Work Text:
The mid-April chill still holds Kuopio in a pale, quiet grip, but inside the sunroom, the air is thick with the scent of stale black coffee, melting snow dripping off the eaves, and the wooden resonance of an acoustic guitar. Sheet paper is scattered across the low table, scribbled with crossed-out lines, ink smudges, and stray chords. Outside, the pine trees sway gently against a slate-gray sky, but inside, the focus is entirely locked on the delicate, aching rhythm of a melody that is slowly finding its spine.
Tuomas sits hunched over his notebook, his long fingers trailing over the keys of an unamplified synthesizer, testing intervals that feel like falling snow. Marko leans back on the worn leather sofa opposite him, the acoustic resting on his knee, his thumbs absently picking at a faded copper string. They are supposed to be crafting the piece for *Lieksa!*—the film project whose director approached them to capture something romantic, tragic, and fiercely living—but the work moves in slow, intimate waves, punctuated by long silences and shared glances that carry nine years of marriage between them.
Marko leans forward, his chest expanding as he draws in a breath, his fingers finding a soft, minor arc on the fretboard. He closes his eyes, his rough voice quiet, raspy, and stripped of all theatricality:
"Sweet little words made for silence, not talk
Young heart for love, not heartache
Dark hair for catching the wind
Not to veil the sight of a cold world..."
The words hang in the quiet room, fragile and raw. Tuomas doesn't look up immediately; his hands pause over the keys, his dark eyes fixed on the ink bleeding into the paper. The sentiment hits a quiet, tender nerve—a reminder of youth, of preservation, of trying to shield something beautiful from the harsh edges of reality. He breathes out softly, his own voice barely more than a whisper as he completes the thought, filling the space Marko left open.
"... Kiss while your lips are still red," Tuomas adds, the words carrying a quiet, weighted pull.
Before the last syllable fully settles, Marko tilts his head, a warmth breaking through his rugged expression. He shifts forward on the couch, setting the guitar aside with a soft clatter against the cushions, and bridges the small distance between them. His broad hand reaches up to cup the back of Tuomas’s neck, calloused fingers catching in dark hair, pulling him in without hesitation.
The kiss is sudden, warm, and entirely grounded in the familiar rhythm of their lives. Tuomas yields immediately, his shoulders dropping as the subtle tension in his posture dissolves. Marko’s beard scratches against his cheek, familiar and comforting, and as Marko presses deeper, a quiet breath catches in Tuomas’s chest before dissolving into genuine, helpless warmth. The kiss breaks into a soft, breathless sound, and both men laugh directly into each other’s mouths, forehead to forehead, their breaths mingling in the cool air of the room.
Tuomas pulls back just an inch, his lips still flushed, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he taps a pen against the edge of his notebook to feign discipline. "The film is coming out in September. If you keep this up, we won't finish until July."
Marko’s grin broadens, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners with easy, forty-one-year-old patience. He doesn't move his hand from Tuomas’s neck, his thumb lazily tracing the line of his jaw. "Let's make it August," Marko murmurs, his tone rich with affectionate defiance, completely unbothered by deadlines or the press of time.
Tuomas lets out a soft sigh, the laughter fading into something deeper, quieter, and infinitely more complicated. "Muru..." he starts softly, the Finnish endearment slipping out with an unconscious tenderness, but the word carries an unintended gravity that lingers in the air between them.
The laughter quietly ebbs, leaving a fragile stillness in its wake. In the sudden quiet, the distant, muffled sound of footsteps drifts from the hallway—the small, quick pitter-patter of six-year-old twins, Antto and Miro, playing in the adjacent room. The sound of their bright, unstructured joy is a constant, living pulse in the house, but for Tuomas, it occasionally pulls at a dark, buried thread.
Looking at Marko’s steady, unshakeable frame, Tuomas is briefly dragged backward in time—six years prior, to the panic that had clawed at his chest when the reality of fatherhood had first loomed over him. He remembers the terror of feeling utterly unready, the overwhelming urge to run from a responsibility he felt unfit to bear, and the sharp, agonizing arguments when he had pleaded for an escape. He remembers Marko standing ground like a oak in a storm, fiercely refusal to let go of the life they were creating, refusing an abortion, holding the line until Tuomas eventually found his footing.
Even now, surrounded by the warmth of the home they built, the shadow of that old self-loathing occasionally returns to bruise his pride. He looks at Marko, knowing how close he had come to missing all of this, haunted by the ghost of his own past reluctance.
Marko, ever attuned to the subtle shifts in Tuomas’s atmosphere, feels the sudden quiet settle over his husband. The teasing light in his eyes softens into something deeply protective. He doesn't push, nor does he offer empty reassurances; he simply shifts his weight, sliding closer on the bench and bringing his other hand up to hold Tuomas’s face with a firm, grounding pressure.
"You're here, Tuomas," Marko says quietly, his voice a low, steady anchor that pulls Tuomas back from the edge of his own thoughts. "Right here. With me."
Tuomas blinks, the cool shadow clearing from his gaze as he looks back into Marko’s solid, unwavering eyes. He rests his hand over Marko's wrist, feeling the pulse beneath the skin, grounding himself in the absolute reality of the present. The past is a song already written, but this—the music, the home, the life they continue to choose together—is what stays. He lets out a long, slow breath, resting his forehead against Marko's shoulder for a brief, quiet moment before leaning back to look at the lyrics on the table. The lines on the page seem clearer now, stripped of pretense.
"Alright," Tuomas says, his voice steadying, a subtle, real warmth returning to his tone as he taps the paper again. "From the top then. Let's make sure it's perfect."
Marko smiles, reaching back for his guitar, his thumb finding the familiar chord as the quiet afternoon settles back around them.