A/N: I had a bit of a Digimon phase in the midst of writing a Harry Potter fic (which is still in progress due to my procrastination and school, the latter of which is killing me at this present moment) and I had to write this down in case I lost it.

This random drabble was inspired by listening to Straylight Run's Existentialism on Prom Night on repeat at 3 in the morning while pretending to read Jane Eyre. Here's to hoping it tickles your fancy.

Revolve.

The sun was barely awake as it crept through their window that early morning. It dappled across the white sheet that coated their still forms. There was a slight cool breeze and it swept through, ruffling the lacy curtains. He cursed himself mentally for forgetting to close the window.

He was lying there with his elbow propped up and his hand supporting his chin. The sleepy sun flickered in his brilliant blue eyes, making them look brighter than they usually were, and the soft morning breeze wavered over his tousled blond hair. He was focused on the sleeping figure beside him, a small, distant smile on his calm face.

She was beautiful.

Caramel curls were spread across the soft downy pillow her head was resting on, making her look as if she was underwater. Long dark lashes fluttered over her cheekbones, concealing stunning hazel depths. Her small but full mouth was slightly parted and her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythmic pattern. It fell in step with the song that was playing softly on the other side of their closed door; Takeru was probably awake.

He leaned forward and closed his eyes, his lips and the tip of his nose brushing against the skin of her bare back, tracing her spine. He took in her scent, stopping at just between her shoulder blades. She always smelled like strawberries.

No one would have ever guessed, not even he, that they would end up in such a situation - not that it was a bad one, of course. They hardly ever talked during the course of their childhood, and her move to New York did not help much either.

It was that twist of fate that one chilly November evening that intertwined them at last.

He was in New York with the band for a gig just a couple of years ago at a small club. He was surprised they had a bit of a following in America; the floor was packed with people he did not know and probably will never meet. The air was thick, moist and suffocating and smog-like. The grinding guitar distortion, the beat of the bass drum vibrating in his gut, the hollering of the audience-it all blended together in some kind of warped medley, mixed and nonsensical to his ears. His eyes, weary and partly blind due to the only source of light being a lone, dim lightbulb hanging over his head, scanned the crowd in vain, crossing over each unfamiliar face.

Then she appeared, standing straight and still, her wavy, strawberry pink strands framing her face, falling gracefully over her shoulders and her wide, expressive hazel eyes boring holes into his own confused blue ones.

The world stopped right then and there; the air somehow smelled clearer, the stench of cigarettes and sweat completely absent. The noise of his band's music and the crowd disappeared. He saw people's mouths moving but they made no noise. It was a comforting silence. She stood there, just a few rows away from the stage, her hands clasped together in front of her and a small smile greeting him wordlessly. Everything except her was shrouded in black and white. She was the only one bathed in colour. He could do nothing else but stare back.

The world revolved around them that night.

The sun was higher now; the sky was no longer an array of pinks and oranges but a crisp, cloudless blue smudge. Their room brightened considerably, but the breeze that whisked through the window was still quite frigid. He noticed her shivering under their thin white cover; a small, nearly unnoticeable tremble that could have been easily ignored if he had not been paying close attention to her. He looked up for a brief moment and stared at the half-open window that threatened to escalate her small tremors into something worse. In a few quick movements he soundlessly swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and pulled on his navy boxers that were lying conveniently by his ankles. It did not take long for him to simply cross over and shut the window; in mere seconds he was back by her side, satisfied that she was no longer shivering.

Now that the window was closed their room welled up in a cozy warmth that coaxed him into falling back to sleep, but he fought the temptation. Slowly, the corners of her mouth twisted upwards into a small smile. She was dreaming of something happy, and that made him smile too. He twisted a strand of her shoulder-length hair around his finger and tucked it behind her ear. The song on the other side of their door was still playing, muffled but still audible. He wondered if Takeru was making breakfast, but he could not catch the scent of any food cooking.

She stirred a little, moaning lazily and rolling over so that she was facing him. This made things much easier. He lowered himself to her level and just laid there, still and breathing evenly. His eyes, still caught in the rays of the rising sun, slid over her, admiring how the thin fabric of the sheet hugged onto every curve, every crevasse. The warmth of the room made everything dreamlike, hazy. She looked so perfect lying there, her lashes quivering slightly as she continued dreaming.

He loved every part of her, from the way her bottom lip protruded slightly in a pout whenever things did not run her way, to the gentle stride of her walk. There was nothing in the world that mattered more the moment he saw her standing there in the midst of that roaring crowd, doing nothing more than staring up at him with that small smile he grew to love so much. That moment, those few seconds, minutes, however long it was, he did not keep track, changed everything.

The song that was playing in the other room, quiet and soothing, added to the dreamy atmosphere. The faint scent of strawberries hung over them and he could not restrain himself any longer. He scooted closer to her and draped an arm over her slim waist, pulling her to him. The heaviness of sleep was slowly but surely conquering and he let his eyelids droop halfway.

She reacted almost automatically to his touch; she wound her thin arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder. Their distance was closed, the contours of their bodies fitting into place like adjoining puzzle pieces. The sun wrapped them in an incandescent layer of light, adding another blanket of warmth on top of the thin silk sheet that was covering the both of them. Her soft voice, slow and slurred from sleep, kept him from succumbing.

"Yama-kun," She breathed, and looked up at him. Her amber orbs, though partially hidden through half-open eyelids, enticed him, captured him and held him. His senses, now aroused due to her being awake, became more attuned to everything around him. The song that hummed softly in the other room became louder and the room looked brighter. Her outline looked sharper and she felt so breakable, so fragile in his limp grasp.

The world revolved around them that morning.

"Sing me something soft," She whispered before pressing her face against his shoulder once more, "sing me anything."

He lowered his head, puckering his lips against her forehead in a swift kiss. She relaxed in his arms, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck, her breathing slowing down once more as she began to drift back into unconsciousness. He was only millimeters away from her ear as he began to sing quietly, repeating the words that were muffled against their closed door and the words she just uttered a few moments ago:

"Sing me something soft,

Sad and delicate,

Or loud and out of key.

Sing me anything."