A/N: This is the first piece of work I've ever had beta-read for me, so
huge thanks go out to diamond dew for doing such an incredible job of it!
On a side note, if you haven't read her fics yet, go and read them now.
They're amazing.
BACKGROUND MUSIC
There are a lot of people who say I'm not a morning person, which really isn't fair! I just need a bit longer than everyone else to wake up, that's all.
Take Max, for example. He's up every morning at five, and that's not even because he has an especially loud alarm. I mean, I can sleep through most high-volume sounds, but Max's alarm is really soft, and he turns it off after one tiny beep! I seriously don't know how he does it. If I didn't have him around to wake me up, I probably wouldn't show up to work until the afternoon.
But while I might not be totally awake at five in the morning - okay, so I'm definitely not totally awake at five in the morning - I wake up most days at exactly the same time he does. I know, I know, I can sleep through the loudest alarm in the world but the way that mattress shifts when he rolls out of bed wakes me every time, the irony isn't lost on me.
Every morning, I listen to him opening and closing closets and drawers, pulling on his running clothes and humming to himself as he shaves. It's one of my favourite parts of the day. No, really, I mean it! We don't have to talk - not that I could anyway; just because I'm conscious doesn't mean I could hold a conversation - and I can just listen to Max doing Maxish things as I drift back to sleep.
I'm woken up again about an hour later as he throws open the curtains and shouts, "Come on, Takao! Time to get up!"
I hate this part of the day. I probably don't have to convince you about this one.
"Takao! Get up! It's half-six!"
"Wake up, Takao! It's a lovely morning, just look outside!"
"Come on, get up! Geez, you're such a slob!"
"You know, you're really not a morning person..."
Eventually, I get woken up enough to open my eyes and yell, "Max, will you just-" and realise that he's leaning over me with a tray of miso soup and rice, a tall glass of milk in one corner and two slices of bread in another.
As is now traditional, I finally wake up completely - enough to remember that I had been determined to get up early and be the one to cook breakfast for a change. I groan inwardly, but by then I'm also awake enough to realise that while I might be annoyed about sleeping through my chance for yet another morning, there's nothing that can be done about it. Almost reluctantly, I mumble my thanks and pick up the chopsticks while Max disappears, returning a minute later with a bowl of chocolatey cereal.
Now, I like chocolate as much as the next guy, but first thing in the morning? Maybe when I was younger, but come on! Sugar is for snacks and desserts, not half past six in the morning!
It was kind of odd when we first moved in together, and realised that some sort of compromise was going to have to be reached about breakfast. Max isn't too keen on Japanese food, and I totally get that, but I flat out refuse to eat that sugary, sloppy mess that he calls a good start to the day.
I gulp down a mouthful of the soup, and make a point of giving Max a grin afterwards. Even though he's been making Japanese food for a while now, he visibly relaxes after my nod of approval. Besides, if I say nothing, he spends the entire meal fidgeting until I do. Sure, sometimes I hold back for fun, but that's not a game I'm really up to in the morning. In fact, it's all I can do to drag myself out of bed and into the shower.
"Takao! Stop singing so loudly, the neighbours'll complain again!"
He's making that up by the way; the neighbours have never compained. But he's made his point, and I grudgingly tone down my rendition of whatever song I woke up with. I've just finished shaving a few minutes later when Max charges in, demanding, "Where's my red folder?"
And they say romance is dead. "I don't know," I call over my shoulder, remembering the days when nudity was actually interesting.
"Damn," is all he says before rushing off again. This is about the time of the morning where things get a lot easier for me and a lot more difficult for him. After all, anyone's day is easy in comparison to a high school math teacher's.
Max knew years ago that he wanted to be a teacher; not for his reputation or the status of it or anything like that, but because he honestly thinks there's nothing better than spending every day with a bunch of kids, and nothing more fun that talking about something like maths or science. I suppose it is fun for him, especially since from what I hear, the kids adore him. I mean, right away he was a novelty, with his blonde hair and blue eyes, and especially since he can speak English. The moment they found out that he was really Max from the Bladebreakers, everyone seemed to listen in Mizuhara-sensei's lessons.
I'm glad that being on the team has given him something. It got his students listening to him long enough to realise that he's not just a great beyblader, but a great teacher too, which has made his life as a grown-up a lot easier.
Easier, but still not easy. Because he can speak English as well, Max often gets called on to cover for teachers, or assist with their lessons as a native speaker. He doesn't mind doing it one bit, but it does mean that when he gets that phone call, he inevitably spends the morning in more of a rush than he should do. It's not fair, but he loves what he does and that's what matters most. I hope he still loves it in ten years time. Not that he'd find it so hard getting another job; Judy's always suggesting we move out to America so he can join her research team, but so far he hasn't wanted to. Which suits me just fine.
When I get out of the bathroom, he's found the folder he wanted, and is ironing his shirt without looking, eyes fixed on the news. Max is one of those people who likes to know what's going on in the world. I suppose it makes sense since he works in a school and all, but it's just another one of those things he likes that I don't understand at all. Anything I want to know about the world, I can hear in the car, on the way to work, I don't need to watch it for half an hour on the television.
But whether I understand it or not, he really doesn't like to be interrupted when he's watching it, so I stay quiet and do the laundry.
Whenever it comes up in conversation, people we know always say that they expect Max does most of the housework and that I just loaf around. And these are my friends! The fact is that I have the type of job I can leave at the door, while Max's follows him in and sticks around like a stray cat. In the evenings, while he's marking papers and sorting out lesson plans, I'm doing the washing up and dividing the laundry into darks and whites.
This started out when we first moved into this apartment; I don't know why, but I always seemed to notice when Max was down to two shirts before he did. It seemed kind of unfair to ask him to do anything about it when he was doing something important and I was doing nothing at all, so I found the washing machine, put everything in and pressed some buttons.
There's this game we play, Housework Chicken. It's exactly like the traditional version of two cars going at each other and seeing who ducks out first, except what we're trying to get out of is housework. If there's something that needs doing, we both know it, and we both ignore it for as long as possible until someone cracks. And that someone, for the record, is usually me, and not Max at all. The fact is, if I left the housework to him, we'd be living in a pigsty and wearing burlap sacks in two weeks; he honestly just doesn't have the time.
Having said that, I know for a fact that there are some days where he's just pretending to be too busy to realise that there's a chore to be done. You can always tell, because right after I've finished, he acts all surprised and says I should have told him it needed doing, that he would have taken the time out of his busy schedule to do some tidbit of housework... And so on. By the end of it, I've usually thrown a pillow at him or something, but while that makes him shut up, it does nothing for the smugly innocent look on his face.
In the mornings though, there really are no games like that. The fact is that the laundry needs to go in the dryer or our clothes are going to smell of damp for days, and the sooner I get it done, the sooner I can start on lunch. That's right, I make our lunches too, sandwiches for both of us. Sure, there are cafeterias where we both work, but they only serve really small portions, and sandwiches are a great supplement to everything. They're also very handy on any days one of us doesn't get the chance to stop by the canteen, but that's something we learned the hungry way.
Sneaking glances at Max, who's still ironing as intently as he always does, I grab a nearby scrap of paper - we always seem to have bits of the stuff lying around - and scribble a quick note to him. I shove it in the box with his sandwiches, folded under a chocolate cake. I swear, Max has the sweetest tooth of anyone I've ever known! I don't really mind though, it actually makes it easier to give him little presents without getting too obvious. Subtlety's always been a priority for us, but now that he works in a school, it's more important than ever.
The closing jingle of the news pokes through my thoughts, and Max finally turns around. His serious expression breaks into a relieved grin as he realises that his lunch is ready. "Thanks," he says briefly, leaning over the counter to give me our first proper kiss for the day, saved as always for a moment when we're both clean, minty-fresh and relaxed. Such moments are rare, and often short-lived, but always made use of.
"Good morning." He smiles like he hasn't been up for hours, and I can't help but smile back.
"Morning." In no rush at all, I simply watch as Max pulls on his clothes. It's strange, it used to be the undressing that was worth looking at, but now I'd much rather watch closely as he slips his tie on and straightens it up, or shrugs on the business jacket he insists on wearing to school even though he takes it off the moment he gets there and doesn't put it back on again until he comes home.
Living with someone, it's easy to become so used to them that when you look into a mirror, you half expect to see their face instead of yours. One good thing about the morning is that Max is too busy to be self-conscious, and he rarely notices me staring, though I can explain it away pretty easily when he does. It doesn't take much to convince Max that no-one's looking at him.
He grabs his lunch, his backpack, his keys and his wallet, then one quick kiss goodbye later, he's out of the door quicker than you can say "workaholic". It's weird, when we were young beybladers competing internationally, we never thought we'd want or need jobs in the real world. Now, I can't imagine Max doing anything else.
I leave the house myself shortly after, and slide on my sunglasses before I climb into the car. I slide them off again as I realise that there's a bit of paper on the seat next to me that wasn't there before. I unfold it and a broad grin spreads over my face before I can think about it.
Takao,
Have a good day!
Max.
The guy who invented pens and paper was a genius. In fact, we probably owe our relationship to the guy who invented pens and paper. I fold the note up even smaller and zip it safely into the inside pocket of my own blazer jacket - which, unlike a certain person, I actually wear - to be looked at again later in the day.
Not that I'll tell him that. We don't talk about our notes at all, and if we did, I think it'd spoil something. It'd be sort of like we'd violated our own privacy, or something stupid like that. It's much better to be able to write whatever you like on impulse and know that it won't be thrown back in your face several hours later.
But I really need to get to work, and as usual, I'm running late enough to hurry. I put on the sunglasses once again, switch on the radio and start the drive to work, wondering what we should do for dinner that night and drumming it into my head that we need to take our video rentals back before six.
BACKGROUND MUSIC
There are a lot of people who say I'm not a morning person, which really isn't fair! I just need a bit longer than everyone else to wake up, that's all.
Take Max, for example. He's up every morning at five, and that's not even because he has an especially loud alarm. I mean, I can sleep through most high-volume sounds, but Max's alarm is really soft, and he turns it off after one tiny beep! I seriously don't know how he does it. If I didn't have him around to wake me up, I probably wouldn't show up to work until the afternoon.
But while I might not be totally awake at five in the morning - okay, so I'm definitely not totally awake at five in the morning - I wake up most days at exactly the same time he does. I know, I know, I can sleep through the loudest alarm in the world but the way that mattress shifts when he rolls out of bed wakes me every time, the irony isn't lost on me.
Every morning, I listen to him opening and closing closets and drawers, pulling on his running clothes and humming to himself as he shaves. It's one of my favourite parts of the day. No, really, I mean it! We don't have to talk - not that I could anyway; just because I'm conscious doesn't mean I could hold a conversation - and I can just listen to Max doing Maxish things as I drift back to sleep.
I'm woken up again about an hour later as he throws open the curtains and shouts, "Come on, Takao! Time to get up!"
I hate this part of the day. I probably don't have to convince you about this one.
"Takao! Get up! It's half-six!"
"Wake up, Takao! It's a lovely morning, just look outside!"
"Come on, get up! Geez, you're such a slob!"
"You know, you're really not a morning person..."
Eventually, I get woken up enough to open my eyes and yell, "Max, will you just-" and realise that he's leaning over me with a tray of miso soup and rice, a tall glass of milk in one corner and two slices of bread in another.
As is now traditional, I finally wake up completely - enough to remember that I had been determined to get up early and be the one to cook breakfast for a change. I groan inwardly, but by then I'm also awake enough to realise that while I might be annoyed about sleeping through my chance for yet another morning, there's nothing that can be done about it. Almost reluctantly, I mumble my thanks and pick up the chopsticks while Max disappears, returning a minute later with a bowl of chocolatey cereal.
Now, I like chocolate as much as the next guy, but first thing in the morning? Maybe when I was younger, but come on! Sugar is for snacks and desserts, not half past six in the morning!
It was kind of odd when we first moved in together, and realised that some sort of compromise was going to have to be reached about breakfast. Max isn't too keen on Japanese food, and I totally get that, but I flat out refuse to eat that sugary, sloppy mess that he calls a good start to the day.
I gulp down a mouthful of the soup, and make a point of giving Max a grin afterwards. Even though he's been making Japanese food for a while now, he visibly relaxes after my nod of approval. Besides, if I say nothing, he spends the entire meal fidgeting until I do. Sure, sometimes I hold back for fun, but that's not a game I'm really up to in the morning. In fact, it's all I can do to drag myself out of bed and into the shower.
"Takao! Stop singing so loudly, the neighbours'll complain again!"
He's making that up by the way; the neighbours have never compained. But he's made his point, and I grudgingly tone down my rendition of whatever song I woke up with. I've just finished shaving a few minutes later when Max charges in, demanding, "Where's my red folder?"
And they say romance is dead. "I don't know," I call over my shoulder, remembering the days when nudity was actually interesting.
"Damn," is all he says before rushing off again. This is about the time of the morning where things get a lot easier for me and a lot more difficult for him. After all, anyone's day is easy in comparison to a high school math teacher's.
Max knew years ago that he wanted to be a teacher; not for his reputation or the status of it or anything like that, but because he honestly thinks there's nothing better than spending every day with a bunch of kids, and nothing more fun that talking about something like maths or science. I suppose it is fun for him, especially since from what I hear, the kids adore him. I mean, right away he was a novelty, with his blonde hair and blue eyes, and especially since he can speak English. The moment they found out that he was really Max from the Bladebreakers, everyone seemed to listen in Mizuhara-sensei's lessons.
I'm glad that being on the team has given him something. It got his students listening to him long enough to realise that he's not just a great beyblader, but a great teacher too, which has made his life as a grown-up a lot easier.
Easier, but still not easy. Because he can speak English as well, Max often gets called on to cover for teachers, or assist with their lessons as a native speaker. He doesn't mind doing it one bit, but it does mean that when he gets that phone call, he inevitably spends the morning in more of a rush than he should do. It's not fair, but he loves what he does and that's what matters most. I hope he still loves it in ten years time. Not that he'd find it so hard getting another job; Judy's always suggesting we move out to America so he can join her research team, but so far he hasn't wanted to. Which suits me just fine.
When I get out of the bathroom, he's found the folder he wanted, and is ironing his shirt without looking, eyes fixed on the news. Max is one of those people who likes to know what's going on in the world. I suppose it makes sense since he works in a school and all, but it's just another one of those things he likes that I don't understand at all. Anything I want to know about the world, I can hear in the car, on the way to work, I don't need to watch it for half an hour on the television.
But whether I understand it or not, he really doesn't like to be interrupted when he's watching it, so I stay quiet and do the laundry.
Whenever it comes up in conversation, people we know always say that they expect Max does most of the housework and that I just loaf around. And these are my friends! The fact is that I have the type of job I can leave at the door, while Max's follows him in and sticks around like a stray cat. In the evenings, while he's marking papers and sorting out lesson plans, I'm doing the washing up and dividing the laundry into darks and whites.
This started out when we first moved into this apartment; I don't know why, but I always seemed to notice when Max was down to two shirts before he did. It seemed kind of unfair to ask him to do anything about it when he was doing something important and I was doing nothing at all, so I found the washing machine, put everything in and pressed some buttons.
There's this game we play, Housework Chicken. It's exactly like the traditional version of two cars going at each other and seeing who ducks out first, except what we're trying to get out of is housework. If there's something that needs doing, we both know it, and we both ignore it for as long as possible until someone cracks. And that someone, for the record, is usually me, and not Max at all. The fact is, if I left the housework to him, we'd be living in a pigsty and wearing burlap sacks in two weeks; he honestly just doesn't have the time.
Having said that, I know for a fact that there are some days where he's just pretending to be too busy to realise that there's a chore to be done. You can always tell, because right after I've finished, he acts all surprised and says I should have told him it needed doing, that he would have taken the time out of his busy schedule to do some tidbit of housework... And so on. By the end of it, I've usually thrown a pillow at him or something, but while that makes him shut up, it does nothing for the smugly innocent look on his face.
In the mornings though, there really are no games like that. The fact is that the laundry needs to go in the dryer or our clothes are going to smell of damp for days, and the sooner I get it done, the sooner I can start on lunch. That's right, I make our lunches too, sandwiches for both of us. Sure, there are cafeterias where we both work, but they only serve really small portions, and sandwiches are a great supplement to everything. They're also very handy on any days one of us doesn't get the chance to stop by the canteen, but that's something we learned the hungry way.
Sneaking glances at Max, who's still ironing as intently as he always does, I grab a nearby scrap of paper - we always seem to have bits of the stuff lying around - and scribble a quick note to him. I shove it in the box with his sandwiches, folded under a chocolate cake. I swear, Max has the sweetest tooth of anyone I've ever known! I don't really mind though, it actually makes it easier to give him little presents without getting too obvious. Subtlety's always been a priority for us, but now that he works in a school, it's more important than ever.
The closing jingle of the news pokes through my thoughts, and Max finally turns around. His serious expression breaks into a relieved grin as he realises that his lunch is ready. "Thanks," he says briefly, leaning over the counter to give me our first proper kiss for the day, saved as always for a moment when we're both clean, minty-fresh and relaxed. Such moments are rare, and often short-lived, but always made use of.
"Good morning." He smiles like he hasn't been up for hours, and I can't help but smile back.
"Morning." In no rush at all, I simply watch as Max pulls on his clothes. It's strange, it used to be the undressing that was worth looking at, but now I'd much rather watch closely as he slips his tie on and straightens it up, or shrugs on the business jacket he insists on wearing to school even though he takes it off the moment he gets there and doesn't put it back on again until he comes home.
Living with someone, it's easy to become so used to them that when you look into a mirror, you half expect to see their face instead of yours. One good thing about the morning is that Max is too busy to be self-conscious, and he rarely notices me staring, though I can explain it away pretty easily when he does. It doesn't take much to convince Max that no-one's looking at him.
He grabs his lunch, his backpack, his keys and his wallet, then one quick kiss goodbye later, he's out of the door quicker than you can say "workaholic". It's weird, when we were young beybladers competing internationally, we never thought we'd want or need jobs in the real world. Now, I can't imagine Max doing anything else.
I leave the house myself shortly after, and slide on my sunglasses before I climb into the car. I slide them off again as I realise that there's a bit of paper on the seat next to me that wasn't there before. I unfold it and a broad grin spreads over my face before I can think about it.
Takao,
Have a good day!
Max.
The guy who invented pens and paper was a genius. In fact, we probably owe our relationship to the guy who invented pens and paper. I fold the note up even smaller and zip it safely into the inside pocket of my own blazer jacket - which, unlike a certain person, I actually wear - to be looked at again later in the day.
Not that I'll tell him that. We don't talk about our notes at all, and if we did, I think it'd spoil something. It'd be sort of like we'd violated our own privacy, or something stupid like that. It's much better to be able to write whatever you like on impulse and know that it won't be thrown back in your face several hours later.
But I really need to get to work, and as usual, I'm running late enough to hurry. I put on the sunglasses once again, switch on the radio and start the drive to work, wondering what we should do for dinner that night and drumming it into my head that we need to take our video rentals back before six.
