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Yoo Joonghyuk yanked the headphones off and dropped them on the desk harder than he meant to. He sighs. His usually calm scent sharpened with irritation.
The stream had already ended — thankfully — but the echo of chat spamming SUPREME KING GOES DOWN in increasingly creative fonts was still burned into his retinas. Lost. To a newbie. A first-week player who had the nerve to out-position his team.
He sat there for a second, jaw tight, glaring at the black screen like it had personally wronged him.
Then he got up, because sulking wasn't going to fix anything and stalked toward the kitchen. Milk and Chips. His priorities whenever he's upset or irritated.
(his husband always makes fun of him for drinking milk even as a grown man, and he counters with he will drink his next which shuts him spluttering and blushing)
He drank straight from the carton — a crime Kim Dokja would definitely comment on if he saw it — and tore open a bag of chips with a scowl still carved into his face. He knew he was scowling. He could feel it. He didn't care.
(he just wants his husband to see it, scold him for tarnishing his handsome face, rub off the frown between his eyebrows gently and kiss his pout off)
With chips in hand, he wandered into the living room, and that's where he found his husband on the floor, cross-legged, a small mountain of tiny clothes in front of him, folding onesies with the terrifying focus that Joonghyuk asks for to clean the house.
Yoo Joonghyuk's gaze slid past him to the cradle. His son — six months old, fists curled by his ears, mouth slightly open — was fast asleep, chest rising and falling in that fragile, gentle rhythm.
something in his ribs loosened. His scowl softened.
He set the chips down without a word, crossed the room, and folded himself down behind husband, arms wrapping around his waist, face pressing into the curve of his neck. His own scent wrapping around the gentler and more lovely scent of old books and tulips, making his scent gentle and unknotting the tension on his shoulders.
Failure, even as a small coincidental game, hurts. But with just his husband's scent, everything washes away.
His husband blinked, leaning back into the hold without stopping to fold. (And irritation flares up in his chest that his husband wouldn't even pause as stupid as folding clothes when HE'S upset. It's immature and stupid, yes. Does he care? he doesn't give a fuck) "What? Lost a fight?"
A grunt was the only answer he could manage — muffled, indignant, entirely unhelpful as far as actual words went. But his husband understands him easily.
"Try being more strategic instead of bulldozing through everything next time." A hand came up, patting his head like he was a large dog.
Yoo Joonghyuk opened his mouth to protest the sheer audacity of getting lectured when he'd come here for comfort — but his husband turned his face and pressed a kiss to his cheek before he could get a word out.
"It's okay. This happens sometimes. At least you learned something — you'll be better next time." A small, fond huff of laughter. "You're the supreme king, after all. As expected of my husband."
And then, infuriatingly, he just went back to folding. Like he hadn't said anything at all. Like he hadn't just short-circuited every irritated thought in Yoo Joonghyuk's head.
As expected of my husband.
Warmth pooled low in his stomach, climbing up into his face in a slow deep blush.
Damn it.
Thirteen years. Thirteen years and counting, since he'd first met this man, and one touch, one stupid offhand compliment, still turned him into this. Shouldn't partners get used to each other by now? Shouldn't it get, like, boring or predictable, secure in the way that stopped making his pulse do this?
It didn't. It never did.
He tightened his arms around his husband's waist and said nothing, hiding the worst of his expression against his husband's shoulder.
He loved this squid. Infuriatingly, hopelessly, thirteen years and counting.
Yoo Joonghyuk peppered kisses along the pale curve of his neck. "Stupid idiot. Ugly squid. I love you."
"Hey! Was that an insult or a compliment?"
"Both."
His husband groaned as Yoo Joonghyuk laughed against his skin, chin finding his shoulder as he settled back to watch him fold — or, more accurately, to watch him, the folding little more than an excuse to stay close.
"Let's have dinner tonight."
"We always have dinner at night, Joonghyuk-ah."
"I mean candles. Romantic style."
His husband arched an eyebrow, a teasing smile creeping onto his lips. "Oh? Someone's in a romantic mood."
"I don't appreciate you enough."
"Hm?"
"I should treasure you more. What if you feel unappreciated? What if you decide to leave me for someone else?"
"...Joonghyuk-ah, we've been together thirteen years."
"So?" Yoo Joonghyuk nuzzled into his neck, pressing another kiss there — because apparently that was just where his mouth lived now. "Romance can die even after thirteen years. What if some handsomer man comes along and you choose him instead? You're already a sucker for a pretty face."
The looks-sucker Kim dokja considered this calmly. "Relax. I already have a kid with you. My leaving percentage is lower than the chance of me eating a tomato."
Yoo Joonghyuk didn't know whether to laugh or despair at the realization that his own son was apparently the glue holding his marriage together. He scoffed instead. "Idiot. You'll pay for upsetting me like this."
He pushed his husband down onto the floor and kissed him — hard, unhurried, thorough.
Kim Dokja squeaked, fingers flying up to grip his shoulders, cheeks going pink. "H-hey, Joonghyuk-ah-! wait, our son is right there—"
"He's six months old. And asleep."
"Yoo Joonghyuk!"
With a sigh that fooled absolutely no one, Joonghyuk lifted him off the floor entirely, his husband's legs locking around his waist on instinct as the kiss never once broke, carrying him out of the bedroom like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Kim Dokja had a distinct, sinking feeling that he would not be walking properly tomorrow.
At least Yoo Joonghyuk would be doing all the chores as penance.