Work Text:
The verdict is out: ten-hour workdays are officially the worst thing you've ever experienced. Ten hours on your feet is officially the worst thing you've ever experienced.
It's not like it's something you could help. Necessary evils happen sometimes, and at least you could look forward to a hefty paycheck at the end of next week. And a quiet apartment, as soon as you get home, and home isn't far, either. Only a couple of bus stops away. Then a block or two to walk—inwardly, you groan at the thought—and you could relax.
But you manage to daydream through the rest of your commute, thankfully. Of how your cat might greet you when you get home. Of curling up with a good book or a movie to fall asleep to. Of indulging in a hobby you've barely gotten around to because of your new schedule. It almost takes the edge off the pain in the soles of your feet. Almost.
Normally, you come home to a dark hallway and your cat asleep on the couch, even after you flick the lights on and kick off your shoes. This time, the lights are already on, and dimmed. And you distinctly remember keeping the lights off when you left for the day. Horrified, you clutch your bag in one hand and your keys in the other, ready to use either or both as a weapon—what if someone had broken in? What if they were still here?
But before you can take any more painful steps, you notice, outside of your anxious tunnel vision, a black leather jacket draped over the back of the couch, and sigh in relief.
Karamatsu.
Of course you'd forgotten that you gave him a copy of your apartment key. You just didn't think that he would actually use it, because he hasn't, up until now.
And there he is, humming under his breath and striding into the main hallway in that ridiculous tank top and his sunglasses set atop his head. You curse yourself—or, rather, the sudden surge of butterflies in your stomach. (You don't even like that tank top all that much.) It has to be his voice. Or that self-assured smile on his face, like he's done something to make you think he's The Perfect Boyfriend.
Not that you don't already think so.
"Was giving me a heart attack on your agenda today?" you ask with a wry smile, stuffing your bag and kicking your shoes into a nearby closet.
His eyes snap up to meet yours, and you swear the way his expression softens could have you melting right there. "Welcome home, my love," he says with an adoring smile, holding out a hand to you, and then, "You know I don't live on an agenda."
You grin back, your fingers sliding easily between his when you step up to meet him. He bends to kiss your cheek, perhaps out of affection, perhaps as an apology for startling you. "Artists are never planners, huh?"
"I'm not a planner," he corrects you. "To each their own."
"What're you doing here, anyway?"
Karamatsu's eyes gleam as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze. "Come with me."
He tugs you along like he's afraid he might break you if he's the slightest bit rough, and you're trying not to let the ripple of his shoulder blades under his skin fluster you too much. But that thought, and all others, dissipate as soon as he leads you to the bathroom and nudges you inside. "Go on," he says. "Have a look."
The first thing you notice are the candles. You can't help it. All of the other lights are off, and they're the only light you have. They're little ones that look like they can fit in the palm of your hand—or, at least, on the rim of your bathtub—and a small smile threatens to play on your lips when you inhale. Lemongrass. He remembered your favorite scent. A nudge at the small of your back, and you step in further, to see a few bottles lined up on the floor nearby, and the tub filled almost to the brim, just as perfumed as the candles.
You can't help but let out a nervous bark of a laugh. "Is this for us?" you ask, voice cracking.
"No," Karamatsu replies; he's already closed the door behind you, and his hand is still splayed against your back. "This is for you."
Your first instinct is to laugh again, in spite of your heart leaping up to your throat. He really, seriously planned for this. He had to have, must have ever since you complained to him about your long shift over the phone. But Karamatsu isn't laughing—only smiling when you turn to look at him—and he asks, "may I?" with his fingers lingering at the hem of your shirt.
You let him undress you, unsure of if he's reveling in the moment of intimacy or in every inch of your skin—maybe both, knowing him—and just as carefully, he helps you into the tub. (Now you understand how he could bear to be apart from his prized jacket.)
Your teeth sink into your lip, and you fidget in the warm water, in spite of how it almost instantly relaxes every fiber and muscle in your body. "Are you sure about this?" you ask; your arms move to cross over your chest, and you have the urge to sink a little lower into the water.
Karamatsu cocks his head to the side, a bar of soap in hand. "Would you like me to leave you alone?"
You look down at the water with a blush, and whisper, "No..."
You don't have to look at him to know he's smiling as he soaps you up. Then there's a pop, and he's uncapped one of the many bottles at his side, squeezing its contents onto a washcloth and coaxing you to sit up. Though he rubs in gentle circles, the substance scratches at your skin, and the scent of cucumber melon reaches you. Without meaning to, you slump forward, eyes falling shut, and sigh; his laugh rumbles at the base of his throat, and then you're fidgeting for a different reason entirely.
"Long day?" he murmurs.
"Bad day," you reply, and he coos in sympathy, leaning you back again and scrubbing his way down your torso, along your arms and your thighs. You think you might have caught him chewing his lip somewhere along the way, but you're too caught between "relaxed" and "exhausted" to care. "Don't get a job like this one unless you have to. You might die."
Karamatsu laughs again, softly, and uncaps another bottle. "You're not going to die, sweetheart."
"I might."
"You won't."
"I don't want you to die."
He kisses the back of your wet hand. "I know, darling."
Karamatsu doesn't make you talk too much after that, only tugs out your elastic to let your hair cascade onto your shoulders. He doesn't wash it for you, but he says there's something ethereal about you when you wear your hair down. Like you should be carved in marble, art on display for the world. (Then he takes it back with scarlet cheeks, because you're your own art, and you should only be on display for whoever you like. And then you reassure him that you like him.)
When the water's run cold and he's worked whatever he has into your skin, he rinses you off, pulls the plug, and helps you out of the tub, wrapping you up in a towel. He has you sit on the toilet seat to dry off as he blows out each candle one by one and stores the bottles under the sink—for future use, he tells you, but you don't think you'll use them unless he's around. "You forgot to get pajamas," you mumble, tugging at the wet ends of your hair and eyeing the work clothes you'd hate to step back into.
He smiles, and nods toward a folded pair of underwear on the counter. "No, I didn't."
Your eyes widen, and you can feel the heat crawling up your neck and spilling onto your cheeks, but Karamatsu backpedals, only insisting that he's not done yet. He bumps his head on the counter in the process, and you can't help but stifle a laugh at him. And then bless yourself for having a lover with a sense of humor, and a smile that makes your knees wobble.
He leads you to bed then (did he fix it for you? You could've sworn you left a mess of blankets behind when you rushed out the door this morning), easing you onto your stomach and climbing in after you. His weight settles on the backs of your thighs, and the towel wrapped around you falls away, and he graces you with a kiss between your shoulder blades before reading for a small glass bottle on your nightstand.
"What’s that...?" The bath is getting to you, and your eyelids are growing heavy in spite of how close Karamatsu is to you.
He only uncaps the bottle and brings it to your nose, letting you inhale a bit. Lavender.
"Massage oil?" you guess.
"It eases anxiety," he explains, softly. Lovingly. He rubs small circles of it into the pulse points at your wrists, moves your hair aside to dab some behind your ears, and he gets to work on the rest of your body. "Let me know if it hurts," he tells you, but his touch is almost too delicate, save for the calluses on his fingertips from the times he's forgotten to use his guitar pick.
"Harder," you encourage him, and for a moment Karamatsu freezes, like you've said something a little too suggestive. (You might have. You don't care.) But he obliges you all the same. His palms slide over your skin, fingers digging lines and circles and all sorts of incomprehensible patterns under your shoulders, at the small of your back, along your thighs and the arch of your feet, as much as you allow him without feeling too ticklish. You think you might have squeaked at some points, but you never notice it, only the contemplative hum he lets out right after.
"Long day tomorrow?" Karamatsu asks with a squeeze to your shoulders.
Your arms wrap around your pillow, and you edge forward with a soft moan that you meant to swallow. "B-Bad day tomorrow."
"You can't possibly plan for that," he murmurs as he rolls you onto your back. He's smiling again, shaking some more oil onto his palms.
"You don't know that." You laugh softly; it melts into a giggle when his hands slide along your stomach and between your breasts, fingers trailing feather-light across your collarbone. "You never plan for anything."
"You're right," he says with a laugh of his own. "I don't."
You bite your lip. "You planned this."
His shoulders slacken. "I planned this."
You blink up at him. "How come?"
Karamatsu pauses for a moment, hands still slick with lavender oil. He doesn't answer for a while, works at your stomach and the tops of your thighs instead. He looks like he wants to kiss his way back up to you, but the potential taste of the oil probably deters him. Instead, his fingers skim every inch of you, bottom to top, until his lips meet yours, softly. Lovingly. Like you could fall asleep to them.
His eyes are half-lidded when he leans his forehead against yours. "How else could I begin to repay someone I could have never planned for?"