Work Text:
The morning sun filters through the cracked blinds of Sol’s temporary kitchen, illuminating a hazy stream of dust motes dancing in the air. The space is a stark contrast to the pristine, meticulously curated home they used to share. Here, the countertops are a slightly outdated formica, and the linoleum floors have a persistent squeak, but none of that seems to matter right now. Spread across the table are scrambled eggs, toasted everything bagels, and scallion pancakes, paired with the leftover crab rangoon Sol ordered last night.
Across from him, Robert takes a slow, deliberate sip from his mug. They are still navigating the fragile, quiet aftermath of their reconciliation. The wound from Sol's brief, regretted infidelity with Frankie is still fresh, a ghost sitting between them, but the tension is finally beginning to soften into something resembling their old rhythm. Sol watches Robert over the rim of his own coffee cup, his eyes carrying a familiar, anxious hopefulness. He is hyper-aware of every shift in Robert’s posture, desperately wanting to ensure this fragile peace doesn't shatter.
Suddenly, the fragile quiet is obliterated. The ceiling begins to vibrate as a heavy, thumping bass line tears through the plaster. It’s an aggressive, modern hip-hop track, the kind with rapid-fire hi-hats and a bass turn so intense it causes the silverware on the table to rattle against the ceramic plates. The eccentric neighbor upstairs has apparently started their day, and they want the entire neighborhood to know it.
Robert freezes, his mug halfway to his mouth. He blinks, staring up at the ceiling as a light dusting of drywall debris flakes down onto the toaster. He lowers his mug slowly, his brow furrowing into a deep, unimpressed V. "Does this happen a lot?" Robert asks, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the booming subwoofers upstairs.
Sol offers a small, sheepish shrug, his shoulders drawing up to his ears. "Every day."
Robert closes his eyes for a brief moment, as if praying for strength or perhaps just a moment of silence. When he opens them, he pushes his chair back. The screech of the wooden legs against the linoleum pairs terribly with the music, and he stands up to his full height. He smoothes down the front of his perfectly pressed button-down shirt, his jaw setting into a firm, resolute line.
Watching him, Sol’s stomach does a nervous little flip. He worries a bit because his husband is looking like he's about to go upstairs and go all lawyer on their asses. Sol can already picture it: Robert using his most commanding courtroom cadence, citing local noise ordinances and tenant rights, escalating a simple neighborhood nuisance into a full-blown deposition. Sol half-expects him to march out the door and straight up the stairwell to deliver a stern, terrifying lecture on basic human decency.
Instead, Robert takes two steps around the table and stops right in front of Sol.
He doesn't head for the door. He doesn't even look toward the ceiling anymore. Instead, Robert softens his posture, the sharp, litigious edge melting off his face to reveal a faint, affectionate amusement. He holds out his arms, his palms open and inviting, tilting his head slightly to the beat of the loud track blasting from above. He invites Sol to dance with him. Sol blinks up at him, momentarily stunned by the gesture. Then, a warm, genuine smile breaks across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
The lingering anxiety in his chest dissipates, replaced by a wave of profound relief. He reaches out, placing his hands in Robert’s, and lets his husband pull him up from the chair and into a steady, comforting embrace amidst the noise.