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Hawks stumbled into the apartment, barely able to keep himself steady. He was exhausted, though he didn't have any plans to stop anytime soon. He had work to do, people to save, villain organizations to infiltrate, the usual. He couldn't spare a second to rest, not when he was so close to cracking this case wide open. He’d spent years on it, pushing himself past every breaking point he reached.
The sudden flick of the lights turning on snapped him out of his thoughts. There Edgar stood in the doorway, arms folded tight across his chest, the scowl on his face nearly habitual at this point. He could stare at his little painter for hours, no matter the look on his face. Every sour word sounded like sweet talk to him.
“Christ, Ed,” Keigo groaned and rubbed his eyes. ”Warn a man before you flash bang him next time.”
“You were supposed to be home four hours ago.” He stated, tone flat, though it crackled with concern, like he was trying to sound annoyed instead of worried sick.
“I got stuck in traffic?” Hawks cracked his neck with a grunt, giving Edgar a cheesy grin.
“Try again.” The shorter man narrowed his eyes at him, tapping his foot.
Keigo pouted a bit, wings sagging as he sighed. “Okay, you caught me, I was out patrolling again.”
Edgar’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. “You keep doing this,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to Keigo’s bruised knuckles. “Coming home half dead and acting like it’s normal.”
“It’s my normal.” Keigo offered with a crooked smile, shrugging his shoulders.
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
A pang of guilt sprung in his chest. He hated making him worry so much.
“I made dinner, it's cold now.” Edgar stepped forwards, grasping onto his hand. “You're going to sit on the couch and wait. I made soup.”
“Wait? Can't I have soup now?” He whined, following him into the living room with little protest.
“You’ll get soup when I stop being mad,” Edgar replied, but his voice had gone softer. “So never.”
Keigo smiled at him, pain evident in his eyes behind the amusement. "Yeah yeah, okay Picasso."
Edgar turned to him, scowling. "I am *not* Picasso." He turned his nose up. "My paintings look nothing like his in the slightest."
It always amused the older man when Ed got like this. All huffy and indignant, it was adorable.
Keigo winced a bit as he laughed, leaning his head back against the soft couch. It felt like heaven. He wasn't sure if he’d be able to stay awake long enough for soup to be reheated anyways.
“Right, right. Not Picasso. You’re Edgar Valden, tortured genius and full time soup tyrant.” He teased, taking his shoes and socks off so he could get more comfortable.
Edgar crossed his arms again, paint stained fingers tapping against his sleeve as he glowered up at the taller man. “Do you want soup or not?”
Keigo grinned lovingly at him. “Yes please. See? I even used my manners.”
The shorter man sighed, he couldn't help but adore this idiot. “That's the bare minimum, but fine. I’ll heat up your soup.” He scolded softly, hurrying off to the kitchen to grab it.
Keigo let his wings spread on the couch, the weight of the day finally catching up to him now that he was home. The distant sound of clinking dishes and the microwave humming from the kitchen was oddly comforting, god, normal even. He smiled faintly to himself, the ache in his wings dulling just a little as he relaxed.
Okay, maybe resting my eyes for a few moments couldn't hurt, he thought to himself, lids growing heavy. Yeah, just a few minutes.
In seconds a soft snore drifted from the couch, causing Edgar to roll his eyes. He had to find a way to get him to take a break, and soon. He worried himself ill thinking of the dangers his Hawks put himself through. The painter just wished he would allow him to help more, but Keigo insisted on being a stubborn brat. Edgar wished he knew what to do.
On the counter, he arranged the tray like it was an art piece; the sourdough, golden and crisp after being toasted, placed beside an empty spot waiting for the soup. The microwave dinged, and Edgar turned, the quiet hum of domesticity filling the apartment as he puttered around the kitchen getting things ready. He placed the bowl of soup on the tray then grabbed a bottle of water, carrying the now full tray into the living room.
Hawks looked peaceful as he slept, wings sprawled across the couch like spilled ink. Edgar gently jostled him awake, skillfully holding the tray with one arm.
“Soup time.” He said softly, watching as his boyfriend yawned and rubbed at his eyes blearily. “Up and at ‘em, songbird. It's chicken noodle.”
“Mmm..soup.” Keigo mumbled, stretching as he sat up and took the tray from Edgar, smiling when he felt a peck on his cheek. “Kiss boy.”
“Shut it.” The smaller man rolled his eyes, sitting himself neatly beside him, snuggling closer as the older man wrapped his wing around him. It always made him feel safer.
Smiling, he reached down and moved a piece of hair out of his face. “I love you, you know?” Adoration shone in his tired eyes.
The words hung in the air, simply five words, yet heavy all the same.
Edgar gazed at him, his face turning as red as his paint stained fingers. “I..” the words caught in the painter’s throat.”I-I love you too, Keigo.”
The winged man kissed his painter’s forehead, ruffling his hair playfully before turning his attention to the soup. Edgar stayed tucked beneath his wing for the rest of the night, the two of them eventually drifting off together.
The last thing he thought as he clung to his last few moments of consciousness was how glad he was to have chosen this, chosen him. He was getting used to the way the winged man’s fingers felt laced through his, and, for the first time in a long time, he didn't want to let go. He was finally home.