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“Do you regret it yet?”
Awkwardly clasping the back of his hair in his hands, you watch Chishiya keel over the toilet bowl. His face has been caught in a perpetually irritated grimace since you woke up, and found him leaning against the sink vacantly. Apparently he’d been staring at the wall for an hour or so.
For him, it’s surprisingly unglamorous. You can bet it’s been years since he’s felt so awful: usually he brushes off sickness without another word, so this might actually be his first sick day. It’s as though you can hear his coworkers laughing from a mile away now that their cold superior has finally thrown in the towel after drinking on a Sunday.
At the mildly entertained — but mostly pitying — smile tugging at your lips, Chishiya’s eyes narrow.
“...I regret marrying you,” he mutters.
Uh-huh.
You tug at his hair, cheeks rounding into an even wider grin. He can try the irritated angle all he likes: everything he rambled on about yesterday still stands.
“The you from yesterday said otherwise,” you sigh, gratified, and try to bunch up his hair tighter. “I can’t believe you got annoyed because someone poured me a glass of wine.”
Chishiya mumbles something indignant. But then he’s pulling away from the toilet and squinting at you through cat-like eyes.
“I was just drunk.”
“Ah-ah,” you tut, standing up beside him. “People always say that drunk words are sober thoughts.”
“Tch.” Chishiya exhales quietly as you hold a hand out. “...I don’t understand why you’d believe idiots like that.”
“Well, I’d think it’s because they’re right.”
He straightens up by himself. His face is still pinched together by discomfort, brows held low and pressed together. But as you brush him off, that thin line he’s wrenched his lips into has eased slightly.
“At least you didn’t throw up.”
He makes a vague, low sound of agreement. As Chishiya tries to wander out of the bathroom, you grab him by the arm and tug him back.
“Woah, woah. Slow down. I’m running you a bath first.”
He glances back at you.
“...No you’re not.”
“Too bad. You smell like alcohol, and you need to warm up while I whip up your breakfast.”
Chishiya sighs as though you’re inconveniencing him greatly. “I’ll just buy something from the convenience store.”
“Not happening,” you chime.
With great effort, you clasp your hands around his forearm tighter and haul him toward the bathtub. Thankfully the exhaustion induced by however many glasses of wine he drank last night is enough to keep him pliant. Chishiya’s feet backslide in tandem with yours, and you land side-by-side in front of the bathtub. He watches placidly as you sink onto your knees, stretching over white porcelain and the cotton bathmat underfoot to paw at the taps.
Scree—eech!
Hot water hisses out from the metal, spilling out in front of you. There.
You turn back to Chishiya. He’s standing over you with a mildly indifferent look plastered across his face, watching the water rise in the smallest increments.
“Can you watch this for me while I get the food ready?”
He sighs. The indifference slowly shifts into something adversarial, and you’re more than sure that a retort is itching at his tongue.
Instead, Chishiya kneels by the bathtub, and sighs, “Sure.”
Splash!
You toss two small packets of dashi into a pot of bubbling water, then wander around the kitchen to check if you’ve still got some miso paste. Usually the kitchen cupboards are relatively well-organised; considering you’re home a lot and the more uncluttered nature of Chishiya’s tastes, it’s not surprising; but if anyone’s making miso soup on a frequent basis, it’s often Chishiya. He’s carefree when it comes to food — miso soup is so easy to make that it’s most often what he brings to work. You’re the one who simply adds tofu and vegetables in secret before he leaves the house, so he actually has a filling meal. Who knows if he’s noticed yet?
By the time you’ve returned, the water has mellowed into a rich golden-amber. Plucking out the packets from the pot, you toss them into the bin, and add the miso.
There. It’ll take some time to dissolve: so, for now, you turn the heat down, and set some clams and tofu onto the counter for later.
Once you wander back into the bathroom, Chishiya is already sitting placidly in the water, leaning his elbow on the tub’s edge. His eyes, unfocused, are trained on the wet tile wall in front of him. He must be tired.
“Is it hot enough?”
You place yourself beside him. He adjusts accordingly, angling back against the bathtub to watch you sit. After dipping your hand into the water, you find that it’s colder than you’d thought: he must have turned the hot water off when you were in the kitchen.
“Come on, there’s no point in a bath if it’s cold…”
Once you’re reaching over to the taps, the hot water spills out with a few squeaks of the knob.
“I’ll get you some turmeric shots.” Then you wrinkle your nose, muttering, “And maybe some Pocari Sweat, if it comes down to it.”
“I doubt that I’ll need any of that.”
You scoff. “Come on, you’re hungover for the first time in your life. I’m supposed to take care of you,” you chide, mouth twisting into a frown.
“I can take care of myself,” exasperates Chishiya.
Sure you can. You twist the hot water tap shut. He’s taken the shampoo into his hands. But you pluck it away with ease.
“You couldn’t last night,” you say.
His lip curls, unimpressed. You can’t help but smile.
“...You’re not actually going to put Yoshida on-call during weekends, are you?”
Chishiya stares into the water.
“...I could.”
That makes you laugh. And, paired with the unassuming glimmer of satisfaction in Chishiya’s eyes, that twitch of his lip is enough for you.
But, as you reach forward with a pellet of shampoo dribbled into your palm, Chishiya grabs your wrist. The water ripples around the movement.
You falter. “...Oh, sorry: I’m just washing your hair.”
“Do you really think I need you to treat me like some child?”
“Shuntarou. Play nice, for once.”
His eyes narrow.
“Besides, you were whining like a child last night.” When you meet his eyes, Chishiya’s brow twitches. “It was nice to see that side of you for once.”
“Tch. You won’t see it again.”
You chuckle under your breath.
“Just because something’s hidden away doesn’t mean it disappears.”
“It was the alcohol,” says Chishiya.
“Okay. Sure. You don’t mind if I sleep in the guest room tonight, do you?”
His eyes slowly slide to yours.
“Why would you do that?”
Got you. At the uncomfortable crease between his brows, you grin brazenly.
“You confessed that you find it harder to sleep when I’m not around.”
Exhaling sharply, he releases your wrist. By the time you’re lathering the soap up again to massage it into his hair, Chishiya has already angled his face away, ceding ground wordlessly. Probably to distract you: there’s the slightest flush creeping across his skin.
“Your ears are red again,” you murmur, and you see Chishiya grimace slightly.
“Get this over with, or I’ll leave now.”
Entertained, you chime, “You love me really.”
He clicks his tongue again. Okay, okay. Looks like the petulant child from yesterday has already returned.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he murmurs.
You bring your hands up to rub the suds into his hair, mussing the wet strands. He refuses to relax into it. Even as you run your fingers through his hair, coating it sufficiently, the tension set in Chishiya’s jaw remains there.
“You can be so stubborn sometimes,” you murmur.
“So can you.”
“Isn’t it my job to look after you, Chishiya?”
He sighs quietly.
“That’s no-one’s responsibility besides mine.”
You pause, the corners of your mouth curve down in upset. “That’s not true.”
The words falter on your tongue. In tandem with you, Chishiya seems to hesitate — the tension in his muscles only well up harder. He falls silent.
“I’m your wife. Isn’t that the point?”
Your questions lingers soft in the air.
As you quietly cup water in your hands and comb the soap from Chishiya’s hair, his shoulders slowly slump. And when he inevitably turns to look at you, brow knit, you’re unsure what else to do besides blink fast, hands freezing in place.
He exhales quietly.
“The point is that I love you.” Even as your gaze flits between his, Chishiya’s remains steady on your face. “I don’t expect you to do anything besides know that.”
What?
Your eyebrows are pulled upward involuntarily. It’s not that he doesn’t say it often — though I love you always sounds stilted out of Chishiya’s mouth — but it’s usually a murmur before you fall asleep and forget the exchange ever happened. This time, it’s surprisingly forward in its intensity. And he’s not even drunk.
The heat of the water envelopes the two of you, painting a flush high in your cheeks. Your mouth quirks up: and the unabashed, upward curl of your mouth feels fuller than the air around you. Though it’s with mild exasperation, Chishiya lip twitches. Just slightly. As your eyes crinkle, happily locked with his, Chishiya’s gaze relaxes around the smile.
“I love you too.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Obviously. Only an idiot wouldn’t be able to tell.”
You laugh. And, even in spite of his unimpressed tone, Chishiya’s eyes flit down to your mouth.
Your smile falters. Then he’s leaning in slightly. You mirror the movement without registering it, your breath growing lighter on your tongue; his hand braces against yours, fingers twining tightly. Your lips are just brushing when you have to pause.
Something acrid, thick and pungent, fills your nose.
Huh? What’s that?
Hot, and heavy. Bearing a larger weight than the feeling of simple steam on your cheeks. Then the information clicks into place, and you find yourself realising that the smell leaking through the bathroom door is none other than that of actual smoke. You quickly lean back. Incredulously, Chishiya cocks a brow.
Well, that’s one way to ruin the moment.
“…I think your breakfast is done.”