Ostensibly, Mikoto knows what a pillow is. His personal definition, Kusanagi thinks with some chagrin as he tries to reach around a grumpy redhead’s hair and face to fill in the next problem on his math, seems to be the person I like’s lap.

Mikoto grunts a complaint and Kusanagi almost swats him on the side of the head. He refrains, but he can feel the corner of his mouth quirking up in a small smile.

“Your choice to sleep there,” he comments easily, laying blame for all the awkwardness squarely where it belongs.

Mikoto just huffs. “Yeah.”

He stays.