Work Text:
You can say this is a lazy night.
Him and you, sprawling on the mattress. hair tangling together, limbs close.
Ocean Waves plays on the TV, illuminating his face in gentle blues, whites, greens. The conversation between Taku and Yutaka melts into the rumble of the fan you haven’t bothered to fix, melancholy dissolving into domesticity.
His hand, pretty little fingers, stretch out to you, and before you know it, your fingers have knitted themselves into his. Two pieces of a soul, two fragments of a heart.
And you think, Ah, is this how love goes?
He was there when you were fourteen, and he is there when you are twenty three. Minutes spent laughing whirled into hours of happiness, days basking in friendship turned into months filled with longing. Years of being together formed love.
Almost a decade has passed with him by your side.
And you think, again, Now what?
Now he looks at you, and there’s adoration in his eyes, twinkling like little constellations on the Jeju night sky.
Now, you look at him, and you know about the shirt he’s wearing more than the back of your hand.
It’s a simple T-shirt, nothing too fancy. The fabric is already a little stretched. and the threads are starting to become undone, but he loves it.
You love it, too. You remembered his face when he got it: sixteen year-old, cute and a little fresh faced, excited to get something with his own money. You memorised how to wash it properly, you learned by heart the smell of it when you snuggled close to him.
Now, you know him like you know this shirt.
It’s a bit silly, to get overwhelmed with emotions by things like this - but you’re grateful.
For the fact that it has been here - he has been here, for the fact that you can learn so much about a piece of clothing.
The fact that you can love a person for so long.
The fact that he taught you to appreciate all the little details.
You’re thankful for this bedroom, for example.
Being brought up with homemade dishes and peals of laughter, he always says that the kitchen is the heart of a home - a space filled with good food and fond memories.
But you’ve always prefered the bedroom.
Your bedroom, a tiny, private area, a place that only exists with you and him.
Where he hangs his treasured After School and Wonder Girls posters on the wall, right next to your carelessly taped Cloud Atlas print. Where your monitors and keyboards lie haphazardly on the table, alongside with his pink and blue daily journals.
Where the old fan is doing its best, generating cool winds that blow his blonde hair into a fluffy, ruffled mess. You try to smooth it down, but it keeps getting messed up. You don’t mind. You never mind much, especially when it comes to him.
Here lies your bedroom, where you and him mend into a singular your, a singular us; the place you feel most at home.
And you’re eternally grateful.
He shuffles against your body, soft strands brushing your neck, bringing you back to reality.
On the screen, Yutaka softly says, “I just felt like seeing you.”
He snickers beside you.
“What”, he giggles, “That’s just blatantly gay. That’s just, obvious, you know?”
You find yourself smiling, too.
“Couldn’t word it better’, you say, fingers detangling the knot in his hair,
“I wish they could literally just spill it out”, he sighs, eyebrows frowning together, “this is painful to watch.”
You chuckle, way too gently, more gently than you’ve done to anyone.
“Well”, you whisper, “sometimes, you can’t just confess directly to someone’s face.”
“You did that to me”, your lover smiles, mischief in his eyes. It takes a lot out of you to not lean in and kiss him breathless, right there and then, Yutaka and Taku be damned.
But you end up shaking your head instead, and lovingly reply:
“It did take years though.”
He laughs, infinite and beautiful, fingers mending perfectly into yours. You lean in closer, brushing kisses on his knuckles.
What can explain love, other than this?
Other than the way you look up, eyes locking with him, the thousandth, millionth time in your life, and the familiarity in them makes you feel loved.
These are the eyes you've seeked comfort from when your mom fell ill, when you came out, when art school didn’t accept you. These are the eyes you’ve looked at when your paintings were first exhibited, when the scholarship was awarded to you, when you bought this house. These are the eyes you want to spend a lifetime with.
This is the man you want to build a home with.
“I love you, Boo”, you mutter.
You never like to say the words I love you, for it will lose its meaning after being said for too many times. But you know, with him, a billion I love you is never enough.
So you take his face in your hands, and press your lips on his.
Ocean Waves is still playing, basking his pretty eyelashes in a gentle golden hue. You pull away first, breathless, and turn the TV off.
He sighs, dramatically, but not for long, because you’re leaning in, determined to make him melt sticky sweet in your embrace.
You can say this is a lazy night.
Your lover is sleeping soundly in between the sheets. You look at him, and wish to paint this in the most beautiful colors ever known to man.
His hair; fanned out on the pink mattress.
His breath; gentle breeze on your cheeks.
His lips, pouty and soft.
Him; a friend. Him; a lover. Him; the one who makes friendship blooms into love, and love into eternity.
Outside, the ocean waves crash onto shore quietly.
You lie down, taking him, taking warmth and peace into your arms. The fan is still rumbling, a pleasant noise against the silence.
And again, you thank God, you thank him for all of those things.
Before you know it, you’re dreaming of home.
You’re dreaming of him.