Work Text:
Nanami’s day starts off rather early.
The alarm goes off at five, of which he takes very little time to dismiss even in his haze of lingering slumber. His hand quickly darts out from underneath the covers to press the end button on his phone, and the dread of responsibilities floods onto his supine body— no longer held back by the sweet fortitude of beloved rest. Casting a half-lidded glance to his right, he exhales a breath of relief upon seeing that the shrill ring of his alarm has hardly disturbed your sleeping figure. Your head only snuggles deeper into the softness of the pillows, a sleepy sigh escaping your slightly parted lips and Nanami smiles softly.
His index finger traces down the bridge of your nose, admiration prevailing through the cloudy haze of residual sleep— a feeling that follows him dutifully whenever you’re around. Nothing in this world is strong enough to hinder the untamed and overwhelming nature of his deep regard for you, not even a mind lagging from interrupted sleep. He leans over upon instinct, pressing a gentle kiss on the space between your brows, hardly minding if his lips loiter for a moment too long on your skin. Even if the clock tells him he’s running five minutes behind schedule.
Tearing himself from the gentle warmth and sanctity of your shared bed before he has a chance to be swayed into staying even longer, he gently trods toward the bathroom, closing the door behind him quietly and beginning the daily routine. Brush his teeth, floss, gargle mouthwash, wash his face, shave, apply creams and serums, then dabble cologne on his neck.
La Nuit de L’Homme, a recent addition to his collection that he only made permanent when you complimented it enthusiastically, practically latching yourself onto his neck and inhaling deeply every few minutes. The notes of cardamom and amber were enough to have him consider using it frequently, but your noticeable enjoyment of it made it all the more luxurious and fragrant. Suddenly, hints of cedar and vanilla in the musk were the most obvious aspects of the cologne, enhanced only by your attentiveness and made to be his favorite when you had told him he, quote-en-quote “smelled like heaven” .
He would be a fool to not incorporate it as a staple to his routine.
Exiting the bathroom, he dresses in his usual suit; Tanned attire pressed neatly the night before, blue dress shirt buttoned up elegantly on his figure, and silver Rolex clasped onto his wrist. While it usually doesn’t take him too long to get ready in the mornings, he finds himself running low on time— a consequence of his unintended session of veneration upon your resting figure. And while he realizes he might not have enough time to both brew his tea and make a small breakfast, an opportunity cost he must evaluate greatly, he finds that he doesn’t mind all that much. Not when your bed was so warm this early morning and your presence so comfortingly enticing.
He decides he’ll sacrifice the breakfast this morning, will most likely pick something up quickly on the way to the school, then will have a hearty lunch to compensate for the minimal meal of the morning. He can last the morning without much in his stomach. But tea? Tea is a necessity.
Pulling out the usual blends and the kettle, he works with the speed only an experienced and avid tea drinker has. Hardly forgets an ingredient, knowing all the right places and the necessary steps he needs to take to perform this task quickly and efficiently. His tea items are usually always located in one place, never straying too far from their place in the cupboard for that exact reason, but for some reason this morning, the honey isn’t by the jar of sugar. An unusual error, he notes with curiosity, but a minor one, nonetheless. It prompts him to open the fridge, something he wouldn’t have done this morning had his pertinent ingredient not been missing.
He finds it sitting on the middle rack, right in his line of sight, but it’s too meticulously placed there to be dismissed whimsically. It was placed there on purpose. Trailing his eyes to the left of the bottle, he finds out why.
Beside it is a bento box packed with rice balls, daikon, and carrot salad with a folded note on its lid. Pulling the two items out and placing them on the counter, he unfolds the paper, the light whistling of the kettle ringing behind him.
Made you some breakfast since you won’t wake me up to do it.
Don’t eat too much at lunch, we still have to celebrate tonight. And be nice to Gojo today, let him enjoy this special day with you.
Happy birthday, my love. We all love you endlessly. Have a wonderful day at work.
Nanami has never made much of a big fuss about his birthday. That kind of belief invites a level of attention to himself that he’s not particularly comfortable with and insinuates a need to implicate himself as more important or special than others just because of the day.
He doesn’t ask for gifts, doesn’t ask for special treatment, doesn’t even ask for an acknowledgment of the day of his birth— he truly and unabashedly only wishes for this day to be like all the rest in the most annoying and minimal of ways. And not out of any nihilistic sense of negativity where he believes that no emotion is better than any— no, he doesn’t believe in that either.
He simply doesn’t ask for anything special on his day because he has it all, already. Doesn’t ask for any attention or wish for any betterment for him because he doesn’t need it. His life is fulfilled in ways he hadn’t thought he could have before through the most absolute mundane of measures, and that’s the best part of it all. He doesn’t need special when his daily life is already special enough.
Evidence of that is found in you, who went to bed later than he did just to make him breakfast. The truth of that belief is found in the abundant love you give him that he never thought he would deserve living the life and working the job that he does. Further proof is found in the room down the hall opposite his bedroom, tucked into pink sheets and surrounded by a plethora of toys.
He opens the door to said room, desirous to see the greatest gift you’ve ever given him before he goes off into the daily life of tediousness— and there she is.
The perfect culmination of he and you, mirroring the way you sleep almost identically; Face snuggled into the pillow, lips parted in silent breaths, and entirely peaceful in the state of rest. The embodiment of joy stuffed into a two-year-old body, looking too much like him but acting almost entirely like you. He places the sweetest of kisses atop her crown, hoping to convey the extent of his gratitude for her presence in the briefest of pecks.
And as he sips his tea as he heads to work, (preparing himself to be showered in the boisterous cheers of his students and idiot co-worker that he can't for the life of him bring himself to be annoyed about) the lasting taste of your cooked meal on his tongue complemented by the honey in his drink and the sweet image of his beautiful daughter in his mind, he finds that this day of his seems a little bit sweeter than all the other days.
So, maybe, just maybe, he can be led to believe that his birthday is a special day after all.