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Robert had been a lot of things over the course of his life.
Mecha Man, for one. A son, depending on whether or not his father came home that night. Maybe a friend if he managed to file those pointy edges down long enough for someone to stick around. This one is new, though.
Waking up is a slow, languid, warm experience. Robert doesn’t think he’s woken up cold in years but he still leans into it, still depends on it to chase away the anxiety that seems to linger in the cavity of his chest only to be reawoken when he drags his eyes open.
He yawns into the crook of Flambae’s neck, nosing along the steady pulse that thrums under delightfully warm skin just on the edge of too-hot. He inhales, lets the scent of a spiced campfire filter into his lungs and keeps it there. These days the scent is just as familiar as his own, maybe even more so. The first time he smelled himself on Chad, could pick out the traces of metal and the scent of the shampoo he was mocked over, he held the man down and rode him until they were both crying.
But this is a soft morning and he’s plenty sore from last night, not that he would mind for the hand-shaped bruises on his hips to sing with a firm touch. For now he’s perfectly happy with the way his husband keeps an arm over his scarred waist, a little possessive even in his sleep.
It makes Robert smile. It had taken them a long time to get to a place where Robert could actually believe he was wanted. Not just tolerated, not kept around for pity, but wanted. The morning after they had that talk, Chad kissing away the tear tracks on his cheeks and tucking Robert into bed before climbing in alongside him, they picked out their rings.
It was a small event. Well, as small as they could make it when the Z-Team found out and basically shoved themselves into the courtroom alongside the handful of Chad’s family that had been invited. He wasn’t very close with much of his family after the arrest but he had promised his niece years ago that she could be his flower girl if he ever got married. Her and her mother and his parents were there, shoving back against the team each time their clamouring got a little too much and the officiant started shooting them dirty looks.
The two of them had rolled their eyes at the whoops and hollers like the team hadn’t seen them kiss ad infinitum. Robert could pretend to be annoyed all he wanted but he couldn't quite squash down the blooming delight in his chest at the prospect of having people on his side of the aisle.
Chase was there of course, holding Beef in a little bowtie. Robert took so many pictures. As the team filed in, shoving and snipping and pushing their way though, they agreed to split up so Robert could have as many people on his side as Flambae did. And if he cried as he watched them argue over who got to be on his side, well. If there was ever a day for him to cry in front of other people, that would certainly be it.
Robert lets his hand settle on a bare chest, drifting up and down toned abs that held more than a few spots in his camera roll. He noses against a lock of ruffled hair, closing his eyes as he drinks in the scent of the oil Chad taught him how to massage his hair with. That was one of his favorite bedtime routines, a sleepy-eyed man in between his legs as he expertly detangles stubborn knots.
The chest beneath him rumbles, an hum that’s equal parts acknowledgement and irritation.
“Quit thinking so fuckin’ loud.” Chad gripes, voice rough and raspy as he refuses to open his eyes. Not that Robert blames him necessarily. They had gotten a little distracted last night and forgot to close the blinds to the bedroom. It’s late enough that the light has matured from soft and cool to bright and golden.
The bedroom windows of their house face east, meaning unless they remember to close the blinds before falling into bed they get an eyeful of sunlight before caffeine was ever part of the equation. Robert hums back, tilting his head up to press a kiss to the corner of his husband’s jaw. Husband. He had a husband.
The fact makes his head rush, blissfully fuzzy as he begins dropping dozens of happy little kisses onto a jawline rough with stubble. Robert loved it, loved to feel the scrape of hair along his lips as he works his way up to press a final kiss on the corner of a slowly-upturning mouth.
Lids slowly open to reveal squinting ochre eyes. If Robert was any good at painting he would dedicate hours trying to get each little highlight and fleck of gold onto paper so he had something to look at when the love of his life was rudely torn away. As it is he doubts he would manage to capture the ways those eyes flickered, the color fluctuating with each smile or frustration. It’s one of his favorite things to watch.
He turns his head so Robert can kiss him properly. They sigh into it, the motion more familiar than breathing at this point but not lacking in passion. Sometimes Robert feels like they can read each other's minds in the way a kiss on the forehead could mean ‘Don’t get yourself killed’ or the drag of lips over his thigh could mean ‘Don’t move’ and both of them understood perfectly with not a vowel exchanged.
“Sorry,” Robert mumbles against his lips once they finally do pull away. “Just happy.” He seems to soften at that, his other arm finding Robert’s bare waist to properly tug his now-less-frail partner onto his body properly.
Robert was up to a healthy weight now but it had taken years of three square meals a day and snacks for Chad to get to a point where he could look at the jut of Robert’s hips and not wince at the sharpness of it. Robert says he’s still smaller than he was before the coma and that he probably wouldn’t ever get back to where he was.
Chad doesn’t care. He’s more than happy with what’s happily purring on his chest, maybe even a little happier knowing he’s the one who put that extra cushioning on his thighs that made it so much easier to grab. Robert drops lazy kisses onto his collarbone, tongue occasionally darting out to taste the sweet-saltiness of his skin as Chad runs his hands through the hair Robert keeps saying he needs to cut.
Chad thinks if he keeps pleading and pulls out that pouty lip Robert seemed so affected by, he might be able to convince his husband to keep it just long enough that it flopped into his eyes. It was annoying for him, sure, but he loved brushing it aside and relished in the dorky little smile it got him.
He traces the blooms of purple and red along milky thighs and hums as the points of canines drag along his own matching marks. That was one thing they always seemed to be on the same frequency about: I mark you, you mark me.
That’s what led them to the tattoo parlor last year. Robert mentioned that he had always wanted tattoos but didn’t want them to be torn up by another inevitable slash and Chad knew his body would immediately burn out the ink forced under his skin. When they heard that there was a super with the power to create tattoos without a gun in hand they had grabbed the keys to their car and were out the door in a minute.
Chad lets his fingers drift over the burst of color on Robert’s upper right shoulder, traces the edges of the stylized F adorned in flames and thinks of the M that’s displayed proudly on his own arm. Thank fuck the tattoos were magical because he’s positive the amount of bruises sucked onto them by now would have caused them to blow out otherwise.
He cradles the back of his husband’s head to bring him up for another kiss, nipping softly in a way that says ‘mine, you’re mine’ and can’t stifle a pleased little noise when Robert is slipping his tongue into his mouth to say ‘and you’re mine’.
Robert lets a hand tangle in those well-loved curls, letting his fingers curl around those new salt-and-pepper strands he had pleaded not be hidden with any dye. He’s not sure what was more effective, the desperation in his eyes or the quickness with which he dropped to his knees when he found the first cluster to go gray.
Eventually Robert pulls away, drops a lazy kiss to his nose before nuzzling against the crook of his husband’s neck. It’s his favorite place to be. “Coffee,” He mumbles, pressing his cheek into the skin that flares to life under his touch. He can tell Chad wants to argue but the siren song of coffee is far too strong for him to actually protest.
“Coffee,” He returns. “Five more minutes.”
They stay tangled together for much longer than five minutes.