Chapter Text
Mo Beijun glimpses his reflection in the polished, glittering black stone of the elevator walls. Forcing the pinched muscles of his brows to relax takes significant effort but he makes a passable job of it. His shoulders tick down with around the same amount of focus, he massages the stiff muscles into relative compliance by the time elevator chimes and its doors slide open.
The heavy door to Mo Beijun's foyer swings open before he even registers the familiar sequence of motions, sights and sounds of unlocking it are over. His teeth ache a little as the clench of his jaw eases. A voice chatters from across the penthouse, reverberating into nonsense against the high, stark walls and the tall windows. Mo Beijun hefts off his jacket and hangs it in the closet. He slips off his shoes to pad lightly across the tiled floor in a pair of dark blue slippers with silver snowflakes custom embroidered on them (A gift from two and a half years ago "just because", which Mo Beijun could apparently "throw away if they're not your style. I bought them completely on impulse and they just reminded me of you so you don't have to accep--Mmph!!! Mhn...").
The chatter grows louder and it isn't clear whether it's just because Mo Beijun is getting closer or because the speaker is growing more agitated. Here and there the stark lines of the penthouse are disrupted by a thick yellow hoodie, a lumpy throw blanket bought ten years and five apartments ago, or a sloppy stack of notes teetering in a way that defied both physics and general good record-keeping sense. Mo Beijun tugs off his tie as he crosses the almost magazine perfect living room and drapes it over the back of a chair, allowing that chattering voice to lead him down a hallway and into the den.
“...power-ups…. Buffs” Is all he can parse at the moment. “Fuckers...camping!”
He undoes his belt and shrugs off his button-down, then places them coiled and folded on the nearest surface before crossing the room to stand behind and over the couch. Shang Qinghua’s absorbed in the video game displayed on the large TV screen, screeching insults into the headset microphone and digging vicious little thumbs into the controller as the character onscreen pulsates with waves of green light. He’s wearing one of Mo Beijun’s t-shirts. It hangs low to frame a pretty nape flecked with little moles over smooth, wheat-colored skin. He makes an ugly, high gurgling sound as Mo Beijun wraps his arms around his narrow shoulders, but settles as he catches sight of blue-black hair.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” He tells whoever else is in the voice chat.
Mo Beijun nips at bare skin where the shirt’s wide neck has slipped away and gets a weak swat across his forearm for his mischief. He smothers his twitching lips in the soft skin.
“Whatever. Hey listen, I’ll talk to you later, bro.”
Shang Qinghua spares a few more words of vitriol for his ‘bro’ and ends the call. As soon as the controller’s out of Shang Qinghua’s hands and the headset’s placed on its holder, Mo Beijun’s sliding onto the sofa. Shang Qinghua complies with being turned around and bullied up onto the ludicrous number of cushions that have found their way onto this couch within the past year. Mo Beijun settles between the smaller man’s thighs, winding his arms around his hips and pressing his face into his soft belly. His heart slows as he fills his lungs with the smell of Shang Qinghua’s skin mixed with hints of their preferred evergreen-scented laundry detergent.
“You’ll make me self conscious.” Says Shang Qinghua. Gentle fingers comb through Mo Beijun’s hair. Blunt nails dragging across his scalp tempt Mo Beijun to melt into the upholstery.
In response, he nips at a bit of shirt-clad pudge and squeezes the smaller man’s soft waist.
“Agh-! Bully! Cannibal!” Those gentle fingers tug at a bit of his fringe. Mo Beijun smirks into the belly of his squirming boyfriend, weathering his punishment.
Mo Beijun nips him again, settles in and angles his face to the side to meet large brown eyes. Shang Qinghua has three of those acne stickers on his face. Sickeningly cute little hamsters and hearts that suit him perfectly. The last of the tension melts from Mo Beijun's spine at the sight. One of those vicious little thumbs gently traces Mo Beijun’s cheekbone as just as he lets his eyes fall shut.
“Long day?” Shang Qinghua asks, although he doesn't need to. He always talks when he doesn't need to. It's nice. Especially when he does it while touching Mo Beijun.
“Mph.” He says, pressing into the touch.