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The touch across his hand is fleeting—loving, warm—but they both know he prefers it so.
(Would prefer it to not be there at all, if it weren’t for the man doing it.)
“Song Lan,” Xiao Xingchen starts, smile on both his face and in his words, “you are the love of my life.
“But you still have to do the dishes tonight.”
There’s soft laughter in the hall—a snicker, a giggle—that warms both his heart and his face. His family are the only ones who can bring out his love and his shame all at once; the only ones he would allow to do so.
“I’m not trying to get out of it,” he protests, mostly feigning his offense, “I just need new gloves. I’ll be back in ten minutes at the most.”
He’s already got his car keys in hand, having only returned to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water for the trip. The dishes in question remain a medium-sized pile on the right-hand side of the sink across from he and his husband.
“Were the others molding already?” Xingchen raises an eyebrow. “We just bought them two weeks ago...”
“It was likely the brand.” Song Lan gestures to the deconstructed box leaning against their trash can. “My usual one was sold out at the time.”
Then, because Xingchen had been the one to suggest the secondary option back then and Song Lan knows he will blame himself, “Or maybe I just took over dish-washing duty too much. The kids do like to say I’m soft on you.”
His husband laughs (nearly doubling over, far too amused, but pride floods through his being anyway), leaning back against the countertop to steady himself. “‘Not trying to get out of it,’ was it, A-Lan?”
Xingchen gives him no opportunity to answer, though they both know he wasn’t looking for one, as he steps forward. Song Lan, both consciously and not, leans ever-closer to him, and the gap is closed with a kiss.
(“Hey, I don’t really get it; if you’ve got that myso-whatever that makes you hate being touched, why do you let Baba do it?”
“Ya big dummy, it’s because they’re in love. Love makes people do weird stuff all the time.”
“It isn’t ‘weird’; and it’s not solely because we’re in love, either. Though I suppose my love for you two has been what helps me carry you, sometimes...”
“A-Die, are you saying we’re weird?!”
“That’s like insulting us! You’re basically saying you hate us!”
“When I just said I love you? I know you two know better than that.
“Sometimes, there’s just someone in your life that you’re so comfortable with, the things that normally bother you simply don’t anymore. There can be just one person, or there can be a few, but often, there may only be one. That person, for me, is Baba—is Xingchen.”)
“Be safe driving, A-Lan; the plows came through not that long ago, but it’s snowed a little more since.”
He hums, for just a moment, turning to the kitchen window. Even now, little flurries are falling from the sky, gentle movements carrying them along with the breeze, to join the piles already on the ground. It’s nothing new; weather that comes every year. He has driven through worse, in sleet and rain and ice.
“I will.” He promises nonetheless, warmth spreading through his being again, as he turns to leave. He’s not foolish enough to be complacent; he knows his husband is simply looking out for him. Both are, of course, why he promises in the first place.
“Ah! And before I forget—
“—I love you.”
He pauses at the door to the garage. His hand is on the doorknob, turned just enough that he could push it open and leave. At one time, in a situation very similar, he did.
He doesn’t this time. Instead, Song Lan turns to face him, waiting for their eyes to meet once more, and smiles.