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“Why do I bother?” Liam sighs, scowling as he draws a swift circle with a line through it around “eminent” with his green grading pen. As quickly as he can without compromising his penmanship too much, he scribbles “imminent” in the margin. “Does nobody proofread?” Course not. Why would they when they think spellcheck will solve everything. He sighs again, doing his best to fill the empty kitchen with exhaled disappointment.
He flips through the stack of papers until he lands on the ones he’s already graded. Only halfway through.
Placing his pen down next to the stack, he takes off his glasses, holding them in one hand while his other moves to pinch the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes firmly shut as though it might fool the remaining essays into thinking he’d disappeared and cause them to give up on being graded and tuck themselves neatly back into his work bag.
After three slow, deep breaths, he removes his hand from his nose and carefully replaces his glasses on his face before cautiously opening his eyes.
Still there.
"Bollocks."
Worth a shot, anyway.
Allowing himself one more sigh before bravely soldiering on, Liam picks up his pen and continues reading Alan Stewart’s Year 11 perspective on the inevitability of capitalism’s decline.
Why on earth did he agree to add World Affairs to his course load this year? English Literature is his forte. He’s good at teaching English literature. Great, even. And he loves it. Loves the books. Loves the lesson planning. Loves the kids who love it. Loves the kids who hate it even more. Because he had been them in school. And after seven years of teaching it, he still delights at being able to turn one of them the way Mr. Higgins had turned him.
He still has some English Literature classes, thank the Lord. But he’d just had to accept the offer for World Affairs this year, too.
He blames Harry. Filthy bugger always filling his head with optimism and enthusiasm and assuredness that he’d be wonderful at teaching absolutely anything so why not give it a shot?
Stupid supportive husband.
Liam hears the familiar sound of Harry’s key turning in the front door lock.
Speak of the devil.
The door opens and Harry’s face transforms from neutral to beaming the moment he sees Liam.
Handsome devil.
Years in and he still takes Liam’s breath away.
It’s why, on this rare occasion that he’s home from work before Harry, he's strategically placed himself in the chair with the best view of the front door. He so seldom gets to be the one sitting and smiling up toward the door when his husband comes home. The anticipation of this moment had significantly lessened the pain of grading essays, and now that it’s here, it’s completely obliterated it. One look at that face – those emerald eyes and that shining smile and, Jesus, that dimple – and Liam’s forgotten every cross feeling he’s ever felt.
Harry Styles will do that.
Especially a Harry Styles whose mop of curls is fluffed and tangled from running around with kids on the playground and crouching down a hundred times throughout the day to listen closely to very important musings, whose soft linen button down shirt is untucked and covered with red and blue and yellow and purple swipes of washable finger paints, whose cheeks are flushed with excitement to get home, knowing his husband would likely have beaten him today and would be waiting.
“Hey,” Harry says, as he steps across the threshold, sounding tired but invested, “what’s with the furrowed brows I saw when I first opened the door?”
“Oh, nothing, love,” Liam replies, standing up and taking his glasses off, setting them on the table. “Just the usual grading annoyances. Nothing at all.”
“Come here, then, my love. You tell me what those mean papers did to you.” Harry opens his arms and Liam walks over to him and nestles into his chest, kissing him softly once before burying his face in the crook between his neck and his shoulder, inhaling deeply. He smells like a long day, with hints of citrus and crayon.
He smells like his Harry. Like his home.
Liam smiles into Harry’s skin then pulls his head back up. But he stays pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped firmly around Harry’s waist, Harry’s strong arms enveloping him around his upper back. Harry kisses his cheek, then the corner of his eye where he can feel his skin crinkle from smiling so wide, then just to the side of his lips.
“Go on, then, Li. Tell me. Don’t care how stupid it is.”
Liam exhales a laugh. He knows Harry won’t let up, no matter how truly dumb Liam’s grievance is. He always insists on hearing. Always frowns at the indignity, no matter how insignificant. Always curses in solidarity.
And it always lifts Liam’s spirits. Daft as it is.
“It really is nothing,” Liam insists.
“Mmmhmm,” Harry responds, nuzzling Liam’s nose before pressing a light kiss on the tip. “I’ve no doubt. Tell me everything.”
“Well,” Liam whines through his nose, feeling permission to indulge in a bit of petulance, “for example, this most recent one I’ve been reviewing, this student’s mistaken eminent for imminent, if you can believe.” He pulls back from Harry, looking him dead in the eyes, searching for a level of indignance to match his own.
“I cannot.” Harry affirms, bless him. His brows are knitted, a deep wrinkle formed between them. “Tell me who’s done this, then. He can’t be allowed to get away with this, surely.”
Liam giggles at Harry’s commitment. He could have guessed exactly what Harry would say, intonation and facial expression and all, but the predictability doesn’t lessen the delight he feels absolutely every time.
“Oh come now,” Liam soothes. “He’s only a child, after all. Perhaps we could take it easy on him?"
“Nonsense.” Harry shakes his head emphatically, his expression stern. “The wee ones at my day care are children. This lad’s nearly grown. Fuck him. He's done."
Liam guffaws at that, tossing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut, feeling tears prick at the corner of one.
“No, no,” Harry continues as Liam lowers his head to lock eyes again with the beautiful, absurd man still holding him, a little looser now, but still closely. “This is unacceptable. So what if most fully grown adults have no idea of the meaning of either word, let alone the difference between the two. No, this lad’s in your class, Mr. Payne, and he bloody well should know!”
Liam wants to be able to school his face back into a serious expression. Wants to for once be able to feign upset for as long as Harry can. But, as usual, his actual irritation is long gone. And his ability to fake it is sadly lacking. Not when those lips and those cheeks and that jawbone are so close.
So, instead, he interrupts Harry’s continued rant about academic accountability by capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. It’s the only way to shut Harry up when he gets on a roll like this.
And it reaps additional benefits as well.
Pressed together as firmly as they are, it’s only a matter of minutes of roving hands and tongues and giggled exchanges of smiles and hot breath before Liam feels the familiar press of Harry’s hardening cock against his thigh. He moves his hand up from cradling the back of Harry's neck to grab a fistful of curls and pulls his head back, abruptly breaking their kiss, Harry’s lips and tongue still reaching for Liam’s mouth.
“Bedroom, husband,” Liam growls. “Now."
“Yes, Mr. Payne,” Harry exhales, his voice the kind of deep it gets when he knows he’s about to be properly sorted.
Liam nods and releases his grip on Harry’s hair. “Good,” he says, and turns to walk out of the kitchen towards their room.
Harry lags behind, but Liam knows he’ll follow. He resists the urge to look back as he unbuttons his shirt and lets it drop to the floor as he continues walking down the hall.
“Coming, Harry?” he shouts as he enters their bedroom, beginning to unfasten his belt.
“One moment, darling,” Harry calls from the hallway. “I’ll be with you eminently.”