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Naoya looks much younger when he sleeps, you note absently as you lounge in bed with him. You don’t often wake up before him—he’s always quick to rush off when he gets up, always before you do—but he was up late arguing with his father about something he refused to explain to you, so you get a rare chance to observe him this morning.
Your finger traces beneath his eye, down the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips. He looks more innocent when his face isn’t twisted up into that ever-present look of disdain, or marred by the infuriating smug smiles he so frequently likes to toss at you. He’s pretty, you decide. He’s always very pretty—though he always gets hissy and corrects you with a handsome when you tell him this, because he’s ungrateful and doesn’t appreciate your compliments—but he’s extraordinarily prettier like this.
You think, not for the first time, that he is much more pleasant to be around when his mouth is shut.
As though he can sense your thoughts, he ruins the modicum of peace you have this morning by muttering, “The hell are you doing—” He interrupts himself with a yawn, gold eyes slivers as he gives you a brief half-assed glare before he lets them slide back shut. “—quit it, woman.”
You hum lightly, but pointedly do not quit it, trailing your finger along the lines of his jaw, down his throat, nail scratching along the curve of his clavicle. His body shivers lightly at that last one, and a sigh pulls from his lips, eyes still too heavy to open.
“Pissin’ me off,” he warns, voice thick with sleep, no real heat behind the words.
“You’re always pissed off,” you say, sliding back down so you can lie with him. You nudge your nose against his cheek, and he exhales, lashes fluttering to look at you. “Can’t I appreciate my husband?”
“Tch,” he clicks his tongue sleepily, pointedly turning his back to you. Childish, you think, almost fondly. Almost. “Y’never this sweet unless ya want something. What is it?”
“I don’t want anything,” you answer, shifting closer to him to slink your arm around his waist, brushing your lips against his shoulder blade before pressing your face into the nape of his neck. He smells like your shampoo—asshole, you told him not to use it. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”
You suppose it’s a testament to how tired he is, because he’ll usually bristle and tell you to stop cuddling him like he’s the woman. Now, he only exhales, one hand coming up to where yours is resting so he can entwine your fingers.
“Yeah? Did that old fuck Ogi croak overnight?” he asks, and you let out a huff of laughter, pressing your lips to his shoulder again. “‘m serious. Why ya acting like this? It’s creepin’ me out.”
“Did you know I hated you when we got married?” you ask after a moment, exhaling as you nudge your nose against the nape of his neck.
He snorts. “Ya think your little death glares were subtle or somethin’?” he asks. He adds, “I didn’t exactly like you either.”
You scoff lightly, but you’re smiling. “You had no reason not to like me. I was perfect. You, on the other hand, were an arrogant, entitled asshole.” You pause and then add, “Well, you still are.”
“Perfect,” he echoed with a sharp puff of air. “You were the most infuriating, stuck-up little—” he cuts himself off with another yawn, sighing as he presses his face into the pillow, “—thing I’d ever met. Always lookin’ at me like ya wanted to stab me. Talkin’ back. Didn’t know your place.”
You smile against his shoulder, fingers tightening around his where they’re laced together. “My place is wherever I want to be. Lucky for you, right now I want to be laid up right here in your arms. Aren’t you so lucky?”
“Hn.” He shifts, adjusting so your chest presses more firmly to his back. “You’re trouble. Swear I ain’t ever met a woman who acts so much like a man. Y’tricked me too—actin’ all sweet during the wedding ceremony. Got my hopes up. Thought ya were actually gonna be a good wife.”
You let out a small laugh. “I’m a great wife,” you disagree with a smile, and you don’t have to see his face to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Don’t act like you’re innocent,” you hum, tightening your arm around him. “You made it your mission to antagonize me as much as possible.”
“Were fun to rile up,” he admits, voice muffled against the pillow. “Face would get all twisted up. Thought you might actually try to kill me one day.”
Your lips curl up as you press a kiss just beneath his ear, listening to him let out a soft sigh. “I did try. I would put poison in your tea every morning.”
His back shakes as he laughs. “Yeah? What changed?”
“Nothing,” you say honestly, nuzzling your face back into his back. “Sometimes I still put poison in your tea, but it’s nonlethal now.”
He snorts and says without heat, “Crazy bitch.” He means it fondly. You know because his thumb brushes your knuckles, slow and absent, because he doesn’t pull away, because he lets you stay curled around him like this. You like him when he’s like this, you decide, too sleepy to be petty and annoying, content to just rest in your arms. You wonder if you should start dosing him with low grade sedatives instead, keep him drowsy and in bed with you, nowhere to go.
“Takes one to marry one,” you murmur, pressing another lazy kiss into the warm skin of his shoulder.
“Tch,” he huffs, but it’s weak. Sleep tugs at his voice again, dragging out the edge of it. You press your forehead between his shoulderblades. The sun has climbed higher now, warming the room, and he sighs, long and deep, dozing back off again. You let your own eyes droop shut again, taking advantage of Naoya’s rare inclination to sleep in.
“Oi,” he says after a moment, voice slipping back toward sleep. “Ya still hate me?”
“Hm,” you draw out, pretending to take some time to think about it, smiling when you feel him bristle in your arms. “No.”
“... Like me?” he asks, quieter.
You smile softly, kissing the place where his shoulder meets his neck. “Don’t push it.”