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Awfully cute. That was the term that Shiro came up with for Lance’s terrible, exaggerated, and glamorous singing in the car. Shiro never really had much music in his phone, so it was his boyfriend that usually snatched the aux cord; despite knowing that Shiro wasn’t exactly one for playing some tunes. It was trips to Walmart, trips to IKEA, and also trips to Lance’s preschool centre where he volunteered at: which allowed them to debate on how the Scandinavian furniture store should be pronounced. Ee-kay-ia? Ee-kia?
Both of them didn’t know either. So when Shiro came trudging in after a hard day of work, where papers weren’t delivered on time, his boss wasn’t having the best day, and having coffee spilt over the run-down table, he expected lingering smells of the dinner that Lance promised him. He expected his boyfriend to be swept into his arms right at the doorway, where—yes, Jenny, we’re gay for each other, get back into your house and shut up—everyone can see.
What he didn’t predict? An angelic voice filling every corner of the apartment, its source particularly from the kitchen where the owner (of that voice) was prancing around: beautiful, accurate notes exiting his mouth.
Shiro has never had the unfortunate occurrences of the day take off so fast from his mind before, because all he could witness now was the small movements of his love, how he’d move his finger animatedly to the beat of the song, how he’d kick the refrigerator door close with pointed feet. How he’d season the chicken with a sway of his hips and belting out a note in protest of getting to close to the blazing flame.
It was Gloria Gaynor’s rendition of Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You, where dramatic beats and the ever-so-familiar melody of the instrumental was prominent in the five minute number. Lance was absolutely hitting every one of those notes with quick, swift manoeuvres to go together.
Shiro was in awe. It wasn’t just awfully cute now, it was awfully incredible and enticing. Is- is that my shirt? Paired with a pair of boxers? God, he’s going to be the death of me. Shiro’s mind raced non-stop with intrusive thoughts that aren’t exactly appreciated in this moment.
And just like that, done. The last note sounded as Lance lowered down into a soft ad-lib, a pleased smile on his face as he starts baking the chicken with the preheated, bulb-less, oven. All was tuned out—everything else the radio DJ’s were saying after the song—in Shiro’s head, making a beeline straight for his boyfriend.
Lance jumped from the startle and went into a flustered state at the presence of his one and only, a million questions springing up from the depths of Lance’s mind capacity.
“That was, beautiful.” Shiro whispered into the ear of the shorter male, swaying to the faint beat of Fly Me To The Moon, smiling as he felt thinner, more delicate hands intertwine with his.
“You’re beautiful- How long have you been standing there?”
“Five whole minutes for the Gloria Gaynor rendition.” He smirked.
“Oh god, was my singing okay? I thought you were ending work a little later today so I wanted to unwind by singing since there’s no one home and also get dinner ready before you retur-“
“Breath, darling. You need it.”
“I-“
“Your singing was beautiful. Wonderful. Marvellous. Lovely. You heard me.” Much reassurance was part of Shiro’s job in the relationship, and he’d say as much as he can to ensure Lance feels loved. Lance could say nothing more but to turn around and crash his lips into the taller; switching between putting his hands on his shoulders and on his beefy arms because he’s just so large.
“Mm, you taste good. Did you eat the seasoning for the chicken?”
“Wha-“ the Cuban laughed, smile wide and eyes crinkled, “No! Shiro!”
“You-you should sing more, I mean if you’re comfortable doing it-“
“I’d love to.” And sing for Shiro he did. In the morning when his voice still had its raspiness to it. In malls to the popular songs they play on the speakers. In the stillness of the night where Shiro often shot up in panic, Lance’s voice was there to soothe him back to sleep, arms protectively around the larger male. In life, where the Cuban was worn-down, Shiro’d start a line to a cheesy ballad, hearing the containment of Lance’s smile in its continued lyrics.
A voice of an angel wouldn’t last Lance a lifetime, but Shiro’s love will.