Work Text:
Sometimes Tetsurou impresses himself. Granted, he does that quite a bit, like when he meets tricky deadlines, or when he wings a new recipe and it comes out delicious, or when he makes Kei laugh, small and warm and genuine. Other times, though, it's his ability to go through the motions when feeling like utter shit that impresses some distant, tired part of himself.
Today has been one of those days. Tetsurou slumps in his seat on the train, letting a little bit of his facade collapse now he’s away from his workplace. It had started off small, with a JVA senior manager who came into their Sendai branch from the Tokyo offices, sneered at him when she heard of his younger age, and proceeded to shoot down all his ideas in their morning meeting. It compounded later as, thanks to two of his coworkers being out sick, he scrambled to handle the workload of three people. And then it broke down over his head when his boss summoned him into his office to yell at him over some email errors from two weeks prior that he hadn’t realised he’d made.
Those errors had led to some issues in a publicity campaign they were doing. It’s an imbecilic misstep only a child could make, his boss had seethed, and despite how his first urge was to snap back at the angry man, Tetsurou inwardly agreed. One would think after a solid three and half years at his job, he wouldn’t be making the mistakes of an intern. But then his heartbeat was thundering and he wasn’t listening to his boss any longer—as soon as he was dismissed he went straight to the bathrooms to barricade himself in a cubicle and dig the heels of his hands into his eyes. It had taken him longer than he cared to admit for him to regain control over his erratic, too-harsh-too-loud breathing.
So, yeah, looking back on it now, Tetsurou is detachedly impressed with how he’d kept it somewhat together for the rest of the day. He smiled the same, laughed the same, perhaps a bit quieter but no worse for the wear. If he held his hands low nobody noticed them shake; the uncomfortable ache in his chest couldn’t be perceived, in any case.
On the train, Tetsurou clasps his hands in his lap and stares at how his knuckles have turned white. He imagines his sternum is painted purple-blue.
Music filters through his earbuds, some lo-fi mix that Tsukki likes to listen to when he’s doing archiving for the museum. It doesn’t quite sink into him today in the way music usually does, but it's better than the creaking of the train and the occasional murmur or sneeze of its inhabitants. Tetsurou lets his eyelids fall half-shut and his gaze slides out of focus, everything turning fuzzy and doubled. A string of piano notes trip softly down in an unfinished scale.
At last, the train judders to a halt, passengers trickle off, the doors shut, and it continues onward. Tetsurou is among those spat out from its metal body, making his way through the ticket gates and into the half-winter night.
He tugs the plucking of guitar strings out of his ears, folding them into his pocket. The cover of night is a welcome change from the harsh artificial lights of the train. On the quiet road to home, he can let his head hang down and feet scuff along the ground without risking sideward glances from passers-by. His toes are cold, his chest hurts, and he’s just tired.
He wonders what Kei would be up to. On Thursdays the museum closes earlier, so he's usually back around late afternoon. Tetsurou's a bit earlier than usual—he'd clocked off with only fifteen minutes of overtime, rather than the typical forty—maybe he should've contacted Kei. But then, he hadn't felt up to pulling out his phone in general other than to turn on the music app.
The apartment door eventually stretches before him. It's a welcome sight, but Tetsurou can’t quite bring himself to open it yet. He’d said that morning he’d make them dinner, but now privately Tetsurou isn’t sure if he can even lift a frying pan. Hopefully Kei will be fine with...toast…
He huffs a laugh. Kei will commandeer the kitchen then, cook up something regular—because while he’s no masterchef, he’s not a kitchen nightmare either—then frown at it even if Tetsurou tells him it is delicious. Kei looks adorable when he can’t decide whether to be annoyed or embarrassed.
Just that mental image has Tetsurou forgetting his hesitation and putting his key in the lock. It's blessedly warm inside; he’s instantly surrounded with the comforting smell unique to their shared space and he has to stop for a second, breathe it in. He can't inhale deeply—his chest ache is too constricting still—but puts him at an ease he hasn't felt all day.
“I’m back,” he murmurs, a bit hoarsely, and too soft for Kei to hear, even though he might’ve heard the door close.
The clinking of a spoon on ceramic tells Tetsurou that he’s in the kitchen. Sure enough, Kei soon calls out “Tetsurou?” without bothering to look around the corner.
Jeez, he could’ve been a burglar, or something...Tetsurou feels a smile push its way up through the weariness. He takes off his shoes and goes into the kitchen, where Kei is leaning against the counter, holding a steaming mug.
“Hey. You’re back early,” he notes, sipping the drink. The rich aroma of hot chocolate reaches Tetsurou’s nose.
“Yeah.” For a moment Tetsurou takes him in—he’s wearing sweatpants and a very familiar dark red sweater that hangs a little loose on his frame, and his softly curling hair is all rumpled on the left side, a sure sign he’d been leaning on his hand while reading or studying. Just looking at him kind of feels like a hug. “Work was...yeah.”
Kei frowns, lowering the mug. “Are you okay?”
“Huh? I’m fine,” Tetsurou says hurriedly, dropping his bag onto the counter. Kei raises an eyebrow skeptically, but his eyes are clear and unusually patient. Tetsurou runs a hand over his face. “Actually, I don’t think I am.”
There’s a soft clunk of the mug being set down, then Tetsurou feels a warm, slightly calloused hand touch his, lowering it. Kei has stepped in close enough for Tetsurou to automatically look up to meet his gaze. “Go and sit on the couch,” he instructs.
“But dinner—”
“Couch, Tetsu.”
“Bossy,” Tetsurou tries to tease, but it comes out more as a fond sort of resignation. He's too tired to protest.
He shuffles off to shuck his coat and scarf onto a dining table chair, rubbing his chest a little as he sits down on the couch. It’s a lumpy old thing, gotten second-hand from old university friends, but the well-worn dip in the middle is all too easy to settle into.
There’s some more clinking from the kitchen, then Kei comes out, his house slippers scuffing on the ground. They’re the green frog ones Yamaguchi had foisted upon him, that Kei had sneered at, then promptly wore around the house as soon as the weather got colder. Tetsurou watches their big googly eyes come closer until Kei holds out a mug of tea to him. The steam that curls off the surface is thin, transient.
Kei settles down beside him, shakes off a slipper, and tucks one leg under the other. He doesn't say anything yet, just sits with his knee pressed lightly against Tetsurou’s thigh. Present, undemanding; he knows Testurou needs his time. Every day, endlessly, Tetsurou is grateful for the way they've learned each other.
He blows on his tea and has a mouthful—it's some sort of herbal blend. Almost too hot to drink, but he welcomes the way it burns down his throat.
Quiet settles between them, the patient, grounding sort. The faint ticking of the clock as the loudest sound in the apartment ironically makes him feel like he’s sunk into some sort of bubble where the passing of time can’t reach them. He welcomes the odd peace, a stark contrast from the overwhelming office, but he’s beginning to feel words burgeon in his throat.
Kei seems to know it’s coming. Usually it’s Tetsurou who breaks silences, but as he gets halfway through his cup, Kei prompts, “So, what happened?”
Tetsurou pauses. Swallows. Readjusts his hold on the cup; leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. “A shit day.”
“Mm.” Kei shifts slightly, the warmth of him pressing closer for an instant, flush through the fabric of their clothes.
“Had a meeting, it didn’t go well. We went around in circles for at least ninety minutes.” At least that spiteful JVA manager had had her time wasted, Kuroo thinks with grim satisfaction, on top of the two-to-three hour trip it would have taken her to get to Sendai. “The big ol’ boss also yelled at me for a bit about something I fucked up last week...I mean, he’s done it before, does it to everyone at least once a month, so hopefully that’s my quota filled? But…” he grimaces. “It made me—ugh. Y’know, when I go weird. I know it’s kind of stupid. I’ve dealt with him before, but today…” It was like his body had turned on him.
“Anxiety attack?” Kei asks quietly.
Tetsurou sighs again, jagged around the tightness. “Uh huh.”
“How are you feeling now?”
“Better now I’m home,” Tetsurou says truthfully, squinting at the ceiling. There's a single thin crack in the paint. “It wasn’t too rough. At least it wasn’t big or long.”
“Still.” A knuckle gently grazes his cheek. Tetsurou leans into the touch automatically, his eyelids flickering closed. He feels Kei move again, setting his cup down and shifting closer to run the back of his hand down Tetsurou's face. "It's not stupid. I've told you that before. Stupid."
In his mouth, the insult isn't an insult at all. Tetsurou cracks a dry smile, feeling the corner of his mouth push against Kei's hand. He reaches up, turning Kei's wrist so his palm is cupping Tetsurou's face instead. His skin is suffused with heat from holding the hot drink.
Kei’s thumb begins to smooth tiny circles on his cheekbone, and then Tetsurou is melting. Kei is often clingy—though he’d never, ever admit that out loud—but it’s not as often that he’s the caretaker. And although the physical ache in Tetsurou’s chest hasn’t really left, something behind it has loosened, making him want to curl up into a ball and go to sleep on this lumpy old couch in Kei’s arms, uncomfortable work clothes be damned.
His half-empty mug of tea is plucked out of his hands—a good thing, since Tetsurou’s pretty sure he was on the brink of dropping it. He hears Kei place it on the coffee table, then feels his hand circle behind his neck. The gentle pressure is like the press of a release button on Tetsurou’s bones, causing him to sag against his boyfriend, pressing his forehead just below his shoulder. Both of Kei’s hands now come up to hold him closer, accepting his heavy weight at what must be an uncomfortable angle.
“You’re too good to me, firefly,” Tetsurou mumbles into Kei’s—well, his—sweater.
“Your hair’s going up my nose,” Kei says back, not making a single move to push him away. He reaches up to card through the hair at the nape of Tetsurou’s neck, twisting strands around his fingertips. Ah, fuck, Tetsurou thinks, letting out a contented sound somewhere between a rumble and a sigh.
For a while that's all there is: Kei smoothing patterns into his skin, scratching his fingernails over the base of his scalp, untethering him from the ugly leashes that he’s been strangled by since that morning. When Kei moves up higher to comb his fingers properly through Tetsurou’s hair, he lets out that rough groan again, burying his face deeper into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck. He feels all warm and there in Kei's arms, which are the most immediate and grounding things he's felt all day.
When his stroking catches on an actual tangle, Kei stills, stopping before he accidentally yanks on the knot. "Alright. Shower," he says, carefully extricating his fingers.
"...Hnn?" Tetsurou blinks up blearily. "Nah. Don't wanna."
"You gotta," Kei replies, mirroring his lazy speaking with a deadpan expression. "Or you're going to marinate in those clothes."
"I don't stink, do I?"
"I'll neither confirm nor deny," Kei says. He lowers his arms and Tetsurou almost whines like a petulant child as his shoulders are pushed slightly to make him sit up. "Come on."
He gets to his feet, Tetsurou following and catching at his hand as he turns. His index finger hooks around Kei’s pinky, making him feel even more childlike as they shuffle away from the couch. Well, Kei is only shuffling thanks to his oversized slippers. Tetsurou just can’t be bothered to lift his feet.
Kei deposits him in the bathroom, reaches into the shower to turn the tap on, and leaves. He hears a cupboard being opened from their bedroom next door—Kei’s probably getting fresh clothes. Tetsurou squints at his reflection, thinking—will Kei strangle him with the shower hose if he goes to pass out face-down on the bed instead? Probably. He snorts, wrangling at the tie around his throat. Such a simple Windsor knot shouldn’t feel like a Gordian instead, but it seems with every fumble at the material it just grows tighter and more like a rock than squishy polyester.
He hears footsteps approach and sees Kei appear in the reflection of the mirror, holding a pile of folded pyjamas. He’s rolled the sweater sleeves up to his elbows, showing off his very nice forearms. “Taking your time?” he asks.
Tetsurou only realises he’s stopped tugging at the knot and has been staring instead when Kei tilts his head quizzically. Tetsurou says nothing, just points to his tie with a pathetic pout.
Kei sets down the pyjamas, comes over and somehow Alexander the Great’s the knot out of existence. Tetsurou’s tie soon dangles loosely down his front (thankfully in one piece) as Kei starts on the buttons of his shirt, which he’d actually been dreading attempting because his fingers still felt stiff and clumsy. He doesn’t shiver when his skin is exposed to the air, as the heating has kept the apartment warm, but he does feel a soft tingle in response to Kei's touch when he slips the shirt off his shoulders. The simple intimacy of it makes Tetsurou want to latch onto him again.
He can’t, though, because after Kei has folded up the shirt and tie and placed them aside, he takes off his glasses and begins to peel off his own clothes. Tetsurou sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as Kei’s undershirt rides up with the sweater, then he pulls both over his head.
“What are you doing?” he asks, watching with tender amusement as Tsukki pops out from the sweater. His hair is now twice as fluffy, but he would kill Tetsurou if he heard him utter the words cotton candy.
“I’m not getting my clothes wet,” he says brusquely, his ears pink.
So he had been planning on showering with him? Tetsurou hadn’t thought he could feel any fonder, but apparently he can.
“They’re my clothes,” he says pointedly, plucking at the hem of the inside-out sweater as Kei pulls his arms out from the sleeves.
Kei raises both eyebrows. “So you want them to get wet?”
“Not my point, but I have been looking for this sweater for a while, actually. Where was it?”
“On my side of the closet,” he archly informs Tetsurou. “But you know the saying. What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is—”
“‘Yours’?”
“—also mine,” he finishes. “Correct.”
Incorrigible. “You know me, always top of the class.”
Kei huffs, setting down the sweater and shirt next to the other clothes. Unframed by his glasses, his face seems younger, eyes more open and vulnerable. His hair is still in disarray, curling over his forehead and under his ears, so of course Tetsurou sinks his hands into it. Soft. Kei’s hair is always soft, and always—he presses his nose to it, taking a shallow whiff—yes, always smells like strawberries.
Kei takes his hands; kisses the knuckles. Tetsurou’s heart swells.
“Stop stalling and get in the shower,” Kei says, the colour on his ears now spread to his cheeks—he still gets embarrassed all too easily. Perhaps that had been an impulsive move.
Tetsurou makes an impulsive move of his own, pressing a kiss to his firefly’s forehead. “Okay,” he answers, then pulls away to take off the rest of his clothes and drop them in the corner. He can deal with them later. Or tomorrow, when hopefully he won’t feel like a punctured tyre.
At least that feeling has diminished significantly since he’d heard Kei’s voice upon entering the apartment. Now, as he steps into the shower and hot water streams over his head, slicking his hair down, he’s very glad he didn’t give in to his urges and fall asleep on the couch or bed in his crusty work suit. He feels the dirt and sweat and memories of today being slowly washed off to swirl down the drain, leaving just him, weary flesh and blood—just Tetsurou.
And also Kei, when he joins him. The cubicle only just fits the both of them, but Tetsurou suspects Kei is letting him take up most of the water. For some reason it’s this notion above the others that has him smiling.
He reaches for the shampoo bottle, wonders if he has enough energy to tempt Kei into letting him shape his hair into a stegosaurus-style mohawk. He’d almost managed to do it once, before Kei had cottoned on and exiled him from the shower, then proceeded to hog it for another thirty minutes. Distracted by the potentials, Tetsurou doesn’t notice Kei stretching over him until he’s grabbed the shampoo bottle away.
“Wait,” Kei says, even though he’s already holding the bottle and Tetsurou’s not really in a shape to tussle over it. He pops off the lid; Tetsurou hears him pour out shampoo and lather it between his hands, then—mm, he’s massaging it into Tetsurou’s hair, working it into his scalp with slow, firm movements, sending pure bliss flowing down his neck and shoulders along with the water.
Kei definitely knows what he’s doing. Tetsurou shuts his eyes unconsciously, all his awareness being tugged in a single direction to where his hair is being washed. He can distantly picture Kei’s face, calm and concentrated, and absently admires him for taking on the bedraggled storm atop his head. His fingers are going from the crown of his head to his temples, to the curve behind his ears, finding points of tension Tetsurou hadn’t realised were there, easing them into nothingness.
Tetsurou basks in the attention—it’s like Kei has brought the sunlight down and is bathing him in it. He’d thought he was going boneless before, but that was nothing compared to now. Kei’s hands are the godliest things ever created in this universe.
I love you, he thinks, maybe whispers, but the water drowns out the words. It doesn’t make them any less true.
Kei takes the showerhead and begins to rinse the shampoo out, carefully cupping his hands so the shampoo-water doesn’t get into Tetsurou’s eyes. The foam slides down his back, frothy little puffs that gather briefly around his feet before slipping down the drain. He sways back slightly before he can stop himself, sending a jet of water glancing into his ear.
“Oops,” he mumbles, wiggling his earlobe to get the stuff out. Affection steals past the discomfort when Kei presses his lips to his temple. Tetsurou lets his hand fall, tilting his head up. "Do that again?"
"You're a real sap," Kei says, before obliging.
"Says you," Tetsurou retorts, his eyes still closed against the light and water.
Kei just clicks his tongue, but doesn’t tell him to shut up or anything. Tetsurou hears a different bottle being opened up—soap, he surmises from its lightly floral scent. It feels silky on his skin when Kei rubs it on his shoulders, down the bumps of his spine.
He dips his head forward, his wet hair sticking down along his cheek. “You’re really spoiling me, Tsukki.”
He gets a light flick on the shoulder blade for that, before Kei continues spreading soap suds over his back and chest. The water rinses it off in rivulets, snaking down his stomach, hips, legs. Kei is patient as he soaps him down, but perhaps it also helps that Tetsurou has basically turned malleable as clay, willing to be shaped into just about anything. He feels...warm, right into the marrow of his bones. Cared for, like he’s something precious. Unequivocally happy.
Kei kisses his shoulder. All of a sudden, Tetsurou thinks he’s going to cry.
He turns his head, blinking away water so he can see Kei clearly. His pale skin is flushed from the heat, his eyelashes stuck together into little blond spikes. Even the shower spray can’t completely flatten his curls, one of which is stuck just above his cheekbone. Tetsurou leans back into Kei’s chest, reaching up to play with that errant whirl.
Kei’s eyes slant down to him, the amber-gold of them made even more beautiful by the droplets clinging to his lashes. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
He still can’t inhale deeply. “Like I love you,” Tetsurou says. “Like I’m in love with you.”
Kei’s pale skin is already flushed from the shower’s heat, but it grows a deeper red as Tetsurou watches. Whatever gave him the right to be that cute, Tetsurou wants to meet it and shake its hand and perhaps give it all of his money.
“I love you too,” Kei mumbles, his hands slipping around Tetsurou’s waist.
“I know,” Tetsurou murmurs, because he can feel it soaking into him. His heart is so full he thinks it may overflow.
“Tetsu?”
Oh, he is crying, just a little. He only knows from the sting of salt in his eyes. He’s not sure how Kei was able to see it, but his lips are slightly parted in alarm. The fall of shower water is soft rushing music in Tetsurou’s ears.
“Stay with me?” he asks softly, surprised at the lump in his throat.
Kei pulls Tetsurou closer against him, his chin pressing into the side of his head, and laces their fingers together. He doesn’t say anything, because nothing else needs to be said.
The water cascades over them, the tiles are hard and smooth under their feet. Kei’s embrace is his anchor. Tetsurou has never belonged anywhere else.