Work Text:
Neither of them are especially physical people.
That’s not to say that they don’t do all the physical things that couples do, but they aren’t cuddly. That’s not their love languages. They are quick to soothe and care with words, maybe the occasional gift, but it’s never through touch. Seoho doesn’t crawl into Geonhak’s lap; Geonhak doesn’t wake Seoho up with kisses and caresses. Rather, the idea of coexisting next to one another is enough for the both of them. There’s no need to be consistently in each other’s space when being simply near is enough.
They love through japes and compliments hidden beneath insults. It’s whispers when they think the other is sleeping, it’s teasing and laughter. Their love is leaving breakfast out in the morning when one of them has to leave early. It’s Seoho going to work out with Geonhak at the ass-crack of dawn. It’s Geonhak being an active listener as Seoho practices his master’s presentation before he has to defend his thesis.
Love, for them, is simple. It is love, after all. But it’s hardly ever physical.
It’s not physical because Seoho doesn’t necessarily enjoy spontaneity when his body is on the line. He doesn’t like fingers tracing patterns across his skin because he can’t predict where they’ll go next. He doesn’t being held too tightly because he never knows if he’ll be able to reciprocate that strength equally. He can allow himself to get lost in a moment of passion, but he can’t abide the distraction of hands when he’s trying to watch a movie.
Geonhak understands all this, and loves him still.
It’s not physical because Geonhak is ticklish and self-conscious. If a hand goes to the wrong spot on his side he jumps, and he fears hurting those he cares about in those milliseconds when he can’t control where his arms swing. He’s scared that someone will brush their fingers over the dips of his abs, the tautness of his muscles, and recoil in response, as if unsure of his strength. When the moment is right, when the person is right, he can let his skin be touched and kissed, but he can’t deal with that when he’s simply trying to exist.
Seoho understands all this, and loves him still.
There are no formal rules and regulations, but they love each other, respect each other, know each other well enough to know when they’re both emotionally available to share their spaces and bubbles. It’s not spontaneous, but it’s not like it’s planned. They understand each other’s wavelengths so intrinsically, so naturally. Their adoration is as simple as breathing. It’s second nature, understanding one another. For as little time as they spend wrapped up in each other’s arms, one look is all it takes for them to know the other’s mood, their needs.
Though, of course, there’s exceptions to every rule.
It happens sometimes. One of them gets overwhelmed by an event in their life, and breathing becomes difficult. Existing becomes difficult. They’re both well adjusted, are used to dealing with stress, but everyone has a breaking point where they’re drowning and need a hand to hold. Seoho and Geonhak are two of the lucky ones: their lives intermix and they have a love to lean on and rely on.
When Seoho has one of his moments, it’s over the edits he’s trying to fix in his master’s thesis. His supervisor had made red lines all over the place, and Seoho wasn’t sure how to remedy the errors by his deadline. The crimson gave him a headache, danced in his eyes enough to put him in a daze. He wanted so badly to overcome this mountain, but his breath was getting caught in his throat, as if his windpipe was slowly swelling shut.
Geonhak had been out in their living room watching a movie when Seoho had appeared from his desk in their den. The main room was darker, with most of the lights turned off. His eyes adjusted immediately, as if they were thanking Seoho for no longer having to stare at the artificial light of his computer, no longer straining at the paper in front of him on the desk. Carefully he made his way over to Geonhak, who glanced up at him with concern but asked no questions. Geonhak was never one to try to pry Seoho open; he was content with waiting for Seoho to become unguarded on his own terms.
Slowly, Seoho sat down on the couch, peering up at the screen in front of them. He recognized the movie as a superhero one, and he watched for a few seconds before placing the title. For a few moments, minutes, they exist together side by side, shoulders brushing but never pressing. Comfort is what Seoho feels. Home is where Seoho’s heart feels like he is.
So, he lets himself fall.
His head meets Geonhak’s shoulder, and he can feel his partner tense up for a second, before relaxing. Carefully, questioningly, Geonhak’s hand meets Seoho’s side, pulling him closer. Their thighs are pressed into each other, so Seoho throws one leg over Geonhak’s lap, for stability. Geonhak chuckles, deep and low; Seoho feels the vibration of it send aftershocks through his body. There’s some seconds of rearranging, and Seoho finds himself on Geonhak’s lap. Another few seconds pass, and Geonhak has paused the movie, pressing kisses into Seoho’s hair.
It’s a primal instinct that he should seek comfort like this, Seoho thinks. The genetic reasoning for the sense of relief he feels as Geonhak rubs lines, straight and predictable, down the skin of neck must be encoded deep in his DNA. Geonhak asks him no questions, and Seoho provides no answers. They just exist, entwined.
Seoho closes his eyes, and allows himself to breathe in Geonhak. He allows the scent of his love to overflow his system, until the stress melts out of his system. Geonhak’s thumb starts each line at the same spot, ends at the same spot, and Seoho’s breathing evens out in time. Geonhak’s heart beats steadily with his, a metronome. Seoho is boneless in his hold, and Geonhak holds him up.
This, too, is their love.