Archive of Our Own ^beta

'This life's sweeter than fiction'

Taylor Swift

He smells the coffee first. The caramel syrup and the powdered chocolate on top, a spoon resting by the teacup on the saucer waiting for him to wake up. It’s piping hot, so there’s no point in going straight for it yet. Instead, he wraps his arms around the spare pillow in bed, burying his face in it to make up for his lost furnace.

It's nearly an hour before he manages to push himself up, take his legs and swing them over the edge of the bed, reaching his arms behind his back and pushing his chest forward, hearing the bones pop impressively.

Wrapping his hands around the cup, he looks out of the window the bed is pushed up against, admiring the snow that coats the streets and other houses. His ears prick up when he hears the front door open, turns his head to face the doorway of the bedroom.

He places his cup down on the bedside table, stretches out his arms and leaves them open, encouraging the shirtless body that enters to push his head into the awaiting crook of his neck. His furnace is back, albeit a little sweaty, but he doesn’t mind. They shift so the furnace lies on his back and the furnace-seeker holds himself up above him.

“Hi. You’re really hot.”

“I was running.” He scoffs at the answer.

“Yeah, in the freezing cold.” He smiles down at him. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Does it have to?” He’s pulled down to put his head down on his chest and he uses the opportunity to wrap his arms behind his back, pulling him close.

There’s a hand on the small of his back and one in his hair, working out the kinks and knots. “No. It’s too early for things to make sense anyway.”

He’s painfully aware that it’s around ten in the morning because he goes on his runs at nine on their days off, but he doesn’t mention it. Not that he won’t mention it later, he just knows better than to point things like that out when he’s only had one sip of coffee this morning. 

There’s a brief moment where he thinks he can fall asleep like this, but his stomach growls in discontent at only having been fed caffeine, and the body he’s resting on chuckles. 

“I got sweet bread from the bakery for breakfast on the way back. You want strawberry or peach and orange jam with it?” He nestles closer.

“Daichi jam works perfectly fine. Can I have that?”

“Maybe later,” he murmurs into his hair as he grumbles in disagreement. “And don’t think about pulling the ‘it’s Christmas’ card. It’s only the twentieth.”

“The house is already decorated, isn’t it? Therefore, it is in fact, Christmas. If you disagree, you aren’t allowed to come back next time you leave.”

“Scary threat. I'm positively shaking.” He’s being made fun of, he knows it well, the sarcasm familiar. He lifts his head, eyes bleary and blinking. He sighs when they sit up, their legs still entangled, his bare against soft joggers. He yawns, stretching his hands up over his head, shirt riding up.

It leaves his stomach exposed and kisses are planted before he can pull away, giggling at the light sensation. It’s a picture of pure bliss for anyone who’s walking the street, looking up through the second-story windows, curious. He bends forward and falls into arms, arms that lift him up and lips that move from his stomach to his mouth.

He loops his arms around the back of his neck. “Did I really invite four people over for an early Christmas dinner tonight?”

“Mm, you did. And if you want me to help you with the cooking, you need to finish your coffee with the bread I bought you while I shower. Tired myself out this morning.”

“Well, then next time you should really stay in bed with me. That’s what days off are for,” he murmurs, his feet now planted on the ground, fingers laced in tousled brown hair.

“Next time. Promise.” He keeps his eye roll to himself at the blatant lie, just holds on. “Love you, Kō.”

“Mm, love you too,” he whispers, lips ghosting over his own. “Merry early Christmas.”