Work Text:
The ceiling fan spins lazily, casting shadows on the mayhem of papers that clutter the kotatsu’s surface. An empty mug sits at one corner, precariously close to the edge and a sudden fatal drop, what with the wooden floors that await the little ceramic cup.
Papers rustle, a pen scratches against the glossy white of documents. Quick taps of a keypad echo in the living room.
Keiji stares unseeingly at the blue screen of his laptop, eyes glazed and unfocused. His hands are moving on their own, muscle memory pushing his thin fingers to type even when there’s nothing but static in his brain. There’s a pen clenched between his teeth, as if it’s a snack, some food that will pull him over into this late night of working. (It is not food, and he should’ve eaten something earlier when Osamu texted him about it.)
But this manuscript needs to be finished, so he can move on to the next one, and the next one, and the next one. It all meshes together into one long, never ending cycle eventually. Keiji still powers through it, somehow.
His stomach protests this, even though he’s managed to quench some of the hunger with another cup of tea. (Coffee. It was coffee. But he refuses to admit it. He’s in denial.)
It’s only when a heavy but warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder that the working daze he’s forced himself into shatters, causes him to blink sleepily, looks down at the large hand pressed into his shoulder blade. He takes too long to register that it’s Osamu’s hand, even though he’s seen this hand hundreds, thousands, millions of times. It takes him even longer to raise his head to the pinched, concerned face of Osamu himself, his own hand instinctively reaching up to cover the one on his shoulder. He welcomes the bit of warmth it brings, the comfort it leaves with him.
Dark eyes scan his face, and Keiji is sure that he’s about to receive a lecture on how late it is and how this work can always be finished in the morning. It’s a practiced conversation between the pair, ever since they first got to know each other, to when they started dating, to when they moved in together and even now, two years into marriage. It’s nothing new, but it’s still a teetering argument they share daily.
“Come to bed. It’s late.” Osamu starts, squeezing Keiji’s shoulder in comfort and encouragement. It’s a silent plea for him to listen and agree, just this once, without any strong-headed excuses. Alas, it’s wishful thinking, as Keiji is already shaking his head and turning back to the manuscripts and computer, pulling the pen from between his teeth and setting it aside next to a stack of papers.
“I’m almost done. Just a couple more pages.” As is most nights, Keiji remains stubborn, determined to finish at least this piece and then retire to the warmth of their bedroom. To the warmth that Osamu brings when he finally climbs into bed and is enveloped in the security that his husband is right beside him, sleeping soundly.
More than anything, Keiji is just grateful to know that he can sleep beside the love of his life without worrying. Osamu always brought that sense of comfort and peace wherever he went. That’s one of the things that he adored most about him.
He doesn’t notice when Osamu’s hand slips away now, lost in thought once more, though now there’s a hint of a smile gracing his features.
But Keiji registers a little too late when hands slip under his arms instead, locking tightly around his waist before tugging. He’s barely got time to utter a questioning noise before he’s dragged away from the warmth of his work space, sweatpants rubbing against the wooden floor and catching at some of the little crevices in between. There’s the fleeting thought of kicking and screaming to get away but Osamu’s hands are persistent, digging into his sides as the man all but hefts him to his feet.
Keiji decides that pouting is the best course of action. Combined with crossed arms, he faces his husband with a jutted lip, brows furrowed in confusion and hoping that this will be enough to sway Osamu into letting him work for at least one more hour.
It’s not.
Osamu takes one look at him, wags a finger and tsks, (Tsks! Who does that?), before Keiji is being lifted off the ground. All in one smooth motion. Had he planned this?
He’s unsure which is worse, the fact that he’s slung over Osamu’s shoulder like a rag doll or that he’s beet red and trying not to think about the fact that his husband is strong enough to carry him like this.
“We’re goin’ to bed, Keiji. End of story.” Keiji almost says yes sir, but bites his tongue instead. No need to embarrass himself further. This was already humiliating— and exhilarating— to begin with and it doesn’t help that Osamu lightly smacks his thighs with one hand as he starts walking towards their bedroom. Obviously, he’s trying to give him a heart attack.
Of course, he’s not one to not put up a fight.
“‘Samu, put me down.” It’s sputtered, but at least he can still talk, and he tries to emphasize the point by thumping balled fists against the broad expanse of a back. Tries to wiggle out of his hold, justifying a possible tumble to the ground with his usual late work excuse. But Osamu’s grip only tightens and he forgets how to breathe for a second before he’s protesting some more.
“I have work— I’ll go to bed in thirty minutes.” He’s rationalizing now, trying to bargain. Trying to do whatever is possible to retreat back to his abandoned station, where his documents are calling to return. Fingers dig into his sides in response and he squeaks in surprise.
“Nope. Ya had enough for the night. There’s always tomorrow.” By now, they’re down the hall and entering the bedroom and while their queen sized bed looks welcoming, Keiji knows he can't succumb this easily. So he starts thrashing a bit more, nearly resorts to begging, asking as politely as possible for Osamu to put him down so they can act like adults and have an adult conversation about it.
Nothing about being thrown across your husband’s shoulders and carried to your bedroom is adult-like in the slightest, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to try and weasel a way out of this.
Osamu breathes out a chuckle, something deep and low. It sends shivers through Keiji before he’s airborne once more, tossed onto the bed and bouncing dangerously close to the edge. But it’s a moment of freedom and he takes it while he can. The man is halfway off the bed before he’s yanked back onto the mattress, arms wrapping around his middle and holding him close to a broad chest.
“No tryin’ to get outta this, Keiji. We’re going to bed. Together.” He huffs, grumbles a lot, does his best to give excellent excuses as to why he should be back in the living room. But Osamu doesn’t budge. If anything, he only tightens his grip on Keiji with each new protest.
And it’s warm, and welcoming, and while he wants to be finishing his manuscripts and turning things in as soon as possible, he has to admit that this is nice too. Really nice, actually.
Osamu is soft, warm to the touch. He’s home, and comfort, and safety that Keiji searched for the longest time before finding him. At the end of the day, when he counts his blessings, Osamu is always the first one on his list.
He lets a hand slide down Osamu’s shoulder, down his arm, down his hand to find his fingers and intertwines them with ease. At the end of the day, no matter how time-consuming his work may be, how time-consuming Osamu’s work may be, they always end up in the same place. The same home, the same bed, the same space. And he’s grateful for that.
“You’re in trouble tomorrow if I don’t get everything finished in time.” It’s an empty threat. He knows it. Osamu knows it. His husband nods anyway, already preparing to take the blame if Keiji somehow falls behind from going to bed on time for once in his life.
“Yes, dear.” It’s spoken jokingly, with a kiss to his temple to seal the deal. He rolls his eyes and sinks further into Samu, relishing this safety his strong arms bring to him.
It’s an unknown amount of time that they stay like that. Basking in the warmth of each other, trading gentle kisses and whispering quiet affirmations as the calm atmosphere lulls them to a dreamless sleep.
And if Keiji wakes up the next morning, warm and well-rested. Well… No one had to know.
Except maybe his smug husband, who peppers kisses all over his face the moment he wakes up and whispers an enduring I told ya so.
And yeah, Keiji thinks as he holds in a laugh and weakly tries to push Osamu away, he did.