Ship: Sugawara Koushi/Sawamura Daichi Fandom: Haikyuu!! Major Tags: None Other Tags: nothing here just maximum domestic softness Word Count: 516
MAN this cap gets me every time!!!
***
Morning is two cups of strong coffee, both for himself.
One, he drinks now, one, he tips into a tumbler to bring to work, because the machine in the pantry is a travesty and whatever it churns out can hardly be called palatable, let alone coffee. As Suga wraps his hands around the mug and yawns into the steam, he hears the shower come on. The toaster next to him goes off with a soft ding.
Morning is Daichi emerging to a pile of buttered toast with his tie, invariably, askew. Some days, Suga straightens it for him. Some days, he waves him off with an innocent grin and lets him leave the house a little unkempt. His sense of humour, as Daichi’s fond of reminding him, can be an exasperating thing.
“That’s what you like about me,” Suga says, every time. It comes easy to the tip of his tongue, tripping off lightly after all these years. He’ll say it with his face buried in Daichi’s neck, laughter bubbling bright on his lips; he’ll say it over the laundry and the ironing and the kitchen sink, too.
Daichi only smiles, never asks in return what it is that Suga likes about him. Suga thinks he knows the answer better than Suga does himself.
Afternoon is an endless string of meetings and paperwork, casual chit-chat at the photocopier and texts from Daichi. Once, Suga’s coworker had swiped his phone as it lit up with a notification, eyes aglow to see what your lover’s sent you now, only to find a message about how much cabbage you need me to buy for dinner; Suga had burst out laughing at her bemusement and made a remark, only half-joking, about peak romance.
For Daichi isn’t measured by the hours, any more than evening is counting down to the end of something. Evening is standing side by side, bumping elbows as Suga hums along to the radio, shreds vegetables and lets Daichi get on with his pot of soup. He’s become a lot more useful since he learned not to burn the bottom of it.
“Pass me your knife and your chopping board when you’re done,” says Daichi, turning on the tap. “I’ll clean up.”
Peak romance, thinks Suga with a smile, is doing the dishes for someone without being asked.
These are their days, and these are their nights: no fleeting rapture, no giddy memories that Suga could stitch into this tapestry of them, only threads, plain and home-spun and patiently, patiently woven, and they are enough, they are more than enough. Suga could not look back now and say, this is what I like about Daichi, any more than he could pick a favourite thread.
Some days, the black one, like the jackets we used to wear; some days, the brown one, where Daichi spilled tea all over my freshly laundered shirt one night, and stayed up late getting the stains out.
There’s never been a when, to his falling in love with Daichi. Only a litany of the littlest moments, over and over again.
FILL: TEAM GRANDSTAND, G
Fandom: Haikyuu!!
Major Tags: None
Other Tags: nothing here just maximum domestic softness
Word Count: 516
MAN this cap gets me every time!!!
***
Morning is two cups of strong coffee, both for himself.
One, he drinks now, one, he tips into a tumbler to bring to work, because the machine in the pantry is a travesty and whatever it churns out can hardly be called palatable, let alone coffee. As Suga wraps his hands around the mug and yawns into the steam, he hears the shower come on. The toaster next to him goes off with a soft ding.
Morning is Daichi emerging to a pile of buttered toast with his tie, invariably, askew. Some days, Suga straightens it for him. Some days, he waves him off with an innocent grin and lets him leave the house a little unkempt. His sense of humour, as Daichi’s fond of reminding him, can be an exasperating thing.
“That’s what you like about me,” Suga says, every time. It comes easy to the tip of his tongue, tripping off lightly after all these years. He’ll say it with his face buried in Daichi’s neck, laughter bubbling bright on his lips; he’ll say it over the laundry and the ironing and the kitchen sink, too.
Daichi only smiles, never asks in return what it is that Suga likes about him. Suga thinks he knows the answer better than Suga does himself.
Afternoon is an endless string of meetings and paperwork, casual chit-chat at the photocopier and texts from Daichi. Once, Suga’s coworker had swiped his phone as it lit up with a notification, eyes aglow to see what your lover’s sent you now, only to find a message about how much cabbage you need me to buy for dinner; Suga had burst out laughing at her bemusement and made a remark, only half-joking, about peak romance.
For Daichi isn’t measured by the hours, any more than evening is counting down to the end of something. Evening is standing side by side, bumping elbows as Suga hums along to the radio, shreds vegetables and lets Daichi get on with his pot of soup. He’s become a lot more useful since he learned not to burn the bottom of it.
“Pass me your knife and your chopping board when you’re done,” says Daichi, turning on the tap. “I’ll clean up.”
Peak romance, thinks Suga with a smile, is doing the dishes for someone without being asked.
These are their days, and these are their nights: no fleeting rapture, no giddy memories that Suga could stitch into this tapestry of them, only threads, plain and home-spun and patiently, patiently woven, and they are enough, they are more than enough. Suga could not look back now and say, this is what I like about Daichi, any more than he could pick a favourite thread.
Some days, the black one, like the jackets we used to wear; some days, the brown one, where Daichi spilled tea all over my freshly laundered shirt one night, and stayed up late getting the stains out.
There’s never been a when, to his falling in love with Daichi. Only a litany of the littlest moments, over and over again.