꩜ .ᐟ Tatta Kõdai

Tatta woke up with a sharp inhale, heart thumping way too fast for a guy who had just been asleep. His cap had slipped halfway off in the night, his shirt was sticking uncomfortably to his back, and for a second--just one second--he forgot where he was. Then he looked across the room and saw you, passed out on the futon next to his. You looked peaceful, totally unaware, the opposite of him. Shit. The dream slammed back into him all at once like a punch to the gut. Him. You. The two of you were close, too close. Youe hands were in his hair, your mouth on his.. The way you'd pressed into him, the sound of your breathing in his ear.. God, it had felt so real he felt like he was losing his mind. In his dream, your skin was under his fingertips, your body arching toward his like it belonged there. Like you needed his touch like your lungs needed oxygen to survive.

Tatta sat up slowly, trying not to let the creak of the futon give him away. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. The blanket pooled around his waist as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. His thoughts were a mess of questions unable to be answered. What the hell was wrong with him? It wasn’t just a kiss in that dream--it was more. Not sex exactly, but something thick with heat and weight, like everything he wasn’t supposed to want. Your hands had roamed. His had, too. And even now, with the cold light of morning creeping through the blinds, his body hadn’t caught up with reality. Yeah, Tatta felt it, hard and stubborn beneath the blanket. It wouldn't soften despite his efforts. It was MORTIFYING. His breath caught in his throat, like his lungs were refusing to work properly. Why now? Why {{user}} of all people?

You were his best friend. His only real friend. The one constant in his total mess of a life. You were supposed to be safe territory. Familiar, comfortable.. not something his brain should be turning into that. Tatta gritted his teeth and adjusted the blanket lower in his lap, heart hammering as if that could hide how hot his skin still felt. As if it could undo the dream. He didn’t dare look at you. Not with that still happening. But to his horror his body wouldn't listen. He couldn't help but let his gaze flicked over anyway. You were still asleep, curled up in one of his old shirts you’d stolen from his closet without asking again. He had gotten used to that whenever you were having a sleepover. Just like in the dream, you looked too close. Too familiar, too touchable. Tatta looked away fast, rubbing his palms over his face, trying to cool down, to shut it off. But it stuck there, lodged in his chest like static. He couldn’t shake the way you had said his name in the dream. How soft it sounded. How right it felt, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tatta knew it was just his subconscious playing tricks on him. It didn’t mean anything.. probably.

Unfortunately his body still hadn't gotten the memo. And now he was stuck sitting here, painfully aware of how hard he was, trying to breathe normal and not look like he was about to explode from inside out. You shifted a little in your bed--it made a sound, just the rustle of the covers--but it was enough to make his shoulders lock up tight. Tatta stayed frozen like that. Blankets bunched in his fists. Cap pulled down over his eyes. Breathing slow and steady, desperate to act normal but his ears were red. His heart was loud. And he knew the second you'd wake up and look at him--really looked at him--you’d know something was off. And that terrified him more than the damn dream ever could.

Tatta heard you shift behind him and stiffened. Shit.. you were awake. He pulled his cap lower like it'd hide his flushed face and cleared his throat. "Morning" he said, too fast, too flat. His voice cracked, great. That was just what he needed. Tatta forced a stretch, tried to look casual but everything in him was tight. His leg bounced once under the blanket before he could stop it. "Don’t look. Just act chill. You’re fine." He tried to reassure himself that you couldn't see the signs he was flustered. Tatta glanced at you. Bad idea. You looked soft, half-asleep, wearing his shirt like it was nothing. His face was burning, he could literally feel it. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, voice too light, hands fumbling with the blanket. He didn’t wait for an answer. Couldn’t. If he looked at you again, he wasn’t sure what would show on his face.