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It should really come as no surprise that Tavish Degroot was a romantic.
He'd loved dating ever since he was old enough to date, which was much older than what was considered old enough to work. Although he was never popular with other boys at school, girls would practically trip over each other for him. They thought he was sensitive and misunderstood, which, to a degree, was true. It was not uncommon for Tavish to go out with a girl and have her friends applaud her for being so open-minded and accepting. He was not fond of this.
With age comes confidence, of course, and once Tavish knew what he was about, he could easily go so far as to book multiple dates in one night. He was good at all the superficial things, roses and diamonds and wearing expensive cologne and candlelit dinners at places that sold cuts of meat he couldn't pronounce, but he was good at the things that "really" mattered too. Even though both he and the girl (or guy) knew that it would only be for a night or two, he knew how to make someone feel special for a night.
It was immensely difficult to apply any of these previous experiences to Mick Mundy.
Tavish liked Mick a lot, but he seemed averse to any dating that involved actual dates. "Going out" to him meant things like camping and fishing and watching fast cars drive in circles, which was all very masculine and sexy, but which still left Tavish wondering if they could ever have a night out.
He brought this up multiple times, and Mick always waved it away. He said that roses made him sneeze and candlelight gave him a headache. Tavish suspected the truth, though, which was that Mick felt he wasn't worth anyone else spending money on and that he had never been inside a restaurant that spoke French or Italian or the Queen's English. It made him nervous to be seen in public in an explicitly romantic context with Tavish. An unspoken I'm not good enough for you permeated most of their conversations. Tavish understood. He didn't think he was good enough for Mick, either.
He still wanted to do something for Valentine’s, though, which is how they ended up drinking wine and eating chocolate out of heart-shaped boxes covered in red plastic wrap on Tavish’s couch. He had managed to get the night off, and they'd driven back to his place in Mick’s camper (Mick always insisted on driving them everywhere, which Tavish found both incredibly chivalrous and very insulting. He hadn't even had anything to drink that day). Mick had met Tavish's mother a handful of times, and they did not particularly get along, so Tavish tried his best to keep the two from interacting. He didn't need any comments about posture, accents, or horse faces running through Mick’s head.
Now, the two sat close together on Tavish’s couch, thighs pressed against each other, Mick’s filthy boots propped up on Tavish’s coffee table. Despite himself, Tavish had still bought Mick roses. He’d watched as Mick had run his calloused thumbs along the soft petals, cracking jokes about thorns. He did not, as Tavish was careful to note, sneeze. His ears did turn pink, however. Tavish was also careful to note that.
Now Mick was flipping through TV channels all playing varying cheesy romantic movies with one hand and attempting to eat around a dried raspberry in the center of his chocolate with the other. His dark hair was in that stage of the growing-out process where regardless of what he did with it it looked shaggy and unkempt, and he hadn’t shaved since the night before. He had completely let his guard down, his sunglasses hooked to the collar of his shirt to show the lines around his eyes and the shape of his nose, his mouth open wide enough to expose his sharp, crooked teeth. He looked so good Tavish felt sick.
“Here, take mine,” Tavish offered, switching out the half-eaten fruit chocolate in Mick’s hand for one he’d just plucked from the box. "The coconut ones are your favorites, aye?"
Mick smiled gratefully and leaned in closer as he chewed. Tavish let his hand rest in the soft crook of Mick’s elbow, rubbing circles in his scarred, fuzzy forearm with his thumb. When he kissed him, he tasted like sugar and red wine.
In fact, despite their respective reputations, Mick had done most of the drinking. The wine wasn't good, but Mick either didn't care or genuinely didn't notice. The more he drank, the touchier he got, which was all Tavish wanted.
"Just a little bit to take the edge off," he said after just about every mouthful, before falling back on the couch into Tavish's waiting arms. He snuggled up against Tavish's chest, hitching his legs up into the other man's lap, wrapping his arms around his waist and squeezing. Mick trailed little kisses along the bottom of Tavish's chin and down his throat and across his collarbone and up behind his ears.
"God, you are beautiful ," Mick mumbled, staring up at Tavish with those glassy, sleepy eyes. "Have I ever told you that?"
"Many times," Tavish told him, playing up his amusement to hide the warm joy that bloomed in his chest. He tilted Mick’s chin up and kissed his thin, soft lips gently, fingers stroking his sideburns, his long jaw, the lines of his cheekbones. "Always nice to hear it, though."
Mick sighed happily, nuzzling into the hollow of Tavish's throat. One of his hands crept under Tavish's shirt, resting against the slope of his belly; in most other contexts, this action would be more than suggestive, but with the small, chaste, kisses Mick kept pressing to his chin, Tavish doubted his intentions skewed that way.
"Y'know, you're not so bad-looking yourself," Tavish murmured, brushing Mick’s hair back with careful fingers. "I could get used to looking at you." Of course, what he meant was You're so gorgeous you make me sick and I want to wake up next to you every day for the rest of my life, but those kinds of things were more difficult to say when you really meant them.
The sun was going down and the room was getting darker, but Tavish still saw the flush that spread up from Mick’s neck. Normally, he would have hidden his face immediately, but with the obvious fuzziness in his head from all the drinking, he didn't bother. Tavish loved him so much like this, when he managed to completely put Mick at a loss for words, leaving him flushed red, hunching his shoulders forward and stuffing his hands in his pockets, giving him that nervous laugh and that big, crooked, lovesick smile that Tavish would do anything in the world to keep seeing, every damn day of his life.
As the sixteenth identical couple fought and made up on the staticky TV screen, Tavish realized that Mick had fallen asleep. His nose was smushed against Tavish's breastbone, and his breath was coming out in slow, even whistles. Tavish smoothed Mick’s hair back and watched his eyelids flicker, but he stayed asleep. Tilting his head down to meet him, Tavish kissed Mick’s forehead slowly, watching his mouth twitch up in his sleep.
"Happy Valentine’s, Mickey."