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This was his favorite part of the day. On home days, when there were no gigs and the road wasn’t calling.
When the boutique was closed and his old acoustic was sitting in its stand, tucked away for the night. When dinner had been enjoyed and the cleanup was done. When the day was, for all intents and purposes, over and they could just sit and relax and enjoy each other’s company. He would stretch out on the couch with a book he usually only pretended to read, because not long after Marinette would sit a mug of tea she’d actually never finish on the coffee table and curl up against his side. Sometimes she’d have a project – usually something crafty she’d do for fun, not for work – but sometimes she just wrapped her arms around him and drew lazy little circles on his stomach.
Those were his favorite nights.
Those were the nights that usually led to…well.
They never stayed on the couch too long, on those nights.
She had a project tonight, though, so he was actually attempting to read the book he’d been picking at for God only knows how long now. Some cross stitch pattern she was working on for Mylène’s nursery. He wasn’t really expecting anything to happen tonight, but he still appreciated her warmth and the comforting weight of her back tucked against his side.
“…hey, Lu?”
He hummed, not really looking up from the book he wasn’t really reading. When she didn’t answer, he glanced over at her. Her needle was halfway through the cloth, and it looked like she was fiddling with the excess thread under the hoop as she worried her lip.
“Hey,” he said, leaning over to press a kiss against her temple, “what’s up?”
“This is gonna sound so…conceited,” she sighed, shaking her head. His eyebrows rose, and when she tipped her head back onto his shoulder he gave offered her a baffled smile. “It’s just…Rose and I were talking earlier.”
“Never a good sign,” he teased. She nudged his stomach with her elbow, and he chuckled as he kissed her again. “Go on.”
“It’s just…we were talking about the things we leave behind. In people’s lives. Little things you don’t really think about until someone’s gone and it’s like oh, so’s this, you know?” she said, gesturing with her stitching hand and almost yanking the needle out of the cloth.
“Like Gina’s laugh,” he said, and a shadow passed over her face at the reminder of the nonna she had lost the previous spring.
“Not exactly,” she said. “More like Nonna’s candies.”
“The candies?” he asked, his eyebrows soaring. She nodded. “I thought you hated those things.”
“I do, but they were her, you know? And now that she’s gone and I don’t have them anymore…I mean, I guess I could track down the maker and buy some, but it’s not the same, you know?” she asked. He nodded. He supposed he did. “It just…it got me thinking. What would you miss? What me thing would you miss? If I died?”
“I don’t like that question,” he said. He set his book aside – tossed it on the table, really – and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. He tucked his face against her shoulder and shook his head. “Why would you ask that? I don’t want to think about that. It’s not conceited – it’s morbid.”
“Lu, I’m serious,” she said.
“So am I,” he huffed. “No death talk.”
“I’d miss your music,” she said, running her fingertips along his arm. “The way it fills our home. The way you can bring your guitars to life. I’d have recordings, but it won’t be the same as listening to you actually play. I think that might kill me, how quiet this place would be.”
“Marinette…” he groaned.
“C’mon,” she said. “What would you miss?”
“You,” he said. “This. Everything. Don’t make me think about a world with no music, Marinette.”
“Luka, that’s not an answer,” she laughed. “C’mon. There has to be something.”
He glanced at the cross stitch that had fallen forgotten to her lap, the needle poking out precariously and the thread tangling against her knee. He smiled a little at the sight.
“Ok,” he said. “I’ll miss your mess.”
She jerked up – or tried to. He grinned as she gawked at him and held her tight against him. Her hand fell onto his knee and pushed, but he refused to let go.
“Luka!” she cried, her jaw dropping. “That’s so…that’s…that’s mean!” He chuckled and tried to lean in for a kiss, but she turned her head and shoved at him. “No! I was sweet and romantic and you…you…you’re just being a jerk!”
“It’s true, though,” he said. He nodded around their flat, from the project currently on her lap to the half-finished sign drying on the desk by the balcony to the baskets of yarn tucked in so many corners. The glitter that had spilled from her homemade Christmas cards two Decembers back that had never really managed to get out of the carpet. The macramé plant holders hanging from the ceiling in front of the windows. The box above the fridge that held so many damn cookie cutters. Little projects that had spilled out from her studio to leave little traces of her all over their home. “Look at it, Marinette. You’re everywhere – just like my music. You’re afraid of the quiet, but how do you think I’ll feel when I come home and your mess is just…gone?”
“I should clean,” she huffed, pouting. “Just to spite you.”
“That’s not what I mean, darning,” he said with a small laugh, shaking his head. “It’s just…it’s you. Your creative spirit. If you were to die, right now…I don’t know what would be worse. Cleaning up the mess and never seeing them again or seeing it every day, knowing you won’t be coming home to finish any of it. Seeing the spaces where you should be but aren’t. I need your mess, Marinette. It’s like breathing.”
She grew quiet as she took another good look around the room, really studying it. Trying to see it through his eyes, the little spills and not the work and incomplete projects and mess scattered about.
“…it’s like your music,” she finally said. Her nose scrunched. “I think. It still feels kind of backhanded, though. Like it fills you with love and rage.”
“You’ve seen how my ma cleans,” he chuckled, kissing the back of her shoulder. She hummed, and he grinned up at her. “Your mess is nothing compared to the boat, darning.”
“I’m going to clean so hard during your next tour,” she huffed. “Show you how messy I really am.”
“No, please, don’t,” he laughed. “You’ll scare the hell out of me. It’s perfect just like this. Never change.”
“Well, we might need some changes,” she huffed. He pulled her back against him, and she yelped as her stitching fell to the floor. More little fingerprints, threads and needles and scraps of cloth left to fill up his heart. “Lu-Luka!”
“No,” he said. “I love your mess, Marinette. No changes. Ever.”
“…fine,” she huffed, rolling her eyes as he smiled at her. He pulled her down for a kiss, and soon she was too distracted to be upset by how messy he apparently thought she was.
(…she did clean up a bit during his next tour, but it was more out of necessity than malice – and, in some very real ways, the mess was even worse when he walked through the front door late one Sunday night.
It was hard to be too bothered by that, though, when he saw the tiny jumper she was knitting and she looked up at him, a nervous smile on her face as she squeaked out a startled: “…surprise?”)