Work Text:
Khaslana’s most recent legal case was a headache and a half. Thank the gods it’s over, just some wrap up paperwork remaining—a different kind of annoyance, though a relatively minor one. Eyes fixed on the computer screen, he lifts the water glass to his lips, and swallows air. Ah, he needs a refill, and he could use the break. Heading out of the home office, he idly considers going to bother his husband. It would be on the way to the kitchen anyways.
Stepping lightly, Khaslana looks into the living room. Nanook is settled on the couch, leaning back on the cushions as he taps away at his laptop. His lips are moving but it’s obvious that Nanook isn’t on a call; the words are slowly shaped, long and lingering.
You are my way of life
The only way I know—
Khaslana’s lips curve. His world is one without sound, and catching Nanook singing is always like a secret surprise.
Work can wait. He’ll stay for a song or two.
Two steps in and Nanook’s gaze is on him. Knowing what Khaslana is up to, Nanook saves his work, briefly lifting the computer away so Khaslana can climb into his lap. He curls up on Nanook’s chest, feeling the tiny heave of a huff. The laptop is brought back, Nanook’s arms coming up around him to continue his work. A slow breath, and then the song resumes, a low, rhythmic vibration against Khaslana’s cheek where it is tucked in the hollow of Nanook’s throat.
Khaslana loves Nanook’s singing. Loves to lie on this broad chest and feel the musical hum of Nanook’s voice, the syncopated cadence of his breaths…
…
…
Khaslana wakes to slow, wet kisses, and the heat of large palms, stroking leisurely down his back, curving possessively over his hip. Groaning sleepily, he pulls away, pressing his teeth into the skin exposed by Nanook’s open collar in retaliation. The chest he is lying on rumbles with a laugh, fingers pinching his waist.
I’m up, he signs, sloppy and one-handed, still lazy with sleep. The dim light of the setting sun slants across the floor.
Sleep well? The question is solicitous, but there is smugness in the tilt of Nanook’s mouth.
Rubbing a hand over his face, Khaslana responds with an emphatic middle finger, followed by an accusatory point. It was only supposed to be one or two songs. The upper registers are difficult to feel so Khaslana usually wanders off after a few tunes. But Nanook sang in a deep voice, low tones from deep in his chest to purposely lull him to sleep.
You work too much. You haven’t been sleeping. That’s the general gist of the four signs Nanook forms, having picked up Khaslana’s shorthand signing habits.
Khaslana pokes him again. You’re one to talk. His jaw cracks in a yawn.
Dinner? I ordered honey garlic wings.
It’s just what Khaslana was craving. He pecks Nanook on the cheek. I could eat.