너 나 우리

the clock blinked 02:04 AM in gentle white digits as wonpil sat curled up on their living room couch, the only light coming from the dim floor lamp by the corner of their bookshelf. bruno major’s song softly played from the old record player, some dusty finds younghyun insisted on buying at a flea market last fall. wonpil had stopped checking his phone an hour ago. the home and garden’s magazine long forgotten. he was used to the waiting by now.

few moments later, wonpil heard a voice, a breathy huff, then the unmistakable beep of their lock being tested. if failed twice, then a short chime of protest, before finally clicking open. wonpil could only shake his head in quiet defeat.

he’s home.

he heard soft chuckles, then younghyun stumbled in with the clumsiness of someone who'd had too much fun. he chuckled again. his cheeks were flushed a deep wine red, and his coat was halfway off his shoulder. in one hand he clutched his shoes; in the other, he hugged a crumpled brown paper bag to his chest which wonpil figured, two bottles of wine. empty.

wonpil said nothing at first. he simply watched as younghyun kicked off his shoes, missing the mat completely, as always, then pouted, squinted at him, and grinned.

“i am home!,” younghyun announced happily.

“you smell like steak and merlot,” wonpil said.

younghyun chuckled, as if that was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard. “steak! yes but sauvignon. fancy stuff. you’d have liked it.”

wonpil’s fingers curled a little tighter around the lettuce blanket draped over his lap. “you said you'd be home by eleven.”

oh shit

younghyun’s grin faltered slightly, but only for a moment. then, with dramatic grin, he held up the paper bag. “but i brought you these!,” he said. “the bottles were so pretty. your calendulas and pink roses are perfect for this.”

this wasn’t the first time. in fact, this was just how younghyun got when he was drunk—in wine, and very much in love. the first time it happened, he’d told wonpil that the empty wine bottle reminded him of his husband. wonpil, understandably confused, had asked about it the next day. and that’s when he knew romance ran in younghyun veins. “people use them as vases,” younghyun had said, dead serious. “and your flowers just fit perfectly in them.”

it had become a habit since then, inevitable, really, whenever younghyun and wine bottles crossed paths.

wonpil sighed and shook his head, even as he found himself standing, walking toward him like he always did “you bring me your scrap and call it romantic.”

younghyun let out a soft little “hehe,” his voice gentle. “you love it anyway, you love mother earth and you love me anyway.”

he stumbled forward and rested his head against wonpil’s shoulder, arms loosely wrapping around his waist. he was warm and heavy, and smelled like wine and the night air and something that always reminded wonpil of youth, comfort and home.

“i think about you when i’m out, i think about my husband a lot,” younghyun murmured, almost dreamily. “every time i see something, i see you and thought wonpil would make this beautiful. he’d fill it with something alive.”

wonpil closed his eyes. he hated how easily those words chipped away at his anger. how even drunk, younghyun could say the kind of things that left him breathless.

“you’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered.

“no, i cannot allow that,” younghyun replied, nuzzling into his chest like a sleepy cat.

wonpil let out a laugh he hadn’t meant to give. he wrapped his arms around younghyun, fingers combing through messy hair, and kissed the top of his head.

“come on,” he said. “let’s get you to bed and tomorrow, we’ll plant more flowers. you can pick which bottle they go in.”

“mmm,” younghyun hummed, already half-asleep, smile lopsided. “perfect husband. date tomorrow garden! my favoritee.” he’s drunk indeed. “wonpil, i love you so much, my baby, and i hope you love me more than your plants.”

wonpil paused. he looked down at younghyun, at the peaceful expression on his face, and felt his heart ache with how much he loved this idiot man.

“you really are hopeless,” he murmured, and kissed him again, softly. “of course, i love you more, silly.”

it’s natural.