Work Text:
The warm, bright sunrise seeps through the flowing sheer curtains of a restful bedroom. The glow grazes an unbeknown pale back exposed beneath the cream duvet. Aizawa groans at the sudden incessant shrill of the clock, before blinding slapping a hand at the nightstand. After a bit of struggle, the nuisance halts. Glancing towards the clock, the numbers read 7:05am. An involuntary sigh escapes his mouth—realizing the 6:40 alarm was snoozed. Time for work.
Aizawa rolls over with all the urgency of an old man and gazes at his snoozing husband. It’s moments like this he truly believes Yamada could sleep through Hurricane Katrina. Refusing to suffer alone, Aizawa pokes a scarred finger right under Yamada’s rib with the maturity of a grumpy 31 year old.
Yamada jolts roughly, eyes flying open to find the culprit when his sleep-hazed eyes seek low mischievous ones. He grumbles before yawning deeply.
“Shouuu,” the syllables drawn out, “It’s too early for this,” he slurs, batting away another finger aiming at his cheek.
“Didn’t know there was a time frame to show affection towards my husband,” Aizawa quips almost instantly.
Yamada narrows his eyes, “If that’s you showing ‘affection’ I want a divorce.”
Aizawa huffs a laugh before dragging his hand gently down Yamada’s side, pulling him closer. He allows them a few minutes of comfort right as Yamada snuggles against his chest before sighing.
“We need to get up for work,” clearly not happy about waking up early either.
“What time is it?” Yamada asks as he peppers sporadic kisses around Aizawa’s collarbone. He risks another glance at the clock, now reading 7:10.
“It’s seven-ten,”—
“Shit!” Yamada jerks up to a sitting position, covers falling around his waist . Their morning routine is crammed how it is, and between Yamada perfecting his updo, getting Eri ready, and Hitoshi and Shouta dragging themselves to the front door, they need atleast an hour to get ready. If that typically meant packing everyone in the Mustang by 7:40, with the school bell ringing at 8am sharp, they were screwed.
Yamada shoves the blankets away, long legs getting tangled, before he scrambles off the bed and into his slippers. He wips his head back towards the bed and Aizawa revels in the scene before him. Yamada’s Present Mic bonnet slightly slipping off, revealing golden stray locks, mustache askew, and a deep pout engraved on his face. It was beautiful and he finds himself subconsciously reaching for the camera app on his phone.
“Baby, what are you doing! We’re gonna be late!” he rushes out, voice pitching up at the end.
Yamada doesn’t wait for an answer before he throws open their double doors and Aizawa hears his slippers shuffling down the hall, calling for their kids to wake up. He grunts softly as he stretches his back—arms above his head. He chooses to ignore the multitude of cracks he hears that definitely shouldn’t be happening at his age. Then flops back down into the mattress, the memory foam slightly bouncing against the weight.
He can distantly hear Eri’s sleepy murmurs as Yamada helps her choose an outfit. What he doesn’t hear is any movement in Hitoshi’s room—not shocking. Aizawa would bet his eye and leg Hitoshi is dead asleep, despite Yamada’s shouts.
Rapid creaks make its way towards their room as Yamada bursts back in with a flurry of movement. Aizawa rests against the headboard, watching him yank their walk-in closet open, tug his absurd leather pants on, aswell as a plain white tee and he throws his studded jacket over his shoulder, then rushes to the en-suite. With all the 15 years of stealth training Aizawa can muster, he slowly sinks back down into the bed.
When they lock eyes, he swears he notices Yamada’s eye twitch behind his orange shades.
“And if I ask why are you not up, will I receive a logical answer?” Yamada all but snarls.
Aizawa smirks, “How about just five more minutes?”
That earns him an aimed toothbrush to the head.