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He watched his husband stand barefoot on a kitchen chair, dressed in loose shorts and an old T-shirt, wiping their ceiling fan. A few dirty rags hung over his shoulder.
“Atsuya, stop getting distracted. We’re never going to get the apartment done if you keep ogling me.” Hiromi deadpanned before reaching to wipe off the topside of the blade, revealing a thin strip of skin at his waistband. The sticky dust must have put up a fight, making Hiromi wrinkle his nose before going on tiptoe for better access. It was an unfair ask for him not to look, Atsuya smiled.
“It's because you got to look hot cleaning while I’m stuck smelling like the bottom of a fryer basket.”
Though once the degreaser had done its work, Atsuya picked up the abused scrubber and scraped down their burner grates and stovetop. It was an arduous battle, but he finally got every bit of stubborn carbonized grime out from the crevices and metal rungs. He leaned against the kitchen sink, appreciating his handiwork while the scrubber lay dead in the stainless-steel basin.
“Stop complaining, Atsuya. You know I find you attractive.” Hiromi set the kitchen chair back in place after finishing dusting off the fans and all their lighting fixtures.
As Hiromi rounded the kitchen island to reach the sink, Atsuya had to actively hold himself back from touching his husband. There was still a layer of squicky grease sitting between the web of his fingers despite a cursory rinse. Hiromi gave him an unimpressed look before gesturing at the ruined scrubber. The poor thing got promptly retired into the trash by Atsuya.
Atsuya’s gaze dropped to Hiromi’s hands—the ones that were dunking dirty rags into the soapy basin. Bubbly suds clung to his forearms. His slightly lax shoulders revealed rare soft slopes—Atsuya adored them; he would have buried his nose into them had he not been doused in oil fumes. When they first met, Hiromi was granite-cut with sharp lines and severe shadows.
Hiromi wiped his hands on the tea towel and turned to him. His hair was dusted with...well, dust, and his face streaked with a thin bit of grime—A pang of melancholic fondness sat at the bottom of Atsuya’s ribcage. It had felt like a lifetime ago when that streak of grime was blood, and the grayish-white dust in his hair was from shattered concrete, a cruel glimpse of how he would have looked in salt-and-pepper hair. But now Hiromi stood here, eyes soft with an unspoken promise of a day after tomorrow.
“You’re staring, Atsuya,” Hiromi bumped his nose against his, waking him from his wandering mind.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Atsuya pressed a small kiss onto the pair of warm lips before him. He wondered if his sadness was bleeding through his skin, because Hiromi cupped his face as if he was holding onto a thin wafer of sugar. They called it preemptive grief, he had heard somewhere—the way throughout his life, Kusakabe Atsuya had survived his loved ones, leaving him wondering if his love was as ephemeral as a comfortable dream.
“Come on, Atsuya, don’t sulk.” Hiromi smiled against the kiss. “Of course I’d be here. There’s no other place I’d rather be.”
They finished their spring cleaning by mid-afternoon, though the sun was already setting. Biting winter air flooded their apartment, carrying away the overwhelming scent of limonene that every cleaning product loved to use. Atsuya sat on their freshly steamed-cleaned couch, missing the warmth of his shower dearly but no longer smelling like a fast-food kitchen. A warm piece of metal sat in his palm.
The bathroom door opened with billowing steam as Hiromi stepped out, clad in simple sweats and a fluffy towel tossed carelessly over his soft black locks. A frantic, panicked look painted his face, and Atsuya almost felt bad.
“Atsuya. Have you seen my ring? I am certain I put it in our medical cabinet, in a small shot glass next to the first-aid kit before we started cleaning. The glass was still there, upright—”
“Higuruma Hiromi, would you marry me?” He got down on one knee in front of his distressed husband.
There was a moment of silence, and Atsuya contemplated whether he should put his other knee down too and apologize before Hiromi burst into laughter and hunched over to pinch his cheeks with both hands in a huffy grin.
“Oh, you fool!”
Atsuya faked a pout, “Does that mean you don’t want to marry me?”
Hiromi stood up straight, steeled his face into a solemn look, the same one he used when Atsuya had first asked him this question, though his amusement flitted endlessly in those dark eyes. “Please take care of me.” He held out his hand, all regal with his slender and long fingers.
Hiromi kept his dignified face for exactly another two seconds, because the moment the warm gold band slid onto his ring finger, his face broke into unabashed tenderness and love. Even under the shallow yellowish blue of dying winter light, Hiromi still managed to wrap his heart in undiluted warmth. Atsuya kissed the metal, plain but well polished and untarnishable. As the light outside sputtered into darkness, he supposed he now knew what permanence meant. Their gold bands clinked together when he linked their hands. Atsuya kept their hands laced for a bit longer—he was a selfish man, after all.