Work Text:
love is in the hands
He’s always loved his partner’s hands. Their fingers are knobbly and always seem so delicate when they twirl their pen around them idly (and drop the pen half the time). However, they seem like the most deadly weapon when they press them, freezing, to the tender skin of his neck, his stomach, his face.
The polish brush shakes ever so slightly in their hands as they carefully apply the pitch black paint to his nails. The other hand holds his steady, their thumb absentmindedly rubbing across his joints, making his tattoos blink. Their own nail polish is already chipped somehow even though he applied it himself just yesterday.
He loves the way their hands look on his hips, his arm, in his own. Once, he told them they should play piano because their fingers are so long which led to a slightly flustered explanation of a uni punk band and a demand for pictures (He was very sad there were no videos). He manages to needle them into playing for him one evening when both of them are tipsy at a friend’s flat. Her acoustic is in dire need of a tune but he doesn’t think he’s ever been as much in love with them as he was at that moment.
Jon’s fingers slipped a little over the frets and they lost the tune once or twice, but Gerry watched them from where he was sprawled on Georgie’s carpet. There was a flash from her camera off to the side and he knew that he probably looked ridiculous, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He loves them so much.
love is in the blood
They often find themself listening to their partner’s heartbeat. His chest is their favorite place to lay their head. It’s soft beneath their cheek, gentle curves that he is so proud of. A steady beat drums beneath their ear. They hold their fingers against the thin skin of his wrist, feeling the thrum beneath, proof of his stubborn cling to survival.
They don’t like to see him in pain, but when his skin cracks in the dry cold of winter (“You need to take better care of yourself”), they carefully clean off the blood, dab disinfectant on it, and bandage the injuries with care (“I know, but then how else would I get you to homoerotically clean my injuries?”). He doesn’t get flustered often but on occasion, they can catch him off guard enough and they delight in the way his face turns cherry red. The flush spreads across his cheeks, all the way down to the top of his chest, and right up to the tips of his ears. It’s gorgeous.
Some days, when there are too many images of the past overlapping the present, he acquiesces to a hand over his heart, a thumb against his wrist. A reminder that he is alive and (mostly) whole and still here. That they are still here, together. The thumps beneath their palm tell them that he is real and this is not a dream.
Gerry lies in their bed like he has all day and Jon curls around him, their arms bracketing him as if they could protect him from all the horrors the world has to offer. Their hands rest on his sternum, dipping slightly into the collar of his shirt. The light of the sun had been harsh that day, the sounds of the city grating, and even the smells of comfort food had been too much. As the room dims, as the sun dips below the skyline, Jon counts out his partner’s heartbeats and knows that tomorrow will still come.
love is in the stomach
He isn’t allowed to help when his partner cooks. They’ve tried to teach him before, but he can never manage to get his cuts anywhere near even and they’re anal about how everything is kept. So he stays out of it. But he loves it when they cook. If he convinces them to cook, it serves a dual purpose to him: he gets to eat a wonderful meal and they remember to eat that day.
He can cook, just nowhere near their level. Of course, their pantry is half stored with ready meals anyway. Cooking is a task neither of them have the energy to do frequently. He makes sure he picks up their favorite biscuits and, in return, they memorized his takeaway orders a long time ago.
The days their pain is too bad to leave the bed, he meticulously follows their recipes for comfort food, timing himself down to the second. His carrots are still a bit wonky and the rice always turns out either a little mushy or a little crunchy, but they’ve never complained. The days his head swims too much to stand up, they ply him with soup and water and sports drinks. And when he can’t even stomach the lightest of soups, he knows it’s in the fridge with a sticky note and precise reheating instructions.
Jon’s at work. Gerry can tell because he can’t hear the radio or them puttering in the kitchen or the shower running. He slowly drags himself out of bed, taking the knit blanket with him, and shuffles to the kitchen for some water. In the fridge, front and center, is a glass container with a yellow note on it. ‘Reheat in a saucepan on medium heat for 5 minutes. - Jon’ No heart or smiley face or doodle, but Gerry’s heart still skips like he’s a teenager receiving a love letter. The soup tastes delicious.
love is in the head
They press kisses along their partner’s hairline, the fine hairs tickling his lips. They gently kiss the scar on his head, hidden behind hair painstakingly regrown. They kiss the bridge of his nose, broken twice. They kiss the side of his jaw, freshly shaven. They kiss him on the lips, smudging his black lipstick with a laugh.
There’s a constantly stocked bottle of paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet and another in the bedside table. They do what they can to ease his headaches and migraines, making sure he drinks enough water and massaging the back of his neck. There’s a million little things around their flat that speak of the love they have for him. Ice packs in the freezer and heating pads in the drawers, thick blackout curtains in the bedroom and the living room, a pair of noise cancelling headphones lying on the desk. Love is not in the material but in the thought behind it, in the idea that if they can help him manage his pain, then they will do so.
It wasn’t until after they started dating that he let them help with his hair. Dye carefully mixed in the bowl, they always start with the applicator brush, but by the end, they’re rubbing blobs of it into his hair, running their fingers through the length. Always careful not to pull.
Gerry’s exclamation echoes through their small bathroom, “Hey, that’s cold!”
Jon continues to rinse out his hair, watching the water turn from black to grey to mostly clear, ignoring Gerry’s complaints with a smirk. A smirk that only lasts until Gerry flicks their face with water, making them sputter and giving him the opportunity to turn the faucet warmer before Jon can stop him. Somehow, they both end up soaked and cold, but Gerry’s hair looks great and his smile looks even better.