Trellis curled and curled and curled around the walls, and Alya wondered not for the first time why they lived in this rustic place. It never felt like coming home in the way that Paris always had for her. She sighed as she followed the worn, white stairs up to her bedroom, and yet despite how weary and worn this latest trip had made her feel, she smiled when she saw her husband curled up on the bed, a large, white pillow, her pillow that he'd bought her two years before, long before he'd ever proposed, held tightly against his chest. His hair spilled down his pillow, and she could have sworn that despite being happy to see him and how cute he looked, like a child hugging a beloved teddy bear, she felt that he was sad.
Alya stepped closer dropping to the bed that was quick to catch her, ignoring the fact that she should get off the travel burderned clothes that she wore or change for bed. "Nath." She murmured, not expecting him to hear his name or respond, not bothered at all, as she laid her head down on a different pillow.
"Al...ya...?" His eyes opened, green pools that never failed to lift her heart up in longing though the longing went way beyond lust, it stepped into the territory of a kid just wanting to be close, no end goal, no end game, just love.
"Yeah, I'm home." She cuddled closer, trying to draw herself into his steady warmth, "It was late. I didn't want to wake you." She hadn't called, and yet the guilt never surfaced like she'd expected it to. Alya lived in the reality that sometimes quiet was better than sound; she could tell you a thousand times over that sound never seemed quite as perfect as Adrien and Marinette always made it looked. They'd tell each other a thousand other things, and never once, did silence ever seem to factor into their relationship.
"I'm glad." Nathanael pulled her close, "You're much better than your pillow." He dropped her pillow in favor of her.
"Nath," Alya yawned, never realizing just how tired, she'd actually been until his arms made a soft cage around her and until she felt like she'd finally been home, for how exotic and strange as their house seemed to her, Nathanael was her home, hidden within.
"Al," He teased with a still waking smile against her shoulder, "Just rest. I'll make you breakfast when it's earlier." 11:43, the clock read when he looked, and so he didn't bother to get up to make something for his wife right away.
"Ok...ay." Alya breathed, wondering how he could become her warm cocoon in a moment, and yet remind her body that she was tired and worn from a long day researching for her latest article, a long day that had been preceded by many long ones away from home.
Nathanael murmured, "I'm just so glad, you're home." And he was. He was so happy to feel how warm and just how real she was in his arms, how much better it was than pretending that her pillow was a substitute cuddler, that that smell as faded as it was on her pillow, was secretly her presence. Every day, he thought that he couldn't love his wife more than he already did, but when she had to leave for a while to do research, he hated being here alone, where the house felt far too cold without her in it. All his paintings seemed drenched in steady blue, always seemed just a little dull or a little sad when she wasn't home for a while. All his comics suspiciously looked more and more like visions of his wife to the point that his boss told him to take a break and only begin working on them again when he wasn't going through relapse.
Even Marc was exasperated with him more often than not lately, but Nathanael couldn't help but miss Alya when she was gone. Now though, everything was perfect as equally exhausted, they fell asleep in each other's arms.