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[daiya no a, miyuki/nabe]
this is literally 900 words of miyuki helping nabe out of her winter coat because i was feeling grossly sappy and fond of ampholight...
Snow is falling outside. The house is yellow under soft lights, glittering in the corner of his eyes from decorations carefully tucked over pins or taped-double-taped to the walls, but the white haze through the green curtains she's had hung around her windows since before he ever visited her is what makes it feel like winter. She's a little late today, dusted white at the heel of her boots and dark spots visible in the dried-on-the-train curl under of her bangs, and he meets her at the door with a sky-blue mug steaming a cloud barely visible against his shirt.
"Welcome home," he says, taking her bag when she holds it out for him and hanging it on the hook.
"I'm home," she says, voice sweet, if thin from exhaustion. "Is that hot chocolate?"
"I thought you might like some," he says, and watches her smile into her chest as she looks down to fumble open her coat. The third button gets stuck halfway through the hole, and he sets the mug down to draw wispy white curves on the table in the entryway to gently brush her red gloves away from it. He pops it open, then slides his knuckles down her front to the next, until it hangs open for her. He reaches up for her hat, the same brick color as her gloves and the scarf he'd bought her when it started getting cold last year, and pulls on it until it's in the palm of his hand. He smooths the upset tangle at the top of her head, combing it smooth, and cracks a smile at the way her eyelashes flutter.
Her right hand still hovers in midair, fingers curled at her front, and he pulls it closer to him. He passes his thumb under the cuff of her glove and peels it down, over the curve of her palm, until he can tug on the empty fingers. He drops the glove in her hat and curves his hand around hers, until her fingers feel less like ice. "Aren't these gloves supposed to be fleece inside?" he asks, frowning, and she nods.
"But I'm fine now," she says, her grip pulsing. "And when I'm outside I put my hands in my pockets most of the time. It's okay." It's not okay, he wants to say, but her mouth is drawn flat and he lets it go. She flutters her hand free to pull the other glove off herself, and curls it into her hat before she tucks all three into the pocket of her coat.
"You don't have to do that," she says, when he steps close to push her jacket over her shoulders, his hands resting half under the loop of her scarf, against her chest through the thick knit of her sweater dress.
"But I want to," he says, looking down at her, flatting his palms against her shoulders.
She seems, for a moment, like she might protest, but he meets her eye and holds her gaze. Finally, she turns, the red blooming across her cheeks more prominent because of the chilly winter pallor to the rest of her, and lets him pull her charcoal-gray wool coat into his arms. She reaches out to pluck the hanger from the closet, and he takes it when she proffers it over her shoulder, sliding it through the arms. Her winter coat is supposed to go back into the closet, but he leans sideways and hangs it on the hook where they usually leave slickers during the rainy season instead. She'll just have to put it back on tomorrow, after all. Her scarf is looped over the curtain of her hair, and he reaches over her shoulder to unravel it from its loop at her throat, laying it over the shoulder of her coat so she can put it on first, and then he reaches back to draw her hair aside. The backs of his fingers brush her neck as she turns to meet him, mouth warm against his as he slides his thumb over her jaw, and her hand slips into the bend of his elbow, the other heavy against his ribs, and he curls his arm around her to pull them flush together.
The sound of her boot thumping against the step into the hallway pulls them apart, and he lets her kneel to flick them open, her fingers more nimble now with blood flowing in them. When they lay open enough she can tug her heels up through the calves, he offers her his hand. She takes it, grip firm, and steps out of them, one at a time, until she's standing in marbled gray socks in the entryway looking for her slippers. She spots them tucked into the corner against the wall, and fishes them over with a toe, one at a time, so she can slip her feet into them and step up into the house.
He lets her pass by him to pick up the mug he'd brought down for her. She leans over the top, sniffs, and sighs. "Did you hand-make this?" she asks, lifting it to her mouth.
"Yeah," he admits, "it's - kind of relaxing." There's a soothing feeling to the constant attention not burning the chocolate requires, even if he's only figured out what's too sweet over years of testing milk-and-a-little-vanilla on his dad and, now, her. Her eyes flicker up toward him, and she swallows a smile with the next sip of her drink.
"Come on, let's get you out of the hallway," he says, fingers spread across the small of her back, and she lets him propel her toward the living room, toward the couch where he'd been camped under a blanket for two hours waiting for her. His work is still open on the coffee table, where he'd been staring uselessly at it until the buzz of wanting something to greet her at the door with had moved him to the kitchen. She sits where he'd vacated, bending her knees and drawing her ankles up onto the couch, and only laughs a little when he slides in next to her to drop his head against her shoulder.
Snow is falling outside. The house is yellow under soft lights, glittering in the corner of his eyes from decorations carefully tucked over pins or taped-double-taped to the walls, but the white haze through the green curtains she's had hung around her windows since before he ever visited her is what makes it feel like winter. She's a little late today, dusted white at the heel of her boots and dark spots visible in the dried-on-the-train curl under of her bangs, and he meets her at the door with a sky-blue mug steaming a cloud barely visible against his shirt.
"Welcome home," he says, taking her bag when she holds it out for him and hanging it on the hook.
"I'm home," she says, voice sweet, if thin from exhaustion. "Is that hot chocolate?"
"I thought you might like some," he says, and watches her smile into her chest as she looks down to fumble open her coat. The third button gets stuck halfway through the hole, and he sets the mug down to draw wispy white curves on the table in the entryway to gently brush her red gloves away from it. He pops it open, then slides his knuckles down her front to the next, until it hangs open for her. He reaches up for her hat, the same brick color as her gloves and the scarf he'd bought her when it started getting cold last year, and pulls on it until it's in the palm of his hand. He smooths the upset tangle at the top of her head, combing it smooth, and cracks a smile at the way her eyelashes flutter.
Her right hand still hovers in midair, fingers curled at her front, and he pulls it closer to him. He passes his thumb under the cuff of her glove and peels it down, over the curve of her palm, until he can tug on the empty fingers. He drops the glove in her hat and curves his hand around hers, until her fingers feel less like ice. "Aren't these gloves supposed to be fleece inside?" he asks, frowning, and she nods.
"But I'm fine now," she says, her grip pulsing. "And when I'm outside I put my hands in my pockets most of the time. It's okay." It's not okay, he wants to say, but her mouth is drawn flat and he lets it go. She flutters her hand free to pull the other glove off herself, and curls it into her hat before she tucks all three into the pocket of her coat.
"You don't have to do that," she says, when he steps close to push her jacket over her shoulders, his hands resting half under the loop of her scarf, against her chest through the thick knit of her sweater dress.
"But I want to," he says, looking down at her, flatting his palms against her shoulders.
She seems, for a moment, like she might protest, but he meets her eye and holds her gaze. Finally, she turns, the red blooming across her cheeks more prominent because of the chilly winter pallor to the rest of her, and lets him pull her charcoal-gray wool coat into his arms. She reaches out to pluck the hanger from the closet, and he takes it when she proffers it over her shoulder, sliding it through the arms. Her winter coat is supposed to go back into the closet, but he leans sideways and hangs it on the hook where they usually leave slickers during the rainy season instead. She'll just have to put it back on tomorrow, after all. Her scarf is looped over the curtain of her hair, and he reaches over her shoulder to unravel it from its loop at her throat, laying it over the shoulder of her coat so she can put it on first, and then he reaches back to draw her hair aside. The backs of his fingers brush her neck as she turns to meet him, mouth warm against his as he slides his thumb over her jaw, and her hand slips into the bend of his elbow, the other heavy against his ribs, and he curls his arm around her to pull them flush together.
The sound of her boot thumping against the step into the hallway pulls them apart, and he lets her kneel to flick them open, her fingers more nimble now with blood flowing in them. When they lay open enough she can tug her heels up through the calves, he offers her his hand. She takes it, grip firm, and steps out of them, one at a time, until she's standing in marbled gray socks in the entryway looking for her slippers. She spots them tucked into the corner against the wall, and fishes them over with a toe, one at a time, so she can slip her feet into them and step up into the house.
He lets her pass by him to pick up the mug he'd brought down for her. She leans over the top, sniffs, and sighs. "Did you hand-make this?" she asks, lifting it to her mouth.
"Yeah," he admits, "it's - kind of relaxing." There's a soothing feeling to the constant attention not burning the chocolate requires, even if he's only figured out what's too sweet over years of testing milk-and-a-little-vanilla on his dad and, now, her. Her eyes flicker up toward him, and she swallows a smile with the next sip of her drink.
"Come on, let's get you out of the hallway," he says, fingers spread across the small of her back, and she lets him propel her toward the living room, toward the couch where he'd been camped under a blanket for two hours waiting for her. His work is still open on the coffee table, where he'd been staring uselessly at it until the buzz of wanting something to greet her at the door with had moved him to the kitchen. She sits where he'd vacated, bending her knees and drawing her ankles up onto the couch, and only laughs a little when he slides in next to her to drop his head against her shoulder.