Work Text:
Morning Light
Mello wakes before the sun. Clockwork.
The apartment is dim, gray light filtering thinly through the curtains. The city outside hasn’t started its full noise yet, just the distant hiss of a bus braking, a low murmur of early traffic.
The bed beside him is warm. Matt is still there, face buried in the pillow, one arm flung over Mello’s side of the mattress like he’d reached for him in his sleep and missed. Mello gently removes the arm. Sits up.
The door creaks softly. Shiro stands there. He isn’t crying. He isn’t scared. He just stands in the doorway in his too-big sleep shirt, hair pale and messy, holding a small crucifix in one hand. “You’re up,” Mello says quietly. Shiro nods once. Mello holds out his hand. Shiro crosses the room without hesitation and climbs onto the bed, careful not to step on Matt. He settles beside Mello instead of between them, back straight, waiting.
Mello reaches to the nightstand and picks up his gold crucifix. The one Matt stole years ago.It glints softly in the dim light. He kneels beside the bed. Shiro kneels next to him. The floor is cold. Mello bows his head. His prayer is low, steady, almost severe in its rhythm. Shiro listens. Then he whispers his own version, quiet and serious.
“Thank you for life.”
Mello glances sideways. But his hand rests briefly on the back of Shiro’s neck. When they rise, Mello moves straight to the kitchen. Shiro follows.
Breakfast. Eggs are cracked carefully, shells discarded immediately. Butter melts in the pan in an even circle. Bread toasts to exactly golden. Shiro sits at the table watching the transformation like it’s a process he intends to memorize. “Why do you flip them now?” Shiro asks. “Because the edges are set,” Mello replies. “How do you know?” “I pay attention.” Shiro nods slowly. When the plate is set in front of him, he studies it briefly before eating. He eats in sections. First the strawberries. Then the toast. Eggs last. Mello watches without appearing to.“Papa,” Shiro says thoughtfully, “Why is it always done the same way?” Mello considers. “Predictable” he says after a moment. “That’s better?” “Usually.” Shiro absorbs that.
Matt is still asleep.
After dishes are rinsed and wiped, Shiro walks back to the bedroom alone. Mello leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, listening. There is silence. Then: “Daddy.” No response. “Daddy.” A groan. Matt shifts then exhales sharply. Mello enters the room just as Matt pushes himself upright, hair catastrophic, goggles somewhere under the pillow. Shiro climbs into Matt’s lap without invitation. “What time is it?” Matt mumbles. “Late enough,” Mello replies. Matt squints at him. “You look gorgeous”. “Yeah”
Matt presses a lazy kiss into Shiro’s hair. “You eat?” he asks. Shiro nods proudly. “Of course he did,” Mello says. Matt groans again but stands. The apartment shifts as the day begins.
Work Hours
The living room transforms into a quiet operation center. Mello sits at the table with organized stacks of papers, a laptop open in front of him. He works sharply, eyes scanning, pen moving quickly, notes written in tight script. There’s no wasted motion.
Matt settles onto the couch with his own setup. Laptop balanced on one knee. Headphones around his neck. Fingers move across keys in a steady rhythm.
Shiro sits at the small desk near the window. He has lined paper. He writes slowly. He presses too hard with the pencil sometimes; the graphite leaves deeper grooves in certain letters. “What are you writing?” Mello asks without looking up. “A letter,” Shiro says. “To who?” Shiro hesitates. “Myself.” Matt pauses typing for half a second. “What does it say?” Matt asks. Shiro reads slowly: “Dear me. Today I will try to be brave. If I am not brave I will try again.”
Mello’s pen stills briefly. Then continues. Work continues.
Mello makes calls in a low voice from the kitchen, tone clipped and efficient. Matt’s fingers move faster when he’s tracing something complex on screen.
Shiro erases a word and rewrites it. At one point he stands and walks over to Mello. “Papa. Is ‘because’ spelled with two s’s?” Mello doesn’t look at him. “No.” Shiro nods and returns to his desk.
By early afternoon, the apartment hums with quiet focus.
The Park
They leave when the light turns warmer. The park is small but clean. A slide. A climbing frame. Two benches. Shiro walks ahead but doesn’t run into the street. He stops at the curb automatically.Mello approves silently.At the park, Matt claims the bench. He lights a cigarette. Smoke curls upward, pale against the blue sky. He exhales slowly, watching.
Mello moves with Shiro toward the climbing structure. “Up,” Shiro declares. He climbs deliberately.Counts each bar under his breath. “Fourteen,” he says when he reaches the top. “Fourteen what?” Mello asks. “Bars.” Shiro slides down a slide. Then again. On the third run, Mello waits at the bottom and catches him mid-slide, lifting him slightly before setting him down.
Matt watches from the bench, cigarette between his fingers.Mello crouches. “Race,” he says. “Where?” “That tree.” Shiro studies the distance. He nods. They run. Mello doesn’t hold back too much. Shiro’s steps are uneven but determined. He reaches the tree second, breathing hard. “Again,” he demands. They go again. And again.
Matt smokes two cigarettes before joining them briefly, hands in pockets. “Hiro,” he says, pointing at the monkey bars. “Bet you can’t hang for ten seconds.” Shiro narrows his eyes. He climbs. He hangs. Counts out loud. “Seven… eight… nine… ten.” Drops. Matt nods once. “Not bad.” Shiro beams at that all day.
Evening Prayer
Back home, before dinner, before anything else: Mello kneels again. Shiro beside him. Matt stands in the doorway this time, leaning against the frame, cigarette unlit in his fingers. Mello’s prayer is longer tonight. Matt smirks faintly.
Later Shiro is tucked into bed by both of them. “Night, Papa.” “Goodnight.” “Night, Daddy.” “Sleep.”
Long after Shiro’s breathing had evened out in his room and the apartment had fallen into a deep quiet, Mello and Matt lay tangled together in bed, the sheets warm from their bodies and the faint glow of the city slipping through the curtains like soft silver paint across their skin. Mello was half-buried against Matt’s chest, one arm loosely wrapped around his waist, fingers resting against the fabric his shirt as if anchoring himself there, while Matt’s hand traced slow, absent patterns along Mello’s back, fingertips gliding over the warm curve of his spine and occasionally brushing through the messy strands of black hair that spilled across his pillow.
Matt shifted slightly so Mello could fit closer, pressing a slow kiss into his hair, letting his lips linger there before resting his cheek against the top of Mello’s head. Mello responded by tightening his hold just a little, legs tangling together beneath the blankets, their bodies aligned instinctively as if they had been molded to fit like this over time. Outside, the world continued moving, distant and irrelevant, but inside the room there was only warmth, slow steady breathing, and the unspoken understanding that whatever happened tomorrow, they would wake up like this again.