Good Morning (or, Happiness)
Disclaimer: Do I look like Suzue Miuchi-sensei to you? No? Well, that's good, seeing as I'm merely playing in her sandbox and have no money to fork over.
- - - -
He wakes to find the sunshine streaming brightly through the windows. Rolling over, he discovers that he is alone—the indentations on the mattress and pillows, and the lingering scent of lavender are the only signs of his erstwhile companion. There is a fleeting sense of fear and panic—more than a month later and it still hasn't fully sunk in that this was real and irrevocable, that she was his (as he was hers), that no one was taking her away from him—but he wills those feelings away, battling them with the comforting reality of truth (the gold band on his finger, mirrored on her hand, is a reassuring weight). He remembers, with no little sense of relief, that since their wedding she had taken to rising before he did in order to cook breakfast. That's it, he thinks, tension seeping out of his body; that must explain her absence.
Staying wrapped up in their bed sheets for a few minutes longer, he soaks up the sun and the ghost-warmth of her presence like some great big cat. This must be happiness, he muses silently, gazing about the room, taking in its lived-in feeling. From his vantage point he could see his discarded coat and tie lying haphazardly across an armchair, as well as the various perfumes he lavished on her taking up space on the vanity table. He grins when his gaze falls upon their wedding album, lying open amidst the many fragrances; in his mind's eye, he could see her soft smile as she turns the pages, fingers lingering with happy recollection.
After showering and dressing, he pads softly downstairs to the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway, and simply watches.
The morning light casts a warm glow on her as she bustles about, stirring and frying and tasting, all the while humming along to the radio. A vision of loveliness, all flushed cheeks, raven hair and soft skin. His chest suddenly feels tight—she is too beautiful, too wonderful, what has he done to deserve her?—and he has the sudden urge to sweep her into his arms and hold on tight for all he was worth. She then happens to glance up at him.
"Anata," she shyly greets him, eyes bright and lips smiling. "Good morning."
This must be happiness.
He approaches her, barely keeping his own smile from turning into a full-fledged grin. Leaning down, he murmurs, "Yes, it is," and presses his mouth to hers.
There is a little surprise, he detects, but not for long—her small hands brace themselves on his chest, sliding upwards to link together behind his neck; her head tilting, just so, for a better fit. Unbidden, he recalls the memories of impatiently shrugged off clothing, the heady contact of skin on skin, the fervent dance they'd indulged in (quite frequently, he recalls with a certain smugness) this past month. The real world must intrude today, however, and it is with some regret that he tapers off their kiss.
We can always make up for it later.
It is a few minutes before she is able to speak. "Breakfast will get cold," she breathes, seemingly flustered. He just leans his forehead against hers, gently understanding that for her, there were yet a lot of things to get used to, intimacy among them. Still, he was inwardly pleased that he could incite such a passionate response.
Reluctantly, he relinquishes their embrace and settles down to their meal—a light soup, eggs and sausages, the season's offering of fruits, and freshly-brewed coffee. He is enchanted with the picture she makes across the table—her beloved form painted gold, catching the sun's rays like an exquisite bloom in summer. He takes delight in how she gingerly picks up her cup, blowing gently across the hot liquid in an attempt to cool it, as well as the way she becomes self-conscious when she catches him looking at her. An amused arch of his eyebrow and the twitching corners of his lips answer her disconcerted scowl—she has still not gotten used to this habit of his, this intense, almost insatiable study of her.
A memory flits through his mind: "I'm not going to disappear, you know," she had told him once, early in their engagement. He had merely nodded then, but knew himself too well to give up his seeming need to memorize the details of her much-loved face, to grasp tightly their moments together.
He has waited a long time for her, and their road has been a hard one; he has no intention of taking this joy for granted.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he focuses on what she is saying.
"—Kuronuma-sensei had to postpone the read-through to this afternoon, and so I won't be able to make it home until very late—"
"Koi."
"—yes?"
"Do not worry about dinner. We can eat out once you've finished."
"But—"
"And don't be concerned about me having nothing to do. I'm sure some business matter or other will keep me adequately occupied until then." This was not sufficiently true, as things had been running quite smoothly for the company as of late.
He smiles softly to reassure her, but in reality he was probably going to while away the hours by buying her some new gift, or by observing the read-through from the back of the theatre—as he often did (no one has yet dared to call him a besotted fool since they'd first come open with their relationship, thankfully, although the change in his demeanor had been well-marked).
And perhaps a few years from now, our children would fill our hours? This thought pleases him—a boy with his eyes or a girl with her smile would make their lives complete.
For now, though, he is content to spend this time with her, this morning filled with warmth.
She accompanies him to the door, handing him his coat and briefcase. "Itte kimasu," he murmurs, storing up a final image of her to last him through the day. "Ittarasshai," she replies, and he turns to leave—when she stops him with a hand on his sleeve. "Masumi."
"Yes, Maya?" He looks at her flustered countenance in concern, wondering what was wrong. She lifts her gaze to him, and there is something half-hesitant, half-eager in her eyes. Her grip on his arm tightens as she stands on her tip toes, her face leaning towards his. And his heart's cup spills over with bliss as she presses her lips to his in his first, "have-a-good-day-at-work" send-off.
Yes, he thinks, this must be happiness.
- - - -
A/N: This piece, originally posted in 2006, was meant to get the ball rolling (so to speak) in this particular fandom, which I felt had a lot of potential. The only Glass Mask fics I'd seen then on this site are Tsubasa by Silver Wind and Rose of Memory, Rose of Forgetfulness by Fushigi Kismet. If there are any others, perhaps they're in another language. Not totally confident in my use of tenses, though, and I feel that it's awkward in some places.
The fic was inspired by this lovely, lovely fanart of Maya and Masumi celebrating the 24,000th hit on a Japanese website—you can find the link through Stage Storm, a Garasu no Kamen site—it's the 3rd link under Sites in Japanese in the Links Out section. Once you enter the Japanese website, what remains is the simple business of clicking either the garakame link or the kirimenu one. For fans of Sesshoumaru and his adorable ward Rin, follow the sonotamenu link.