentive. He lies back down beside you - and then, before he can stop to question himself, shifts so that his head nudges beneath your chin.

He feels your stomach flex at your hitch of surprised breath, and tenses himself to push off of you. It was a stupid idea - he doesn't need to be held, he's not a baby, he's perfectly fine keeping himself to himself, thank you, and he certainly doesnt--

Your arm winds around his waist, pulling him closer, scrunching the worn cotton of his sleep-shirt. Byakuya freezes. Oh.

Your lips upon the crown of his head, pushing through tousled hair. And for as much as Byakuya hates unnecessary mess, he finds himself curling into it, arranging himself so that his ear pushes right against your heartbeat. He pictures the organ beneath your flesh, twitching with life against your sturdy ribcage, and it helps him breathe. He sinks into your embrace, your warmth, your life.

He doesn't say thank you, because he knows you don't expect that. He shows his gratefulness by letting his eyes shut and the tension in his shoulders unwind, and he thinks you know, because you kiss his forehead once more before you lean back and sleep.