HONEY CULTURE, haikyuu

( fox and the doe ) s. rintaro

suna rintaro

    "𝕿ell me a story," his voice was soft vodka, spilling down his lips and chin like evening poets.

    you looked down at him, weaving your fingers through his brunette hair, but his golden eyes were looking out the starless night; obsidian and charcoal dressed 8pm in expensive dark silks and linen. but to suna rintaro he only found boredom in black empty canvases, that's why he had whispered his request of you to tell him a story, when no star is present to tell him one.

    "let's see," you hum, mind wandering to find a good story to tell. you faintly feel suna's head shifting on your lap, his breath almost silent but transparent plumes like grey clouds escapes the expanse through his nose. then you pause when you stare into his dark hair, brown like deep bitter chocolate.

    "there was a dark fox." you started. "he was friends with a doe; the doe was beautiful and he knew ballet, he was the best dancer in all the nations."

    "and the fox? what was he to the doe."

    "he was slothful, dangerous and the fox promised to purge a war so that he could place a crown atop the doe's head and call him his emperor." suna's hair was different browns of galaxy beneath your fingertips, then his eyes met yours, starstruck gold.

    "continue,"

    "then the doe met his father; a black elk, a soldier, a knight." molten nicotine bleed between the cracks of your teeth, your voice turning hushed and bitter at the tale you're telling. "the fox was struck down, stampede and killed on the spot."

    "but his eyes never left the doe, his best friend, soulmate." you say softly. "the doe, filled with melancholy and anger killed his very own father. he danced through his own war before he killed the crown prince and the emperor and sat himself on the throne." you finish in an empty whisper, silence hanged in the air until suna speaks up.

    "i think i might be able to sleep here." he yawns.

you laugh at him softly, tenderly rubbing his head. "the story wasn't good, it's not even close to be called a lullaby."

"i know," he says, then he turns his head enough for his lips and nose to touch your thigh. soft, plush warm lips press against your cold skin and your heart melts. 101 nights suddenly mix together and intertwine in a mesh of wild constellations.

"your voice is as beautiful as you, you know."

end.