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Ryan loves Matt.
He loves his eccentricities, his quirks, his habits. He loves how passionate he is, how serious he is about his projects, but a jokester toward life.
He loves his laugh, high pitched and wild. He loves his crooked smile, crinkled eyes, lean body scrunching up of its own accord. Those bright blue eyes that seemed to soften when they meet his own. His long boney fingers, sliding into place between Ryan’s and squeezing tight. His eyelashes fluttering closed as he leans into him; those soft, plump lips that brush against his own.
The gorgeous, musical sounds that leave his lips when Ryan touches him, just right, just how he likes. The way his fingers grip the cool sheets, long body arching up in a bow, overwhelmed with sensations and feelings. The way Ryan’s name sounds on those lovely lips, breathy and with so much meaning, over and over, reminding Ryan that this boy, this amazing boy, is his.
“I love you,” it’s squeaked out between them, into the room one night, and Ryan all but stops. As much as he thinks it, repeats it to himself throughout every day, it’s not a reciprocation. And Matt could never know.
Matt’s eyes open, search for Ryan’s in the dark of the room and lock with them, icey blues glistening, and he asserts,
“I love you, Ryan.”
A dam is broken then, and neither of them can stop saying it. As a quiet greeting in the morning, hushed between kisses, little hearts in texts, barely audible murmurs before sleep takes them, legs intertwined and noses buried in necks. Ryan feels happier and more free than he thinks he has his entire life.
Matt loves Ryan.
He loves how dedicated he is, how naturally funny he is, how much he just cares. He loves, of course, his laugh, so filled with joy and always managing to make him smile, a warm endearance flooding through him with each guffaw.
He gets jealous; what used to be something he cherished has become something thousands of people celebrate. But it’s okay, as long as Ryan’s getting the recognition, the love, he so clearly deserves. And he does so love Ryan.
He loves his messy hair, his long eyelashes that tickle Matt’s cheeks, the pleasant scratch of his beard as those pretty pink lips press against his own sweetly. He loves how solid he is, how he can hold him down or maneuver him around so easily. He’d let him do whatever he wanted to him (and he does). He loves the soft sighs he lets out, the quiet encouragements when Matt touches him.
“I love you,” Ryan breathes out, like it’s a secret he’s kept locked up for years that’s finally escaped, and maybe he has, sliding his hand up and behind Matt’s neck to pull him in for a kiss, pools of brown boring into him, making his heart jump to his throat.
“I love you, Matt.”