Work Text:
You are beginning to think the sunlight is kinder to Ratio than most other forms of illumination. Though he looks lovely to you in all lighting (naturally), there is something undeniably special about how the dawn in particular treats him. How strange it is to think that—at a distance—a thing so oppressive can be equally gentle in its approach as it outlines your unconscious husband’s features. There is such care in how the light envelopes each line and curve that it frequently tempts you to take your own hands to his face, if only to mindlessly (indulgently) caress it. The pads of your thumbs navigate every slope with more familiarity than the last, experience accumulated slowly from every morning spent just like this; catching every bit of sun dripping from the curve of his jaw for as long as his subconscious permits. How strange it is to think that the face of a man so tense in life can become this kind in sleep. Not that he is completely lacking in softness in consciousness; you have seen the way he looks at you when he thinks you are too distracted to notice. Your adoration is fully returned.
A more ambitious piece of you succeeds in dragging a hand down, down down to Ratio’s collarbone—briefly filling the faint gap between bones before bringing that same limb back up, up up to smooth out the furrow of his brow as his face tenses yet again, awakened by the persistent feeling of his skin on yours. He quite likes to carry the weight of the world on his mind, you think. Most think him harsh—which he certainly can be when it comes to words, for that is how the wear of it all chooses to show on him. You know that firsthand. But the kindness, the warmth, the understanding of the man you know always far outweighs it.
Which becomes especially apparent on days such as today, when the first words to leave your husband’s mouth are not words at all but a sigh of exhaustion and an arm wrapped round your waist. His expression relaxes more at the confirmation that it’s truly you beside him, eyes fluttering back shut as his hold around you tightens. A muttered good morning is all that precedes a light (careful, even) squeeze of your side. At no point does the man protest your hands making much, much too much contact with his face than what is considered reasonable.
Ratio is beginning to think the sun’s warmth is not worthy of being compared to yours.