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Wu Ming-Han loves his husband. Loves his stupid pretty curly hair. Loves his fashion sense he used to swear was ugly. Loves his bright smile that makes his heart want to cry and sing the sweetest symphony of love not even Mozart or Beethoven could recreate. Loves his dumb sense of humor that somehow gets them both laughing with every joke.
Ming-han doesn’t know what he did to deserve his husband, but whatever it is he did, he’s grateful he did it. He’s grateful for every laugh, every moment together, every kiss. He’s grateful to be able to wake up in the morning to that beautiful face, and being able to admire it before getting up to make breakfast.
“Ming-han. Wu Ming-Han. Hubby.” Pang-yu nudges his shoulder in a desperate attempt to gain his attention. It works, because now Ming-han’s eyes are on him, greedy as ever, taking in everything he can; his pink lips, his eyes, the way his ring fit perfectly against his ring finger.
“What now?” Ming-han snaps back, though it’s not with malice, which Pang-yu knows, from a year of being married and three of being romantically involved.
“I want a kiss, hubby.” Pang-yu looks at him with those adorable puppy eyes that make him wonder if he and Mao Jr. were twins, and how could he say no to that? Ming-han sighs (lovingly, because he loves Pang-yu way too much), and leans in all the way, kissing him right on the lips, a hand placed tenderly on the back of his neck, the other grabbing his hand, squeezing gently, but still hard enough for him to feel it.
Pang-yu leans back against the armrest of the couch, the one they’d kissed on, laughed on, watched tv on, made love on, almost everything, pulling Ming-han down with him. Ming-han pulls away, finding comfort in the hand that was gently rubbing his shoulder and the pout Pang-yu had on his face. He was totally tempted to kiss it right off.
“Was that good enough for you, hubby?” Ming-han laughs, leaning in and rubbing his nose up against Pang-yu, who laughs in response. His hand lets go of his husband’s hand, both of his hands finding their place at the small of his waist, thumbs rubbing circles into the fabric of his shirt.
“Yeah, but I think you could give me one more for extra measure.” Pang-yu lets his now free hand drift up to Ming-han’s other shoulder.
“Only because I’m nice.” Ming-han leans in, connecting their lips again, letting his hand now travel down his torso, down his hip, to his leg, stopping right above his knee, lifting it as a sign for Pang-yu to put it around his waist, which he did.
When he pulls away again, Pang-yu is smiling, that same smile that always made him weak.
“We’re going to bed.” Ming-han abruptly says and picks Pang-yu up over his shoulder, who shrieks but doesn’t protest.