Work Text:
“I got you something,” Seokjoon shouts the second the door opens.
Seongil kicks his shoes off, toeing them roughly into line with the rest of the sneakers in the entryway, and hangs his jacket up.
“What is it?” he calls back, grinning helplessly. “Dinner?”
“Oh,” there’s the sound of shuffling, clattering, something falling on the floor. “Yeah, that, too.”
When Seongil walks into the living room Seokjoon is sat on his couch, the coffee table littered with takeout boxes. He’s wearing one of Seongil’s hoodies, once black faded to grey, and his own sweats. He fits in just as well as the furniture, and not for the first time Seongil wishes Seokjoon lived here, wishes he didn’t just have a key and permission to let himself in any time.
“What’s the occasion?”
Seokjoon shrugs and pats the cushion beside himself, waiting for Seongil to join him before he starts eating.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just wanted to.”
It’s not an anniversary, no one’s birthday, not Valentine’s Day or Christmas. Seongil sits so close to Seokjoon their thighs are pressed together and he tries to swallow down the fondness he feels making his throat tight.
“Thank you, baby,” Seongil says. He gives in to the desire to kiss Seokjoon’s temple, sliding one arm around his shoulders and tugging him closer.
They eat in mostly silence, both hungry after work. Seokjoon’s job isn’t a career, isn’t as proper as Seongil’s, but he’s on his feet most of the day and customer service is exhausting. And even after that, he decided to get the subway to Seongil’s apartment and order dinner for them both. If Seongil’s hand wasn’t busy with chopsticks he’d hold Seokjoon’s; he feels like he’s back in high school for a second, on the couch after a study session trying to work out if his crush is reciprocated.
Once the chicken is gone, Seongil stacks the empty containers up and asks, “you got me something else, then?”
His mind goes to one place straight away. Seokjoon is young and he’s eager and he has fantasies, things he whispers to Seongil when they’re in bed together, not to mention what he calls Seongil — he knows things, knows what he likes and what he thinks he’ll like, and he’s in Seongil’s home wearing Seongil’s clothes and they haven’t even kissed yet tonight.
Seongil can’t be blamed for assuming it’ll be something of that sort. Something dirty, sexy, fun.
Seokjoon jumps up and slides over to his bag, dumped under the television, to rifle through it until he pulls out a small black box, about the size of his hand and two inches thick. He runs back over, socked feet slipping on the hardwood floor, and holds it out to Seongil with both hands.
“Should I try to guess?” Seongil asks, smiling up at Seokjoon.
But he shakes his head.
The size of the box doesn’t give much away. It isn’t huge, can’t be anything that elaborate. Honestly, Seongil is drawing a blank so he doesn’t waste any more time in pulling the lid off and lifting the black tissue paper.
“Oh, Seokjoonie,” Seongil breathes in pure surprise.
Seokjoon is bad at silence: he over-explains himself, fiddling with his fingers and saying, “I noticed yours was kind of worn out, so I thought— But I didn’t know if it was a gift, maybe, so you don’t have to use this, obviously— It’s pretty, though, I don’t know… The woman in the store helped me pick it out.”
He’s right that Seongil’s wallet is old. At least a decade, closer to two, and it’s leather but he’s battered it about a bit. The slots are loose enough that sometimes his credit card card slips out. It used to be black but the stitching is all a bluish grey now.
The one in the box in Seongil’s hands is dark brown pebbled leather, stiff and brand new. He doesn’t recognise the brand but he wouldn’t expect to, uninterested in fashion and designers; he only knows enough to be able to tell that it’s well-made, good quality, probably expensive.
Seongil places it on the coffee table before he meets Seokjoon’s eye and says, “come here.”
Pink-cheeked, Seokjoon seats himself in Seongil’s lap without hesitation. He puts his arms around Seongil’s neck without needing to be told to, lacing his fingers together at the nape of Seongil’s neck, and his weight is warm and familiar.
One kiss, gentle and soft, on Seokjoon’s lips because he can’t help himself. Seongil says quietly, “sweetheart, thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” Seokjoon says, brushing it off even as he looks pleased at Seongil’s reaction.
Seongil doesn’t want to let him downplay it.
“It’s lovely,” he insists. He cups Seokjoon’s face in his palms and kisses him again, keeping it chaste. “You’re lovely, aren’t you?”
His blush intensifies and he wriggles atop Seongil’s thighs, scrunching up his nose.
“You really like it?” Seokjoon asks.
He’s not fishing for compliments, Seongil knows. He just wants to make sure, wants to hear that Seongil is happy.
Seongil nods and pats Seokjoon’s cheek and totally fails to rein in his grin.
“Good,” Seokjoon says, and he smiles back just as helplessly.