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“Dammit,” hisses Seungmin under his breath, quickly dropping the tray he took out of the oven on the kitchen counter. How he is still capable of burning himself despite wearing oven mitts goes beyond his understanding.
The smell of burnt cookie swifts around the kitchen, as if pointing a finger at him and laughing obnoxiously, making fun of him. This is the third batch of heart-shaped butter cookies with chocolate chips that Seungmin managed to roast quite literally, if the resemblance with black charcoal is anything to go by.
He followed Felix’s instructions thoroughly and can’t figure out for the life of him what is it he’s doing wrong. He watches the videos Felix sent once, twice, even three times again, astonished to see such deliciously looking cookies on his tray, seemingly out of a commercial.
When he lifts his head to meet with his own cookies, though, he feels frustration bubbling in his veins upon seeing what could only be described as monstrosities, and silently swallows around the lump down his throat as he tosses his phone aside carelessly and picks up the tray, emptying it in the trash can.
Seungmin just wanted to do something sweet for his husband’s birthday, for once.
He has no idea how to cook—he never had to know, either way. Minho knows enough for both of them. Hell, Minho knows enough to be the most renowned gourmet chef in South Korea.
It’s a gift and a blessing to watch the way Minho does what he knows how to best when he’s cooking for the two of them. It almost looks as if he were dancing, combining ingredients so elegantly, moving around the kitchen with perfected ease. Seungmin can’t help but sit and watch in awe as his husband chops scallions, fully convinced he could do it while blindfolded; as he blows carefully on his wooden spoon filled to the brim with whatever soup he’s brewing, tasting it afterwards while he frowns in concentration, taste buds working diligently to figure out what is the soup missing.
Minho’s dishes are always to die for, and swell Seungmin up with feelings he can’t quite describe and barely manages to keep from spilling. He always cooks exactly what Seungmin mentally hopes for, as if he could read his mind (and he probably could ), and Seungmin has always been grateful—and a number of other things, even if he doesn’t say it aloud.
They might not be good at words, or at expressing their feelings towards each other in any way, but Minho cooking for his husband is definitely the biggest act of love he can master, and every dish he makes for Seungmin carries so much attention to detail, so much care, so much love .
Yet Seungmin can’t bring himself to thank him, or repay him in a way remotely as significant. He simply eats, chews and swallows his husband’s confessions and reassurances, and smiles softly at him with an overly enthusiastic ‘ Perfect as always,’ when Minho asks him how the food tastes from across the table. And then forces a blank face when said Minho proceeds to poke at him for being so excited over his food, and Seungmin tells him that ’Of course, that’s why I married you. You think I actually love you? I’m just in it for the food,’ while his eyes look at Minho as if he’s the only human being to ever exist, and as Minho’s eyes sparkle with mischief at the knowledge that he’s the subject of Seungmin’s endless love and desire, but doesn’t utter another word.
They love each other like that.
But for the love of God, for once, Seungmin wanted to do something for his husband. Something meaningful, something that money couldn’t buy (although, technically, he could buy Minho’s favorite cookies at the grocery store and call it a day) and that no one could recreate ( yes , he’s aware about anyone can bake cookies, but he’s sure no one can make them taste as awful as he has managed).
Something that could speak for him, and allow Minho to see how important he is in Seungmin’s life. A crucial puzzle piece that completes Seungmin’s picture. The oxygen in Seungmin’s lungs, the blood pumping through his veins.
Yeah, a good batch of heart-shaped butter cookies with chocolate chips will definitely convey all these feelings.
He revisits Felix's recipe one more time and decides to give it one last shot. In the end, Minho shouldn’t be home for another hour or so, which gives him plenty of time to fail again and cross the street to the grocery store, and maybe stop by the flower shop as well.
Putting all his focus and might into what he’s doing, Seungmin starts the process. He follows Felix’s steps perfectly, ever so calculating. Measuring the ingredients with utmost precision, mixing for the exact same amount of minutes his best friend does, even adding a pre-meditated number of chocolate chips that he deemed perfect (seventy eight, if it must be known). If there’s something Seungmin excels at is being a perfectionist, which is why it hurts his pride that this is his fourth try.
But it’s okay, he thinks as he puts the tray full of cookies in the oven, feeling more confident than he had the previous tries. No one will find out.
“What is this I’m smelling, Kim Seungmin,”
Screw the Heavens and every Deity looking down upon them. Seungmin pictures them watching while munching on popcorn, barely containing their giggles.
The path from the front door to the kitchen is only a few steps long. In fact, Seungmin has no reaction time to do what he would were that not the case: probably scramble to take out the tray, oven gloves completely forgotten, and throw it altogether with those stupid cookies out of the window.
Because one thing is leaving a plate of heart-shaped cookies on the dining table for your husband to come home to on his birthday while you lounge in the living room, pretending to not give him an ounce of attention, and an entirely different thing is to be caught mid baking - mid failure - when you’re most vulnerable, wearing your feelings on your sleeve, barely covered by Minho’s own apron.
Seungmin has no time at all to hide what he is doing, or to pretend he isn’t doing it. Instead, his wide eyes meet Minho’s, and he’s sure he looks like a deer caught in headlights. Like a prey.
And Minho is, by far, the scariest predator in the hierarchy pyramid.
For a few stagnant moments, Minho doesn’t say anything. He simply stares; first, at his husband; then his eyes roam the kitchen - his kitchen, his personal stage, under his very own spotlight - trying to understand what exactly was going on seconds before his arrival. What is still going on, cooking behind the oven door.
Finally, Minho says, “You’re wearing my apron,”
“Yes,” replies Seungmin simply. It is something he obviously can’t deny.
“And the house smells like something was burnt,”
Seungmin stays very still. “I suppose so.”
Minho goes silent again, and stares him down, face carefully blank—but Seungmin knows him all too well. He’s still trying to make something of the situation, to come to a conclusion that’d make some sort of sense . Because, although everything points at it, Seungmin cooking makes no sense whatsoever.
“Kim Seungmin,” Minho strives forward slowly, each step being taken meticulously. Seungmin feels cornered. He realizes a beat too late that there’s no escape, and he’ll soon have to confess to his doings. He’ll have to confess he’s a sucker for his husband and wanted to be the perfect little housewife for once. God forbid he’ll ever, ever confess to having burnt three batches of cookies, though. “Were you doing some kind of witchcraft?”
Or maybe he won’t have to confess shit.
“I– What do you take me for?”
“A witch, clearly,” says Minho boringly. “I always thought I couldn’t have possibly married you by choice. Merely an act done under the influence of some kind of enchantment you cast on me,” he finally starts undressing, letting his coat fall on the kitchen counter, never ceasing his slow pace towards his husband.
“If that was the case, then I would have reversed it ages ago,” Seungmin tries to keep calm. “Imagine wanting to spend these many years married to you .” Despite his nervousness, he can’t help but smirk. Partly, because he loves pushing at his husband’s buttons, but he also makes it a point that he’s teasing. Sometimes, he fears he might take the teasing too far, even when they’re both perfectly aware of just how much they love each other and how little they mean those words.
Once only a few inches separate him and Seungmin, Minho stops. He stares at Seungmin’s anxiety-filled eyes for a moment that elongates itself in time until it feels like eternity, until every cell in Seungmin’s body longs for Minho, until their hearts recognize each other and march to the same beat. Seungmin’s hands itch to move and wrap around Minho’s neck and pull him in for a sweet, awaited kiss, but he stays still. Minho’s own fingers twitch as he tries to stop himself from wrapping his arms around Seungmin’s waist.
It’s an ongoing battle, and they’re a couple of sore losers.
This is a representation of their everyday life, if you will. They wait patiently to see the other crumble under the pressure, to give up their so-preserved pride in order to let a sample of love shine through. They grant themselves a few moments of mercy, moments that both of them make a point not to acknowledge out loud: staring at each other first thing in the morning, fingertips tracing skin carefully; seeking each other’s warmth during their designated star gazing night, both ever the lovers of the Moon and her mellow light that shines the brightest when they look up at her, highlighting what they love most about one another; taking turns entwining their hands so that they both get to feel the chills running up their spines when they look down and see their golden ring glow against pale skin, knowing that written on the inner side lie their very own names.
But outside of these leniencies, they never let their guards down. It’s as if they thrive on keeping each other on their toes, as if they crave to capture that sacred moment of crumbling, settling. Choosing heart and soul over mind, ever the rationalists.
So when Minho’s eyes soften and he allows himself a small smile before leaning forward and quickly pecking Seungmin, bells ring inside the walls of his head. And they ring louder when Minho turns back and slowly moves out of the kitchen.
A win .
Seungmin loves to win, and this, in his book, is most definitely a triumph. He almost feels his bones try to jump out of his skin whenever this happens, because it’s so rare that Minho ever lets him have anything—let alone win .
Seungmin will gracefully take this very well-earned triumph—
“The cookies are burning, honey.”
—and throw it down the trash alongside the cookies.
It’s as if a bucket of water and ice was thrown on him, and he clumsily scrambles to grab the oven mitts, suddenly overly aware of the insipid smell filling up his nostrils. He vaguely hears Minho’s laugh in the background and mentally slaps himself for ever believing his husband had backed down and let him have it.
As if they haven’t been married for five years now.
His heart drops to his stomach when he turns to the oven and sees smoke coming out of it. All this time, while he was struggling to keep himself from touching Minho and he thought his husband was in the same predicament, he was absolutely solo . A battle against no one. His husband was being first audience to Seungmin’s downfall, smoking right behind his back, selling him over to Minho, adorned with a red ribbon.
He hastily opens the oven door and coughs at the waves of smoke hitting his face, trying to bat it away with his hands before turning the oven off. He pulls out the tray and drops it on the kitchen counter, appalled to see yet another handful of completely burnt cookies stare back at him. When he hears the smoke alarm go off, clearly late to the atrocious crime scene, he thinks it really can’t get worse than that.
“What is this, Kim Seungmin,”
Lee Minho proves him wrong once again.
Seungmin refuses to look at Minho. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Minho snorts, and suddenly Seungmin feels arms encircle his waist and lips graze his ears, “You know how much it turns me on when you try to cook something remotely edible.”
“God, I fucking hate you,” Seungmin grunts, pressing his eyes with his oven-mittens-covered hands. He breaks. He breaks under the tension and watches behind his eyes as Lee Minho’s metaphorical trophy collection grows larger and he falls into the abyss, chants of loser, loser, loser resounding in his head. He supposes it’s only right since it’s his husband’s birthday. He turns around in Minho’s hold and sighs, moving his hands away to be met with an expression only a winner can wear. “I was— I was trying to—”
“Cook heart-shaped cookies for me on my birthday like the hopeless romantic you are?” Minho’s smirk widens, but Seungmin can see the fondness swimming in his eyes.
“Let me finish,” he hits his sturdy chest. “I was trying to poison you. Present it in the friendly and lovely image of heart-shaped cookies. You would’ve never seen it coming. The perfect crime,” says Seungmin seriously, expression completely blank.
Minho has the audacity to laugh, “That worked splendidly for you.”
“It would have had you come at the time you were expected to, husband,” he hides how joyful he actually is that Minho is home earlier, and Minho never tells him that he cleared his schedule to spend more time with his husband the way he wanted to on his own birthday.
Instead, Minho tries to look behind Seungmin and blindly pats around to reach for a cookie.
“Wait, don’t—” but before he can stop him, Minho pops a way-too-dark looking cookie into his mouth, and Seungmin wishes for a meteor to collide with Earth right then and finish humankind as it is.
Seungmin watches in horror as Minho pulls one of the most disgusted expressions he’s ever seen on his husband. He had only seen him this scandalized while watching Hell’s Kitchen.
Seungmin starts, “You shouldn’t have—”
The way Minho’s eyes snap at him render him quiet. He knows Minho hates the taste, yet his eyes shine like a kid that’s received a gigantic gift on Christmas. It is in this instant that Seungmin sees Minho’s walls crumble and allows Seungmin to watch him, raw and naked, as he shows how much he loves him through his body alone. He notices the goosebumps rising on his skin, probably from how horrid the taste of the cookie was, but he chooses to believe there’s something more . There’s the feeling of someone caring enough to cook for him. To go through the same recipe four times. The feeling of having something - someone - precious, someone worthy of efforts, worthy of keeping around. He feels Minho’s hold on him tighten and can tell there’s a shit-eating grin trying to make its way to his face despite how much he’s telling it to stay back. It’s as if Minho’s body was speaking directly to him, one-on-one. He can’t tell whether Minho, who’s so cautious and meticulous, is the one allowing his body to carry the message he’s trying to get across, or if he’s so overwhelmed by love that he can’t put a cork on it.
Either way, in such a rare occasion, Seungmin sees just how much Minho feels for him. He knew it, of course he knew it, but getting to see it feels like a blessing itself.
And still, as he leans into Seungmin’s space, Minho says, “If you think you can get away with this shit excuse of a gift for my birthday present you’re heavily mistaken,”
And Seungmin smiles, wide and loud, before he whispers, “Don’t worry babe, I’ll cook dinner.”
Happy birthday, he says through a sealing kiss.