Work Text:
It’s not often that Zen comes home to find his boyfriend already in his small basement apartment. Even more rare to catch him cleaning. Zen wasn’t a slob, not like Saeran’s brother, but there was usually a small amount of clutter. He had a bad habit of leaving his scripts lying around, a few dishes in the sink, jackets and sweaters hanging wherever he’d taken them off.
The first sign that Saeran was here was the neat pile of scripts sitting under an ashtray on the coffee table. They were both quitting, or trying to if he was honest, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to throw this particular ashtray out. He’d stolen it from the first theatre he’d preformed at. A small dinner theatre that paid terribly but hired nobodies.
The next thing he notices is the sweater he likes to pull on after rehearsal isn’t draped over the chair where he left it.
He can hear quiet music, something fast sung with a rasping voice that makes his throat hurt just thinking about it. He considers going straight to his room, changing out of his sweaty rehearsal clothing before he finds his boyfriend but he’s a little put out that Saeran hasn’t noticed he’s come home. It’s been over a year and he hadn’t been able to so much sneak into a room unnoticed by the smaller man.
He’s almost disappointed that no one has greeted him with something biting and sarcastic, punctuated by some version of the word fuck. So instead he turns towards his small kitchen. What he sees is enough to warrant forgiveness.
The music is quiet because it’s playing from a pair of headphones sitting around Saeran’s neck. Zen takes a moment to follow the muscles of his boyfriends back under his fitted black tshirt, the bottom of his new cover-up tattoo peeking from beneath the sleeve. Bright inviting flowers on a thick ominous vine that Saeran had designed himself.
But really the payoff for catching his boyfriend unawares is the fact that he’s dancing at the sink, not his usual stiff swaying, it’s undulating hips, a rolling waist and— Zen pauses in his appreciation. Saeran is wearing shorts, not just any shorts. These are Zen’s running shorts. The tight cropped retro looking shorts that Saeran had teased him for buying.
Though he would never admit it he’d only really bought them to tease his boyfriend, but here he was watching Saeran dancing while he worked and he’s almost positive that as good as his ass looked in anything, it didn’t hold a candle to Saeran’s in this moment.
Nothing he’d experienced in his life to this moment was as perfect as Saeran belting out a line from whatever he’s listening to, or the dramatic spin he threw into his dance. Nothing beat the clatter and splash of the metal bowl he dropped into the sink or the flurry of curses he calls out to the dirty dishwater, refusing to turn around and look at Zen.
He tries not laugh when Saeran grasps the edge of the sink and hangs his head. He tries not howl as he watches his boyfriend’s ears turn red and listens to him continuing to curse under his breath. Instead he takes a slow step forward, waiting to see if Saeran will turn. A smirk firmly stuck on his face as he waits for the string of insults his adorably embarrassed lover will casually fling at him.
Saeran doesn’t turn, so he takes another careful step forward, and then a third and then he slips his arms around Saeran’s waist, pulling him close and pressing his face to his shoulder.
“Babe,” he says softly, but there’s the edge of a laugh in the word and he can feel Saeran tense as he moves his arms to unplug the headphones, slip them over his head and set them on the counter. “That was really cute, Babe.”
“You’re a fucking asshole,” Saeran grumbles, but Zen can feel him relax as he trails chaste kisses up his neck.
“I thought you hated those shorts,” Zen says, eyebrow quirked when Saeran turns around, still pink cheeked and frowning.
“There was half a can of beer under your stupid fucking hoodie,” Saeran grumbles, “and you’re worse at doing your laundry than Saeyoung, so these were all I could find when I spilled it on my god damned pants ok.”
Zen’s hands trail along Saeran’s side’s over his hips and around to cup his backside, fingers slipping just below the hem and digging into the soft skin there as he pulls him closer. “Keep them,” he grunts, covering Saeran’s mouth with his own before dragging him into the bedroom.