Mikoto wakes up first.
It's unusual, an occurrence so rare for a moment he can't even make sense of the quiet in the room. There's sunlight pressing itself against the drawn-shut curtains - Mikoto can see the glow creeping into a stripe of illumination at the top and bottom of the fabric - but the room itself is still wrapped in darkness. He blinks before he moves, lets consciousness unwind itself into his body with all the unhurried languor of vacation, and even when he does turn it's slow, a heavy drag of his limbs through white sheets like water. The room is dark but his eyes are adjusting, night vision casting its own clarity on the scene, and by the time he sees Reisi he can make out the details of the other's features with all the pristine detail of monochrome.
He's still asleep. Mikoto had figured as much, judging from the dream-laden darkness still clinging to the room, but it's different to see it as well as suspect, the gap between the knowledge that Reisi must let his guard down sometimes and the proof of it vanishing into nothing at all in the space of a heartbeat. His glasses are gone, set carefully aside on the bedside table, his eyes shut, lashes spread dark and soft against the line of his cheekbone.
Mikoto watches him for a moment - the shift of his shoulders with the steady inhales of sleep, the unconscious part to his lips, the sleep-ruffled dark of his hair. He's still half-asleep himself, too warm and drowsy to achieve any dramatic motion, but his chest feels hot, overfull with emotion filling up his his veins, pressing itself against his skin like it's trying to bleed out to fill the space between his body and Reisi's. It's an ache, pleasant like the satisfaction of fingers pressing against tired muscles, and he's smiling when he reaches out to drag his fingers against the curve of Reisi's cheek.
It's a moment before Reisi responds. For the first inhale he stays still, deep enough in sleep to be unresponsive to the contact, and by the time he takes a sharper inhale of waking and frowns into awareness Mikoto has his fingers sliding through the other's hair, is fitting his hand against the back of Reisi's head.
"Morning," he says, the rough weight of sleep clinging to the first speech of the day.
Reisi's frown deepens, his forehead creasing itself into contemplation; when he blinks his eyes open he's squinting at Mikoto, looking dazed and lost and not wholly happy about either of these facts. "Mikoto?" he asks, sounding legitimately confused; his hand comes up, knuckles bumping the inside of Mikoto's outstretched arm, and he startles at the contact, starts to turn in to stare at the other's wrist before Mikoto slides in across the gap to press himself closer.
"Yeah," he says, presses a knee in against Reisi's until the other takes the hint and lets Mikoto fit a leg between his. He still looks perplexed, barely awake and out-of-balance with the world; it's endearing in a way Reisi rarely demonstrates, to have him so early-morning hazy while Mikoto is awake enough to appreciate it.
"What are you doing," Reisi asks without any proper inflection on the words; he still sounds dazed, a little distracted, and when Mikoto slides his hand down the back of his neck to fit his thumb under the weight of silky hair he can hear the little catch of a startled inhale Reisi takes. "Ah."
"Waking my husband up," Mikoto purrs in the vicinity of Reisi's jaw. "You let me beat you to it this time."
"Mikoto," Reisi manages. It sounds a little more like a protest, a little bit more like himself, but he's not moving away; his head is tipping back against Mikoto's touch, his chin coming up at the contact of the other's mouth like he's offering his throat for a kiss. Mikoto takes the suggestion without being ordered, fits his lips to the line of Reisi's throat and holds the contact, lets the thrum of the other's words spill over his tongue as Reisi says, "We should get up."
"Why rush?" Mikoto asks rhetorically. "We don't have anywhere to be." He kisses against Reisi's throat again, low, just above the line of his collarbones, and then comes back up so he can see the shadowed distraction in the other's eyes, the way his frown has turned soft and unconscious at his lips.
"Mikoto," Reisi says, an attempt at condemnation that falls rather flat due to the way his hair is tangled against Mikoto's fingers.
"Reisi," Mikoto responds, curling the name hot and suggestive and teasing on his tongue. He can feel Reisi start to laugh, the shudder of amusement running through him before he can choke it off in his throat; it makes him grin too, a slow spreading thing that unwinds all across his face, and then he leans in and catches Reisi's oncoming smile with his lips.
It's a nice way to wake up.