#she was ramblin bout how she cant sleep n' how she'll probably die in a few years

[lilbearie]

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'Insomnolent Mudanity' 

Isn't a good fit on you.....                              

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cw: slight swearing, mentions of sleep depravity (dunno what else to add so bewareeeee :^)

The muted glow of a desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, the only defiance against the encroaching darkness. You sat hunched over your study table, a battlefield of scattered notes and half-written essays. Sticky notes clung precariously to the surface, each one a desperate attempt to capture a fleeting thought. Your brow furrowed in concentration, muttering under your breath as you bounced between book and paper, a whirlwind of scribbles and frustrated sighs.

A disgruntled groan rumbled from the doorway, shattering your focus. Chuuya stood there, his face etched with concern. He knew that look – the one reserved for sleepless nights and looming deadlines.

Before you could protest, he strode over, his gaze scanning the chaotic landscape of your desk. "Couldn't sleep, huh?" he asked, his voice laced with a worry that tugged at your heart. He reached out, fingers tracing the haphazardly scribbled notes.

You mumbled a confirmation, exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin.

A mischievous glint sparked in Chuuya's eyes. Ignoring your protests, he swooped down, snatching your textbook and depositing it on a high shelf with a flourish of his arm. He wasn't taking no for an answer.

With practiced ease, his nimble fingers worked their way through your hair, gathering it into the familiar, comforting loose ponytail you always wore.

A gentle tug, a soft whisper of gravity, and you found yourself perched on the kitchen counter, a reluctant observer to his culinary intervention.

"Don't even think about it," he cut you off, a playful smirk dancing on his lips as he caught your skeptical glance.

"You know I'm perfectly capable of not burning down the kitchen, right?" You couldn't help but snort a laugh.

"Sure," you teased, "and I can fly." He winked, his amusement clear. He rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of eggs.

"Sunny-side up or omelet?" Chuuya asked, tilting his head in mock seriousness.

"Your choice," you offered, a playful defiance in your tone.

"Your choice, my ass," he countered, his grin widening. "I'm asking you."

"I don't care," you admitted, a yawn escaping your lips. The thought of food was a distant dream, lost in the labyrinth of your tired mind.

"Not an option," he declared, his voice firm yet gentle. With practiced ease, the stovetop sprang to life. He cracked the eggs with a practiced flick of his wrist, the golden yolks spilling into the waiting pan. The sizzle of cooking filled the air, a strangely comforting sound. As he expertly flipped the eggs, his eyes darted towards you. You found yourself captivated by the mesmerizing dance of the food, a testament to his unexpected domesticity.

He retrieved a loaf of bread from the counter, his movements a silent symphony of gravity and butter knife. The sandwich appeared beside you, a simple offering. He held your gaze, a silent command in his eyes.

You opened your mouth, catching the warm bread and fluffy eggs. The first bite was a revelation – a burst of flavor that jolted your senses. A tired smile tugged at your lips as you mumbled a grateful "thank you."

Chuuya ruffled your hair in a gesture of affection. "Take care of yourself, kiddo," he said, his voice soft. "Y'really need it." And in the warm glow of the kitchen, surrounded by the comforting aroma of food and the quiet strength of your roommate, you felt a wave of exhaustion wash over you. Maybe, just maybe, you could allow yourself some damn rest.