ascunde

The steady thrum of the train is putting him to sleep. Even though Haru has him half crushed against the end of the seat, he keeps catching his head as his eyes go heavy and his chin dips forward. And then he’ll shift, and breathe deep, and for a minute, he’s good, but then his body relaxes, and Haru’s settling in close, and Sousuke’s about ready to nod off again.

“Maybe you should just go to sleep,” Haru says, after he’s just jerked awake again.

“Maybe you shouldn’t keep me up all night,” he grumbles instead. The faintest smirk twists over Haru’s mouth, his fingers tapping out some kind of rhythm against Sousuke’s thigh.

Haru’s nervous. 

Everything Haru does is subtle; not on purpose, but simply because that’s the way he is. It took Sousuke a long time to realize this, and a lot of frustrated assumptions of Haru’s character, before he’d found enough of Haru’s cracks to understand. 

The constant tap of his fingers isn’t irritating, or even more than a barely-there touch. It’s restlessness, the kind of idle movement Haru never does consciously, the kind of tell it took Sousuke ages to recognize as an actual tell.

“You know,” he says, wrapping his own hand around Haru’s fluttering fingers, “I’ve met your parents before. You don’t have to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Okay. If you were, you don’t have to be. Is what I’m trying to say.”

“I’m not nervous.”