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The house was empty, save for Minho’s quiet presence in the kitchen.
The house was silent, too. Only if you listened close you would notice the low humming of the fridge, and the occasional sound of the ingredients being added to the mix Minho was preparing. If you listened even closer, maybe you could hear the engine of a car or two down on the street, many floors below.
The house was dark, too. Only the sole white kitchen light shone in it.
If you, like a ghost, could watch the scene, you’d see Minho moving left and right, mindlessly measuring ingredients, no recipe, as if he had been born knowing it. You would be able to tell there was nothing occupying his head but for the automated movements he was focused on.
You would hear, suddenly, the sound of keys breaking the silence, the front door opening and closing, a light switch, and Chan’s voice echoing through every room.
“Hi, honey. I’m home!”
Minho smiled fondly, but didn’t answer. The fragile silence of the kitchen was now hanging by a thread.
A moment later, Chan appeared under the kitchen door frame, his backpack still hanging from one of his shoulders, his coat and keys on his other arm. His eyes landed on the other man, and with a sweet smile and a bit softer and unechoing voice he said:
“Hey.”
Minho looked up from the bowl his hands were in and whispered ‘hey’ back. With this, Chan got closer, put his free hand on Minho’s waist and planted a short, lingering peck on his lips.
“Whatcha making?,” he cooed.
“Bread.”
“Mhmm,” hummed Chan, and nuzzled against Minho’s cheek, “tasty.”
After giving a quick kiss to his cheek, he left his boyfriend’s side and headed to his room, switching on every lightswitch he passed by and leaving them on behind him like a trail.
Under the cold light of the kitchen, with his back illuminated by the warm light of the corridor, and his hands white from the flour as he kneaded the dough, Minho thought about how much he enjoyed solitude, letting the silence cleanse him from his hectic days. And he also thought about how much more he loved having his noisy boyfriend around; loved the way he filled their house with life, when he laughed from the top of his lungs or danced around the rooms or lit up every corner of their home.
He didn’t mind having his thoughts interrupted by socked footsteps coming into the kitchen and two unexpected arms wrapping around his waist.
Chan was now wearing big comfortable clothes, and was tightly pressed against Minho’s back, with his eyes closed and the side of his face resting on Minho’s shoulder. He was softly rocked by Minho’s keading. There was nowhere else in the world either of them would rather be.
Chan sighed deeply and slowly. Silence fell like heavy snow in the kitchen. Minho asked, “how was your day, honey?”
“It was okay,” Chan answered, immobile. “How was yours?”
“It was okay, too.”
The humming of the fridge was like a lullaby. It couldn’t last.
Chan moved his face so that his nose was touching the back of Minho’s neck.
“Mind if I put on some music?” His lips ghosted over Minho’s skin.
“Mhm,” is all it took for him to let go. The kitchen seemed so cold now that they were apart.
Minho finished the dough as Chan connected his phone to the speaker. The music started playing as he washed his hands. Crazy little thing called love renewed the air.
“It’s on shuffle,” said Chan from where he was leaning against the counter, and it meant that anything could follow. Minho covered the dough to let it rest. They had about half an hour to kill.
He extended his hand to his boyfriend and bowed. “May I have this dance, sir?”
Chan always threw his head back when he laughed. “It’d be an honour.”
The rock n’ roll beat flooded the kitchen, and their laughter made it bloom with life. Two steps forward, two steps back, their hands intertwined and smiles so wide they made their cheeks ache. Chan spun Minho around, and the air that was so still mere minutes before was now a hurricane of love. Their movements flowed as if they had been born to dance with each other, as if the song had been written to be played that night, as if the universe extended only to the four walls of that kitchen and all that mattered were their feet and their hands and their hearts in sync.
And to them they were; they moved so fast that they couldn’t help but slip once or twice, and they caught each other so skillfully and so widely grinning that you would have guessed the night had been choreographed. Their hands fell on each other’s bodies as if they had known each other since forever, as if they had danced for lifetimes.
The song ended with them improvising a final pose. The seconds of silence between that song and the next were not enough for them to catch their breaths. Lucky for them it was a slow song.
I just called to say I love you.
Before he did anything else, Minho turned off the kitchen light: all that illuminated their scene was the soft warm glow of the corridor light.
He came back and Chan wrapped his arms around his neck; Minho rested his hands on Chan's hips.
Their eyes, locked, only reflected the orange light that made the kitchen feel candlelit. Dancing half-tempo side to side, they smiled shyly and hid their faces from each other. And found the other’s eyes again. They felt like teenagers: so youthful and so, so in love.
The music wrapping around them, their bodies so close, unveiled the magic inside that they had felt on the day of their first date, on the day they moved in together, on the day of their first dance. A cosy feeling. A feeling of finally being home.
The chorus was upon them. Chan mouthed along:
“I just called to say I love you,
I just called to say how much I care.”
Minho continued:
“I just called to say I love you,
And I mean it from the bottom of my heart.”
If you could hear their thoughts, dear reader, if you could know what they were thinking, you would only hear one thing. Given the choice, they would choose each other all over again.
What would Minho do without Chan leaving all the lights on, playing loud music or walking loudly around the house? Who would be the light of his days?
What would Chan do without his peaceful Minho, who made him laugh until he cried, who turned off the light so that he could sleep, who kept him warm? Who would be the silence of his nights?
Before the song came to an end, they sealed their promise with a kiss. They sealed their kiss with a smile.
Before the night came to an end, they danced some more in the kitchen, they shared warm bread in the living room, they kissed goodnight in their bedroom.
They couldn't wait to do it all over again, tomorrow. And every other night of their lives.