Chapter Text
Morning arrived softly in their apartment.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just the slow kind of light that crept through the thin curtains and rested on the edges of furniture, warming corners that had been lived in long enough to feel earned. The couch still bore the faint dent of where Yuji liked to sprawl the night before. A mug sat abandoned on the coffee table, cold now, with a ring at the bottom Megumi had meant to wipe away and forgotten.
Laundry lay folded on the dining table. Folded incorrectly.
Yuji stood over it, humming something tuneless and gentle as he tried again to line up a stack of onesies. He frowned in concentration, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth, refolding the same piece for the third time. It still looked wrong. He decided it was close enough and added it to the pile.
Across the room, Megumi stood with a clipboard in hand, scanning a list with quiet intensity. He had already gone over it twice. This was the third. He moved down each line slowly, lips barely moving as he checked things off again.
Outlet covers. Secured.
Cabinet locks. Installed.
Cleaning supplies. Out of reach.
Crib placement. Measured. Re-measured. Adjusted two centimeters to the left.
“Megumi,” Yuji said lightly without looking up, “if you stare at that list any harder, it’s gonna start staring back.”
Megumi made a small sound that might have been agreement. Or irritation. Or both. He tapped the clipboard against his palm once, then set it down with deliberate care on the counter.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I just want to make sure nothing’s overlooked.”
Yuji smiled to himself and went back to folding. He liked this version of them. The nervous energy that didn’t turn sharp, only focused. The way Megumi’s worry translated into preparation instead of panic. The way they moved around each other without colliding, instinctively aware of where the other was at all times.
Their apartment was not large. It never had been. Two bedrooms, one already converted with care and quiet excitement into a nursery that still smelled faintly of fresh paint and fabric softener. A living space that had been rearranged a dozen times over the years to accommodate growth, compromise, and comfort.
There was nothing extravagant about it.
But it was theirs.
Yuji carried the laundry into the nursery and paused in the doorway, looking around. The crib stood empty, fitted with sheets Megumi had washed twice just in case. A small stuffed bear rested in the corner, slightly crooked. Yuji reached out and straightened it, then laughed under his breath at himself.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”
The knock came just after ten.
Megumi opened the door first. He always did. The social worker stepped inside with a polite smile and a soft gaze that missed nothing. She took in the apartment with a practiced glance and then, visibly, relaxed.
It was quiet here. Not stiff. Not staged. Lived in.
Yuji offered her tea. Forgot where they kept the good mugs. Apologized while laughing at himself. Megumi found them without comment and set one down in front of her with precise care.
The evaluation unfolded easily.
She asked questions and Megumi answered them clearly, thoughtfully, without embellishment. He spoke about schedules, childcare plans, safety measures. About flexibility. About responsibility. Yuji filled in the emotional spaces without trying to impress. He talked about love like it was a given. Like something already in motion.
At one point, the social worker asked about division of labor.
Yuji answered first. “We don’t really split it,” he said. “We just do what needs doing.”
Megumi nodded. “We trust each other.”
Later, when Yuji realized he had put the kettle on and forgotten it, the room filled with the faint smell of something just beginning to scorch. They scrambled then, both of them, laughing as Megumi rushed to turn it off and Yuji opened a window.
It wasn’t graceful.
But it was coordinated. Familiar. Warm.
The social worker watched them with something like fondness.
When she left, the apartment felt larger for her absence. Too quiet. Yuji hovered by the door long after it closed, fingers worrying the hem of his shirt.
Megumi didn’t speak. He simply reached for Yuji’s hand and squeezed.
The call came that evening.
They were sitting on the couch, knees touching, neither of them really watching the television. Yuji answered it with a breath held too long and then too suddenly released.
Approved.
Yuji made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. Megumi closed his eyes and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, pressing his face briefly into his hands before straightening again. He looked steadier than he felt.
They didn’t celebrate loudly.
Instead, they turned off the lights and sat on the floor together, backs against the couch, hands entwined. The apartment hummed softly around them. Pipes. Distant traffic. Life continuing on.
Yuji rested his head against Megumi’s shoulder.
“What do you think their favorite color will be,” Yuji asked quietly.
Megumi blinked, surprised, and then considered it seriously. “Green,” he said after a moment. “Or yellow.”
Yuji smiled. “I think blue. Or maybe red. Or maybe all of them.”
They talked like that for a long time. About whether their child would like music or art. About scraped knees and bedtime stories. About silly things and small things and the kind of future that felt gentle enough to touch.
They didn’t talk about fear.
They didn’t talk about expectations.
Just possibility.
When they finally stood to go to bed, Megumi paused in the doorway of the nursery and turned on the small lamp inside. The light fell over the empty crib, soft and waiting.
“Soon,” Yuji whispered.
Megumi nodded.
This was the apartment they had built.
And it was ready.