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The wonderful thing about having a physical therapist for a partner is that Akaashi hasn’t had back problems ever since they moved in together.
Going from the constantly-active lifestyle of a high school athlete to the slightly less active life of a university student to, finally, the rarely-active existence of an adult with a desk job had been…well, actually, it had been very easy. It happened before Akaashi really noticed it was happening—he simply woke up one day at 25 and realized he could no longer sit down with his legs out in a V and put his nose to the floor like he used to.
Ennoshita, on the other hand. Firstly, whatever his university dining hall served had done him good, and he clearly kept up working out because he’d really grown into his muscle. That lanky, lean build had become something solid and strong, and what is Akaashi going to do, complain about it? When Ennoshita’s chest is perfect for laying on? And when his strength means Akaashi gets professional-quality massages in the comfort (and free price point) of his own home?
As it is, it’s the thought of coming home and flopping on Ennoshita’s chest that sustains Akaashi through two hours of overtime (thank you, moving goalposts and shifting deadlines and emails with questions that he’d already answered weeks ago), the crowded train ride home in a car full of American tourists on a bachelor party trip, and the trudge up three flights of stairs to their apartment. The smell of something delicious floats through the front door as he unlocks it, and he drifts toward it like a cartoon character who’s just caught a whiff of a freshly-baked pie. “Tadaima,” he calls out, removing his shoes and slipping into his house slippers.
Ennoshita’s standing at the kitchen counter in a tight t-shirt and sweatpants slung low on his hips, and on said counter sit two plates of curry rice. “Perfect timing! Come eat,” he says, bringing both bowls to the table and beckoning Akaashi to join him.
Akaashi collapses into the chair, his foot finding Ennoshita’s under the table and nudging it gently. “Thank you, Chikara. It smells wonderful.”
“I thought you’d like it,” Ennoshita says with a smile. “You’ve been staying late for like, a month straight.”
Akaashi sighs. “I’m starting to think no one reads the emails I send. I sent the files over two weeks ago. Two weeks! So why am I hearing from the design department that they haven’t done anything because they’ve been waiting for me to send the things I already sent.” Another sigh.
“I know that sigh,” Ennoshita says. “Someone needs a good stretch.”
“I’d love that.”
After dinner’s been eaten and the dishes washed, they retire to the living room, where Akaashi puts on one of their comfort shows and Ennoshite guides him to sit on the floor. Akaashi lets Ennoshita’s soft, warm hands gently move his body through a series of stretches designed to keep his muscles and joints from locking up or getting too stressed. Which, considering Akaashi’s posture has deteriorated from the ramrod-straight back of an overachieving teenager into full shrimping at his cubicle desk for ten hours a day, is sorely needed.
Ennoshita kisses his forehead while Akaashi comes up from a deep stretch. “Shower together, and then we can relax in bed?”
Akaashi tugs him down by his collar. “That,” he says, leaning in for a kiss, “is the sexiest thing you’ve ever said.”