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Rub your feet, your hands, your legs.
Let me take care of it, babe.
Close your eyes, I'll sing your favorite song.
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A light, tickling touch draws Sano Manjiro out of his deep sleep slowly. He grumbles into his pillow and rolled his shoulders, feeling his mates’ little fingers continue their gentle exploration. As he came more into awareness, his dark eyes snap open as he realized exactly what Takemichi was touching.
He lays quietly, letting Takemichi keep tracing the whirling black inky lines between his neck and shoulder, before turning his head on the pillow. “Good morning,” he says, voice rough from sleep.
“Morning,” Takemichi said softly, giving Mikey a smile. His fingers continued to trace lightly over the dragon tattoo on the side of Mikey’s neck. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“S’alright,” Mikey mumbled, shivering at Takemichi’s feather-light touch. “I’ve missed waking up next to you.”
Takemichi leaned in to kiss Mikey’s neck. “Good, I’ve missed waking up next to you too, you’ve been busy these past few weeks.” Takemichi scooted in closer to cuddle against Mikey, fingers still idly stroking his neck.
Warmth flooded Mikey at Takemichi’s words. He had been busy, doing as much work with Toman and business deals as he could before Takemichi gave birth. Leaving early in the morning and pulling all-nighters. He drew Takemichi’s hand around his body until the firm roundness of his belly was pressed flush against Mikey’s own stomach.
Even though the haze of sleepiness, he could feel his children give a firm kick and he grins drowsily. “You know – our children are getting a little antsy.”
Takemichi hums, tucking his face into his mates’ neck, and breathes in his smoky-spice scent. “I think it’s time for breakfast.” He said, but he doesn't move an inch from where he was tucked up against Mikey.
Mikey lets out a satisfied croon as he gently kisses his little mate’s forehead, basking in the early morning sun. Takemichi purrs, wriggling his hips as he gets comfortable.
“Hmm, they’re so active,” he says softly, taking Mikey’s hand and splaying it over his swollen belly. Mikey is thankful for the position they’re in, making it easy to hide his flustered face in Takemichi’s curls, nose pressed close to where his sweet scent is rising from him. He breathes in the omega’s scent with deep, slow breathes, and it’s not long before he hears soft snoring, as his sweet little omega drifts back to sleep.
“I’m pregnant,” Takemichi says. This exact excuse works, and it has for the past seven and a half months. He’s beginning to feel a little bit guilty about this, but only a bit, since he’s also feeling the size of a whale and distinctly uncomfortable.
Mikey smiles, the same fond smile he always gets when Takemichi puts those words together, and rests a hand over Takemichi’s swollen stomach, curving out under Mikey’s stolen knit sweater, a Christmas gift from Emma that fits Takemichi perfectly. Over their babies, beneath. “Oh, so you are.”
“I’m pregnant and I want sriracha. On the eggs.”
“We don’t have any sriracha, Takemitchy, and you don’t even like spicy food.”
“I think the babies do. Your sons think your eggs need some flavor.”
“Gods above.” Mikey muses. “It seems like I’ve created critics.“ But this verdict is delivered with another tender pat, and another enormous, besotted grin.
“I believe I had something to do with the conception,” Takemichi says, not as loftily as he means to. Mikey’s other hand is petting his wayward curly hair, and he’s tempted to just curl up and go back to sleep, secure in the sunlight of the morning and Mikey’s love.
Except a foot thumps him in the kidney, and he winces. Mikey’s hand stills, alarmed. “It’s fine, one of the twins thinks they’re a soccer player,” Takemichi tells him, and nuzzles his face into Mikey’s hand, someplace between a kiss and a nibble at his fingers. “Go find us some sriracha.”
“Okay, love I'll pop to the store across the street,” Mikey says, amused, and kisses him. “Don’t get up until I get back. Don’t even move, not a toe out of this bed, understand? Or I’ll get Chifuyu to ‘Takemitchy-sit’ you.”
“Yes, sir,” Takemichi agrees hastily, throwing a salute Mikey’s way just for effect, and Mikey rolls his eyes. “Seriously, please.”
“I don’t want to get up, anyway.”
“If you’re – “
“I’m fine. My knees don’t hurt, not even with weight on them – even this much weight – my stomach’s okay, I’m only tired. Go on, shoo.”
Mikey does, with one last kiss, delivered to the back of Takemichi’s hand, ever the gentleman towards his pregnant mate. Takemichi laughs, and then, alarmingly, wants to weep, because hormones are not his friend and make his cry-baby ways, even more – cry-babyish.
He doesn’t though. With extreme difficulty. Glaring at his stomach half-heartedly instead. “This is both your fault,” he tells his children. “I never used to be this sentimental.”
He’s a filthy liar, and he knows it.
The babies say nothing back, only throwing their weight around, which he concludes is their way of winning the argument. Mikey would likely remind him to please not be too harsh with himself.
He lies there on his back gazing at the sunbeam for a while, as it travels pleasantly along the wall. Gold and white and radiant; that’s this morning, throughout. Himself, and their children, and Mikey, and a nursery that’s painted partially with ocean-waves and sea creatures, and then on the other side of the room, another part where the cots are set up, is painted with celestial bodies, glow in the dark stars littering the ceiling.
A captivating little mobile hangs over the white cots, little moon phases that go round and round, surrounded by stars and clouds to the sweet melody of ‘twinkle, twinkle, little star.’
Everything is set up and waiting for their little bundles of joy to arrive.
This penthouse, with its comfortable old bones and shiny new appliances they both adore in the kitchen. An oven fit for testing recipes together, a glorious copper-and-steel kaleidoscope of pots and pans arranged on hooks, the brand-new decadent and expensive coffeemaker, and he can’t think of anything else he could possibly want, ever, in this life with his husband and their pack, their family…
The coffeemaker. Sitting there. Beans waiting expectantly beside it. Dark roasted, bitter, rich warmth in a mug, maybe with vanilla cream, or caramel syrup or –
Oh, fuck.
He looks at the door, which looks as smug as only a slab of wood that’s taken Mikey’s edict to the heart can look. Pushes his unwieldy body upright, elbow squashing a pillow. Considers the distance to the kitchen.
Their children kick him in the kidney again.
“Hey, no objection,” he says, out loud, “this is your fault. And I technically only told him yes, I understood, not that I wouldn’t actually get out of bed.”
Mikey’s probably going to throw a fit if he sees him up, except not seriously, there might be some shouting, though.
But he really wants some coffee.
He sighs and starts contemplating the fewest number of maneuvers required to haul himself upright. Sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed; stays like that for a moment as he feels their children wiggle unhappily, and rubs his swollen stomach.
“I am getting coffee and you can’t stop me,” he says, standing and heading towards the door. “And neither can you.”
The door doesn’t object, hopefully, intimidated by his masterful glare, so he heads towards the kitchen. Despite years of doing yoga with Emma and performing his own stunts out on turf wars, the added pregnancy does cause him to move a tad slower; he won’t be running about anytime soon. He doesn’t mind the lack of strenuous activities; the trade is definitely worth it for the little people occasionally using his organs as punching bags. Their unborn sons, part of him and part of Mikey.
They’ve no doubt inherited their father’s leg strength, he sighs.
“Daddy still wants coffee,” he says, as they kick him again.
The coffeemaker perks up to greet him where it sits as he enters the kitchen, all its shiny bits, and bobs practically calling to him. He grabs one of his favorite mugs from the cupboard, uses it to add the water, and sets it under the drip. Packs the decaf beans into the small filter, puts it in the maker, and turns the machine on.
He listens to the momentary noise, the water heating and run through the machine and pressed through the beans. Watches as the rich brown liquid fills the mug, offering warmth and deliciousness. Takemichi smiles, rubbing his stomach – more a comforting act than genuine necessity, this time – and contemplates the various flavor options. Vanilla cream, oh yes. Maybe some caramel syrup.
As the mug nears full, Takemichi reaches for it; and as he does, their children continue to object to his desire for coffee. Or maybe they dislike caramel, or maybe they’re a fan of tea instead, like their aunties; but in any case, the kick is a shock, and it causes him to jerk from the impact.
His hand accidentally knocks on the coffee mug.
And that pain is instant and scalding.
“Ouch – fuck!” And he’s just cursed around the babies, oops, so he mutters “fuck” and then realizes he’s just done it again. He gives up after that, because, well, he’s just burned the hell out of his hand. He’s entitled. They're half his kids. They’ll understand.
He smacks the off button with his uninjured hand, sighs, and finds the sink and cool – not ice-cold, he knows that much about first-aid – water and flinches with relief. Wonders whether they have any aloe or burn ointment or, hell, there ought to be a full first-aid kit in the kitchen, he and Mikey have both on occasion injured themselves during cooking, small cuts and nicks from knives, and on one memorable occasion the wounds of an angry cheese-grater, and if they had a first-aid kit in the kitchen then he’d not have to waddle all the way down the hall to the toilet.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he says to his stomach. “You’re super lucky I love you two.”
No new movement from their sons occurs. Takemichi sighs and gives a gentle rub to his stomach with his good hand.
“It’s okay. It was my fault, not yours.” This earns what’s most likely an elbow to his bladder, so he’s pretty sure he’s forgiven. He’s also completely aware that he should call Mikey because his mate would quite like to know that Takemichi has just injured himself, but Mikey’s likely to be home in a few minutes anyway, and his cell phone is back in the bedroom. That hallway’s already mocking him, and the bathroom’s only the first door down.
The cool water from the kitchen sink is starting to take away the pain, transmuting it into a dull ache. He tests flexing his fingers, gauging the damage: not as bad as it first seemed, though it’s going to hurt, and possibly stay pink and shiny for a while.
He eyes his hand. Eyes the shattered mug and coffee debris on the floor. It sits there apologetically. “All right,” he concedes, “not your fault either,” and sighs again.
He’ll have to put a bandage on his hand before he can even begin to clean up the mess, and he won’t get both done before Mikey returns. Makeshift solutions, then. He grabs the nearest dishtowel. It’ll at least mark the spot.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, rubbing his good hand over his stomach, their sons are being uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe they're worried, too.
He makes his way to the bathroom and fumbles the first-aid kit out of the medicine cabinet. Struggles to open the burn ointment one-handed – at least it’s not his right hand or both; he could’ve splashed himself in so many worse places, after all. Like his stomach, for one. Despite the sweater.
“Your father might be a little bit mad at me,” he admits, managing to squirt healing gel across his entire hand, “but I am okay and you’re okay and I am handling this just fine on my own. He worries about us. Too much sometimes, but it’s because he loves us and wants us to be safe and happy. You’re very lucky little boys, having a father like him.”
Ointment, blessed numbing, acetaminophen for the pain; gauze pad on his hand, secured in place with a bandage; their sons give a little kick, approving. “All better,” he promises, smiling at his stomach.
Back in the kitchen, he stares at his temporary dishtowel solution. Contemplates the logistics of himself getting down on the floor. And then hears the front door open.
Mikey comes in with a paper bag in one hand and keys in the other, kicking the door open with a foot; he nearly drops all of the above, eyes going first to Takemichi with a bright smile on his face, then widening in shock. “I knew you’d be out of bed when I – oh fuck – Takemitchy, what – “
“It’s fine,” Takemichi interrupts, desperately, and catches the bag before it can hit the ground. “It’s fine, I’m fine, I took care of it – “
“What happened?”
“Shōyō sort of kicked me and I had coffee in one hand – “
“Let me see that,” Mikey growled, his hands are warm, loving, and worried, cradling his. “Also, Shōyō? Thinking of baby names without me?”
“I did take care of it.” But he doesn’t try to take the hand away. The comfort feels too good; and all at once, he’s not sure why he didn’t call Mikey the instant it happened. “I think he doesn’t want me out of bed today. And I’m only testing them out. I wouldn’t decide without you.”
Mikey didn’t comment and continued to not look up, running fingers ceaselessly around the edges of the bandage. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“It just happened, and I didn’t want to – “
“Don’t say you didn’t want to worry me.”
“No – “ To his horror, his voice cracks. Bloody hormones. Mikey’s home and Mikey’s angry with him and his hand’s throbbing and he still wants coffee and breakfast, shamefully so, how can he ask Mikey for anything more when he knows he’s already in the wrong about not calling…
“I just thought,” he manages, “you’d be home soon, and I could handle it, I wanted to handle it, I wanted – you’re doing so much for us, and I can’t – “
“Oh,” Mikey says, plus a few far less polite words. “Oh, Takemitchy, don’t – are you crying, please don’t cry, unless you need to, it’s all right, I’m here, I’m not upset – okay, I am, sort of, but I know why you’d – but I want to know, all right, please call me if something happens, I love you, I love you and our sons, Y’know?”
Takemichi swallows. Sniffs. His nose is running, and his eyes feel damp, and somehow, he’s ended up in Mikey’s lap, the two of them settled into a sympathetic kitchen chair, Mikey’s hand stroking his hair. He leans his head against Mikey’s shoulder. Shuts his eyes. Feels Mikey’s next breath against his forehead “Yes. I know, yes, I’m sorry. I love you. And oh – the boys are kicking again; they sense their daddy is home.”
Mikey smiles and kisses his eyebrow. “I know, I can feel them, too. Better?”
“Getting there. I’m just – “
“Extremely pregnant?” Borrowing his excuse from earlier, teasing, still with that undercurrent of concern. Takemichi nods.
“I love that you’re extremely pregnant,” Mikey says and kisses the other eyebrow this time. “And I love you. I’ll say it again if you need me to. But when you have bandages on when I get home is quite possibly the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen. I’m not angry with you. But I was scared. How bad is it?”
“It’s really not.” He blinks. Fresh tears. Mikey’s thumbs skim his eyelashes, helping sweep them away. “It hurts, but I held it under cool water, I put ointment on it, that’s a clean pad – no blisters or anything – it’ll heal, If it’d been worse I would have called. I swear.”
And Mikey nods. “Okay.”
“…okay?”
“Okay, yes, we’re okay, I believe you, and if it doesn’t look like it’s getting better in a day or so, I get to take you to the closest hospital. If you feel like – if you want to – to do something – I like cooking for you, I still want to make breakfast for you and the boys but – you can help, maybe? If you’re good. You could chop peppers for us or a tomato?
“I can grate the cheese,” Takemichi offers, after a second in which he does not cry for the third time this morning, while Mikey rubs his back right where he needs the massage. “Or crack the eggs. I can crack eggs one-handed, you know. Not because I’m hurt, but because I’m super talented. In a kitchen.”
“You’re talented everywhere,” Mikey says, “in every conceivable place, in every conceivable way. Stay put just for a sec, while I clean this up, and then we can make breakfast together, all right?”
Takemichi nods and Mikey kisses him once more, on the lips this time firm and affectionate, before grabbing some paper towels and eyeing the broken ceramic with determination. Watching him, Takemichi puts a hand on his stomach – their sons approve of their fathers being happy and is showing it through elaborate twists and turns – and finds himself glad Mikey’s here.
He always is glad Mikey is here, of course, but now, right now, it’s painfully, beautifully true; and his heart aches with it, with a simple clear fondness for this ridiculous man.
He says, “I think we should put a first-aid kit in the kitchen. And maybe a couple of others throughout the penthouse. In case. Not that I’m planning on getting hurt again. But Y’know these are our children.”
He has a grin, at that, at those words. Their sons, who will no doubt take after their fathers. Besides, children are accident – and injury-prone all on their own even without a family penchant for it.
“Sounds like a good idea.” Mikey has finished cleaning up, tossing paper towels away, smiling. They’re okay. They’re wonderful. “We’ll definitely keep them away from the kitchen as much as we can until they’re old enough.”
Takemichi chuckles as Mikey winks at him and walks back over and helps Takemichi to his feet. He places his hands against Takemichi’s stomach, next to Takemichi’s hands, and their sons kick cheerfully and enthusiastically at both of them.
“So, breakfast. How would you like your eggs? Scrambled? Boiled? Or - ” Mikey asks.
“Oh, let’s make those fantastic omelets we made a while ago with the peppers and cheese, but let’s put sausage in too.” Both he and his sons are craving a decent meal. Especially after the morning they’ve had so far.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes please, I love you.”
Mikey laughs, and pulls out the pans and cutting boards, while Takemichi grabs ingredients from the fridge; Mikey busies himself cutting up colorful vegetables, and Takemichi cracks open eggs one-handed because he’d said he could, and Mikey likes watching him do it – and hasn’t yet mastered the trick despite the number of times Takemichi has tried to teach him. And they conjure up breakfast together, in the sunlit kitchen.
Takemichi fries the sausage in two different ways. Mikey likes it crispier, and that’s just as easy as doing it one way – well, maybe not just as easy, but he pretends it is. Mikey glances at him, and says nothing about this, but smiles faintly and trails fingers over his arm, over the soft knit of the sweater Emma made for him as his stomach grew bigger and bigger. Mikey ends up putting food onto plates, though, as Takemichi has to pause and rub at his back.
“How about you get back into bed and I can bring you breakfast in bed?” The last part of the question’s an obvious addition. Mikey trying to ensure that Takemichi won’t protest.
“But I’m already here,” Takemichi says, protesting anyway.
“I know, but the bed would be much more comfortable for you, for the three of you.”
He eyes the sturdy wooden chairs at the dining table and knows Mikey’s right. He can and has sat in them for meals, but as the pregnancy continues, they’ve become uncomfortable in ways he’s never known to be possible, and his back protests more and more against everything that isn’t soft and cushioned.
“All right – breakfast in bed sounds lovely.”
Mikey grins back at him, “Okay, go on, get comfortable and I’ll be right in with our food.” With a kiss, possibly out of gratitude for the lack of argument.
Takemichi kisses enthusiastically back, and makes his way out of the kitchen, though not before he spots Mikey fishing a new mug out of the cupboard. In bed, he makes himself comfortable, pillows between his back and the headboard. He does grab his journal, adding the name he suggested to it, smiling at it and all the potential. They’ve already agreed to not decide on names until their sons are born; they both want to pick one each that’ll definitely fit them once they are squirming little bundles in their arms.
Mikey comes in, tray in one hand balancing food and a mug as well as that newly acquired sriracha; the little legs of the tray are already flipped out, Mikey having thought ahead, so it can sit more easily in front of Takemichi without his stomach getting in the way.
“Thank you,” Takemichi says, meaning it, meaning it in so many ways, as Mikey hands him the mug.
“I almost made you hot chocolate instead – I sort of thought maybe you wouldn’t want coffee – but I did make it. Unless you’d prefer hot chocolate.” Mikey still sounds a tiny bit worried. Obviously wanting to do whatever he can to help.
“No, coffee is fine. I did go through a lot of effort to get it.” There is something, though. And it’ll make Mikey smile, too. It’ll give those worried dark eyes something to do. “I would like some vanilla cream, though. Please.”
And some of the worries lift away. A clearer morning. Sunshine and happiness, Mikey vanishes momentarily. Returns.
“Thank you, my love.”
“You’re welcome, Takemitchy dear. Anything else?”
“Nope. Just you and food.”
Mikey smiles again at that, settling like a watchful lion on the other side of the bed. Takemichi contemplates vanilla flavored coffee, sriracha sauce on his eggs, and Mikey’s lean long-legged warmth at his side. Everything he needs. Yes.
When they’re done breakfast, Mikey sets the tray aside but leaves the mug on the bedside table. Within easy reach, even for a bandaged hand.
And Takemichi curls up against Mikey, head resting against his chest, with Mikey’s arms around him, with their hands linked over his stomach, over their sons, in the morning sun.
-fin-