Akaashi always manages to greet the beginning of dawn, when the sky is a powdery lilac and the frost gathers on the corner of the window panes. He shivers, nuzzling into Bokuto's chest, easily melding between the tangle of arms and legs.
The morning is cold, but he smells of warmth.
Akaashi cannot explain nor describe it, but the overwhelming sense of familiarity that lingers within Bokuto's scent sends ripples through his chest. He smells of sleep, sweet and subtle, of bedhead and warm comforters, of wild dreams that he'll soon recount after waking to kiss him on the forehead. He smells of clean linen, bright and fresh, his cotton shirt stretching across his chest, allowing the excess fabric to hang from his figure and gather on the mattress. He smells of sandalwood and pine, of lingering body wash whose fragrance has melted away into the rumple of sheets and cluster of pillows.
Akaashi nuzzles once more, tilting his head to kiss the underside of Bokuto's chin, and Bokuto breathes a fluttery sigh, holding him tightly. He reaches to trace the sleeping boy's collarbone with the lightest of touches, and Bokuto presses a sleepy kiss to his forehead, holding him tighter still.
Akaashi is warm.