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It had been a long fucking day. These days they’re always long fucking days. Finals time is hell, not only for the students but for the professors too. And for whatever damn reason, Chris had decided he wanted it to follow him all the way until retirement. Seb always says he’s out of his mind for working as a professor of all things. Not even as a primary school teacher where he’s surrounded by cute kids asking stupid questions all day, but instead in a room with five hundred adults who, essentially, can’t be bothered to give a single fuck about anything he says unless he threatens them with not uploading the lecture slides. And he isn’t a monster, so he always uploads them anyway. It wouldn’t be fair to those with a job or otherwise more important things to do than listen to a 39-year-old man in a brown tweed jacket, who religiously misplaces his glasses on his mess of a desk, rave on and on about American politics.
He’s well aware that his subject isn’t the most loved. By him, yes, after all he had spent years on his PhD so he was undeniably passionate about it. For his students though, the loads of technical terms and theories, coupled with the inherent feeling of politics being irrevocably disconnected from real life made it hard to put frustrations aside and approach the topic with an open mind. But they’re trying, some of them at least, and that’s all he can expect really.
He knows that part of why they love asking so many questions is because he gets carried away easy as anything. Subsequently, he doesn’t manage to get through all of the material he had planned for the day which in turn results in his students having to work through it at home, so when it comes down to it, they really haven’t gained anything. For a short moment though, it feels to them like they have outsmarted him, and Chris won’t deny them this short-lived feeling of satisfaction. It used to be the only thing that succeeded in giving him that last bit of motivation he needed to make it through his long, boring days filled with knowledge he refused to recognize the importance of, and that special breed of constant underlying pressure that’s so eerily unique to the college experience. Now, luckily, that’s all in his past.
He’s been an unmotivated student himself; he understands it. What he also understands is the feeling of dread when you realize that you really should’ve studied when you still had the time and not only 24 hours until the exam that could fuck up your entire education that you’re paying a shitload of money for. So yeah, he gets it.
Doesn’t mean he enjoys answering the simplest of questions over and over again though. Or somehow trying to reassure his panicking first semester students that everything will be fine and yes, they’re all multiple-choice questions and no, there are no points reduced for wrong answers – without straight up handing them the exam beforehand so that they can learn it by heart and get the A they’re so desperately dependent on. Sometimes he seriously contemplates it, what with the tears and genuine worry and understanding that, for some of them, education is the only option to make a life for themselves. He doesn’t want to lose his job though. He’s more use to his students when he’s still legally able to practice the profession he loves.
He loves answering all the smart, and sometimes even the stupid, questions, seeing his students’ satisfied nods because they’ve just gotten a bit closer to understanding the issue. He loves explaining theories and constitutions and realizing he’s still got it after all this time, that he can still make a student in the exhilarating throes of napping jerk their head up because he’s mentioned the word ‘exam’. It also gets a laugh out of the others and consequently makes them pay attention for at least the following three minutes. Chris knows to count his victories, no matter how small.
What Chris loves most about his job though? Coming home.
He walks up to their cozy little townhouse and takes the three steps up to the porch that’s always littered with leaves, because Chris can’t get himself to ask someone to cut down the big tree standing right in front of the living room window. He rifles through his bag in search of his keys. They seem to have the magical ability to end up in the deepest recesses of his favorite brown briefcase. He sighs to himself, silently looking up at the tree, asking it why he never remembers to simply get his keys out of his bag before he dumps all his books into it.
Lost in pushing his stuff about, he thinks of how Seb makes a habit of complaining about the tree at least once each season, even though they both know that Chris’s heart wouldn’t be able to take it if his beautiful tree would suddenly lack ten branches, not to mention be reduced to nothing but a cut-off trunk. He shudders at the idea of it.
Then he remembers how the briefcase had been a gift from his mum when he got his PhD, a night full of laughter and drinks and good people, ending with Lisa loudly announcing that she had something very special to give to her son, warning him about getting a big head just because he’s got a Doctorate now and not to forgot all about her. She knows that Chris could never forget her, not in a million years, but Chris also knows that it was her way of admitting she wasn’t so sure what this new step in his life would mean for their relationship, where it would take him, if it would still be the same with the changes that were right around the corner. The next day Chris told her that MIT had chosen him to cover for the suddenly ill American Politics professor. That he would stay in Concord. They might have cried into each other’s shoulders. The Evans family was prone to do that.
To this day, Chris still isn’t entirely sure if the briefcase was a gag gift and no level of intoxication will make Lisa spill the beans. He’s tried it. Regardless, not a workday goes by without Chris carrying it through the doors of his workplace, not an ounce of shame about being exactly as stereotypical a professor as he could possibly be.
Chris swears under his breath when he can’t find his keys, ripped from sappy memories by his own impatience. He just wants to get through the damn door, it really shouldn’t be such a feat for someone who makes a living by throwing overcomplicated words at unknowing 20-something-year-olds. By the time he finds them, Dodger has already picked up on the familiar sounds coming from beyond the front door and starts barking like he’s just seen a hundred squirrels. Chris loves that his dog loves him as much as a hundred squirrels. It really means a lot to him that Dodger holds him in such high regard.
With Dodger’s barking comes the sound of the front door opening and his beautiful – always beautiful, inside and out and everywhere in between – husband saying in that patented baby-voice, “Your dad can’t find his keys again, can he? Yeah, I know boy, he’s so silly, I agree. Lucky he’s got us though, isn’t he?”. Dodger runs up to Chris, whipping his shins with his fluffy tail as if to punish him for taking so long to find the offending set of keys.
Chris can’t really argue with him on that one, so he lets his briefcase drop in favor of squishing Dodger’s face between his hands and rubbing behind his floppy ears. He’s the cutest dog Chris has ever seen. He’s so happy to come home to this big heart walking on four white paws, always making him feel like he’s worth being loved. It’s one of the best feelings in the world.
Seb chuckles, drawing Chris’s attention to him. “When you’re ready to stop playing long lost lovers, you can have dinner with me. That is if I’m deemed acceptable company for you two lovebirds.”
And what is Chris to say in the face of such blatant love wrapped up in sassy remarks, delivered by that honey-sweet voice? He really doesn’t know. After all this time, Sebastian still steals his words, his breath, his heart away like it’s only been two dates and a stolen half hour during lunch break.
Chris gives Dodger one final kiss on his fuzzy head – at least final for the next five minutes; he can never deny his pup cuddles for long – and moves over to his husband who’s leaning on the wooden door frame like he’s modelling the old, dark blue hoodie he’s wrapped up in for some kind of high fashion magazine.
Sometimes it’s still hard to believe that Sebastian Stan has married him, Chris Evans, and lives with him in a house they chose together, in the city Chris grew up in and with his family only a stone’s throw away, with a dog they both equally adore and a ring on Chris’s finger that he hasn’t taken off in so long, he doesn’t even know if he still could without ripping his skin right off with it. A fitting metaphor, he thinks, for how it feels when he imagines not having Sebastian in his life anymore.
Chris unconsciously rubs his fingers over the silver band, realizing that he’s been quiet for a little too long, in the way that only the people closest to you know to interpret as a sign of distress, and tries to make up for it by putting his hands on the side of Seb’s neck, letting himself feel the way his ring presses into the soft skin. A reminder of sorts.
Blue-grey eyes study his every expression, long fingers come to dig into his waist through the slightly scratchy material of his jacket, a soft voice asks him, “Long day, huh? Go inside and get comfy, we’ll have dinner in bed”, and Chris is helpless to do anything but squeeze that lovely long neck a bit tighter and press a tender kiss to plush red lips.
“Thank you, honey. You’re the best.”
A truth he feels should be universally acknowledged. There is no human being kinder, more loving, than Sebastian Stan and yet it’s only Chris who’s privy to this truth. Love works in mysterious ways, as Carly’s favorite singer put it so aptly.
Sebastian steps out of his way, his hands brushing down his spine and coming to rest on his lower back, gently guiding Chris into the house. Coming home feels like a miracle.
The small hallway is littered with shoes, just like the coat rack is full of jackets wrestling for a hook to hang onto, lest they make acquaintance with Dodger’s designated dirty rug lying rumpled on the hardwood floors. It’s too much of a pain to clean the floor every time they take Dodger out for a walk in bad weather – he must be at least sixty percent pig with how much he loves jumping into puddles and rolling around in mud. Which is why, one day, Seb had come home from a trip into town, a rolled-up, ugly brown rug tucked between his arm and ribs and a shit-eating grin on his face. Chris had fallen in love with him all over again. The rug had ended up on the floor, with Dodger immediately taking a liking to it judging by the happy snuffles that could be heard from where Chris and Seb had stumbled their way to the couch. Laughter between kisses, because Chris was ridiculous, getting turned on by his then-still-boyfriend bringing home a cheap hideous rug for their dog to clean his muddy paws on.
With a smile, and with a silent thanks to the coat rack for not having caved under the weight of all of Seb’s designer jackets yet, Chris stuffs his jacket onto the others, toes off his shoes and nudges them into a relatively straight line next to all their other pairs. He loves these little proofs of how entangled their lives are, clothes and books and pictures and hearts mixed up in every corner of the home they share together.
The hallway opens up to the open plan kitchen. Chris’s favorite chair at the island that separates the kitchen space from the living room accepts his weight just as graciously as it does every evening. The marble countertop helpfully cools his forehead when he lets his head thunk down onto it. Chris silently thanks it too. Seb makes a sympathetic noise from somewhere to his left but Chris can’t find the energy to look up at him right now.
Chris is well aware that he’s being a cry-baby. Coming home to be welcomed at the door by his husband who has dinner ready, takes one look at him and decides he’s bringing him the aforementioned dinner in bed warrants way more than slumping into a chair and having a silent minor pity party for oneself. He should get his shit together. Sebastian works too, it’s not as if Chris is the only one with reason to be exhausted. This day just really has been a long one.
As if Seb can read his mind – and who knows, maybe he can. He has always understood Chris like no one else does – a hand combs through Chris’s hair (a bit longer than his usual style because he figured why not, it’s just hair, he can always cut it off if he doesn’t like it), followed by fingertips scratching his scalp, eliciting a loud sigh from Chris that echoes through the otherwise quiet kitchen.
“Go change. Me and Dodger will be there in a few.”
With a kiss to Chris’s hair, Seb moves around the island and starts getting bowls and cutlery out of the dark wooden cupboards. The movement snaps Chris out of his daze, his legs moving on autopilot to where Seb is standing in front of the sink now. With a nuzzle to his hair and a kiss to the nape of his neck, a silent ‘thank you’ as much as an ‘I love you’, Chris takes the briefcase he abandoned on the nearby chair and goes to their bedroom, calling for Dodger to follow him so that he can call dibs on the best spot on the bed.
Chris spoils his dog, he’s aware. He doesn’t give a fuck about it though. Dodger should get all the love and then some with what he’s been through and Chris was put on this earth to shower him in it.
The sigh Chris lets out upon taking off his stiff work clothes and changing into a comfy sweater and sweatpants must be downright indecent. The sweater smells like him and Sebastian and inevitably, irrevocably like home.
They tended to wear each other’s sweaters routinely, because they loved having each other’s scent against their skin. Chris always gets a bit emotional when he presses his nose into the collar and the smell of home envelops him so completely. It makes him believe that together, him and Seb can do everything. It’s a silly, unrealistic notion, but it does the trick when he feels like he’s lost control of his life.
The dark green formerly-fuzzy socks that Shana had gifted Chris as a housewarming gift – delivered with an encouraging smile and a “So you don’t get cold feet” that was definitely a threat to his well-being if he wouldn’t go through with marrying Sebastian like they were set to do in five months from then – are waiting patiently at the end of the bed where they had been pushed off the night before. By now they’re more holes than socks really, another thing that tells of the years they’ve been living here together. Chris pulls the socks on and tucks his pant legs in because he unashamedly is, as Sebastian likes to point out every single time he sees this particular fashion faux pas of Chris’s, a grandpa in a hot guy’s body. While Seb definitely isn’t wrong about that, it doesn’t stop Chris from calling him out on how his habit of wearing a damn newspaper boy hat of all things, is just as out of touch as Chris’s tucked in sweatpants.
With his outfit complete, Chris looks over at Dodger who is already lounging on the foot of the bed; his experience having taught him that he’ll just get pushed away if he plants himself right in the middle of the striped sheets. It’s a big bed but it’s not big enough for two grown men and a not-so-small dog to comfortably lie next to each other. It’s not the first time that Chris thinks maybe he should buy a bigger bed. But then Seb would have more space to roll away from him at night and Chris doesn’t approve of that at all. To exactly no one’s surprise, Chris is the clingier and more handsy one in their relationship, as opposed to Seb who has a tendency to stretch out during the night and escape from the loving prison of Chris’s arms. When they wake up in the morning and Chris’s first sensation is the warmth of a soft pillow instead of the lithe form of his husband’s body, often ends with him making up for the cuddle time lost during the night. And if there’s a blowjob or two involved, who can blame him? He’s got the sexiest man he’s ever seen in his bed and on top of that, through some miracle, said man happens to be his husband. Chris couldn’t possibly keep his hands away from all that soft skin. He’s only human. Not made to resist the pretty little noises his boy makes when Chris rolls him onto his stomach and kisses all the way down his knobbly spine just to stop right above his ass and elicit that deliciously desperate mewl Seb never manages to hide when Chris is teasing him. The fact that there is little that Chris adores more than hearing that noise and feel the accompanying wriggle of Seb’s body under his hands first thing in the morning doesn’t exactly help Sebastian’s predicament. Needless to say, they’re both definitely not winning any ‘most punctual employee of the year’-awards.
Chris drags his feet over to the bed and unceremoniously faceplants onto it, Dodger immediately moving over to lick his hair. Why he loves licking people’s hair, Chris has no idea. He’s given up on figuring out his dog’s weird habits a long time ago.
Over Dodger’s huffing sounds, Chris hears a familiar chuckle. A deep, rich sound that’s so at odds with the lean body it comes from.
“I see you’re wearing high fashion again.”
A tray is being set on the table next to the window opposite the bed. Chris feels a tap to his ankle and can’t help grumbling into the comforter and wriggling his toes, giggling when long fingers skim the underside of his socked foot. Seb is annoying and Chris loves him so damn much.
“I’m not the one wearing newspaper boy hats from at least five centuries ago,” Chris retorts, soaking in the familiarity of their jabs like a flower reveling in the first rays of sunshine. It’s refreshing in its well-known intimacy, teasing words caressing him like water droplets running down his skin.
Chris’s calf must bear the repercussions of falling so easily into step with his husband’s teasing, delicate fingertips pinching hard through the fabric of his sweatpants. Chris’s leg jumps. His heel accidentally hits Sebastian’s crotch.
“Fuck you, asshole. Don’t destroy the goods.” The wince in Seb’s voice is clear but so is his smile.
“Sorry, babe. I can massage it better?”
“No, you can’t. I’m not trusting you with my dick anymore.”
The noise Chris lets out is more animalistic than human, a panicked deer calling for help, or maybe it’s just a dramatic man fearing death of blue balls. The bed groans quietly when Chris turns onto his back abruptly, his hands reaching up and his eyes pleading for mercy. He isn’t ready. He’ll do anything to get dick-privileges back.
Sebastian just laughs, with crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his mouth wide open. Chris has thought it at least ten times today but he’ll think it again: Sebastian is beautiful. He’s radiating sunshine. He’s melting Chris’s heart. He has taken his soul and his life and everything he is and is keeping it safe in his loving hands.
The very same hands that are currently pulling Chris upright, to the edge of the bed, pushing his face into a soft, sweater clad stomach, and winding long fingers through his slightly overgrown hair. Chris nuzzles into the sweater. Once again reminded of the smell of home.
With a nuzzle further down Sebastian’s tummy, Chris mumbles “Don’t take your dick away from me. You know it’s what I love most about you.”
And Seb seems to be in the mood for hurting Chris today, because he – lightly – slaps the back of Chris’s head and pulls him back by his hair, a sweet smile never leaving his face.
“Shut up, Chris. Dinner is getting cold.”
Just like that, Chris is being abandoned on the bed, even Dodger leaving him in favor of begging Sebastian for his part of dinner.
Dramatically flopping backwards, Chris looks at his husband bringing over the tray with the deliciously smelling pasta dish that rudely reminds Chris of how he actually hasn’t eaten anything but a quick breakfast today, and feels the need to clarify, unnecessarily.
“You know I couldn’t possibly say what I love most about you, right? I love everything from your head to your toes and back again equally.”
Predictably, what Chris gets in response is Sebastian ducking his head, a pretty blush flushing his cheeks, and Chris rushes to act before Seb can interrupt him. Because he knows his husband, which means he knows exactly how utterly incapable he is of accepting a compliment, but also what buttons he needs to push to bring him into a headspace where he can.
Sitting up against the headboard on the side of the bed further from where Sebastian is currently standing, Chris pats the space next to him. It’s unneeded, Sebastian knows that Chris wants him near all the damn time. Still, it gets a smile out of him, as if he’s surprised that Chris wants him to sit on the bed, too and to be honest, Chris gets it; he, too, is still overwhelmed by the life they share.
Chris takes the tray from Sebastian’s hands so that he can tuck those coltish legs under the blanket. For a moment they just sit there, shoulder to shoulder, the tray of food on Chris’s lap, Sebastian’s hands folded in his own lap, sharing this moment of peace and perfection.
“Thank you for dinner, sweetheart, it smells amazing,” Chris says, his hand deliberately squeezing a lovely thick thigh, knowing Sebastian will understand that this is Chris telling him he’ll take over now.
“You’re so good to me, sugar, making me dinner, making me smile after a long day, even teasing me about my socks, letting me love you.”
A small huff escapes Sebastian’s mouth and Chris feels his face press into the crook of his neck. He kisses the fluffy brown hair, hiding a smile in soft dark curls and reminds himself that smiling won’t actually make them both less hungry. He heard Sebastian’s rumbling stomach a few minutes ago and he can’t let it be said that he doesn’t feed his husband.
He nudges Seb’s head up with a finger under his chin, looks him deep in the eyes, silently asking if Seb is okay with the turn of events, if Chris should take it slower or stop altogether. He knows how little it takes for his husband to willingly, almost instinctively surrender to Chris. To let himself be taken care of and grant them both the reprieve of forgetting the world for a bit. Which doesn’t mean that it’s something that always works for them. Sometimes the sweet words are too much for Sebastian to handle and instead of relaxing him, they make him anxious and doubting. Other times it’s Chris who doesn’t feel strong enough to take care of them both, doesn’t feel like he’ll properly be able to give Sebastian what he needs, and they don’t do these things half-assed. They made that mistake once, when they were still quite new to their relationship and this dynamic they occasionally indulge in was more for excitement than ease. The ensuing miserable feelings caused by their own distraction and carelessness had been a cruel, but efficient teacher. It brought them closer together, nurtured a newfound understanding, taught them to pay more attention, to check in with the other and themselves before diving headfirst into something that has the potential to – and did – hurt them both. Everything in life is a learning curve, Chris has to remind himself, even now.
Sebastian smiles back at him, eyes already a tiny bit hazy, his smaller body having automatically turned into Chris’s bigger one. He’s the best thing Chris could’ve ever wished for.
The tray set aside and only one plate of pasta left in Chris’s lap, he puts his arm around his husband and stabs pasta onto the fork in his free hand. With a squeeze to Seb’s shoulder, Chris says, “Open up, Sebby,” and he does so, beautifully, not a second’s hesitation, cloudy-sky eyes closed in cotton candy bliss and hands still folded in his lap as if his body is detached from his mind. It probably feels like that for him.
Chris brings the fork to his husband’s mouth, the warm silver pushing down on those sinful lips that pose such a contrast to the innocent look on his face, and Sebastian leans sideways a bit more, even further into Chris, as if just that little bit of care, being fed, being held, makes Chris his safe haven.
And Chris feels so privileged for so many reasons. His education, the entirely unfair advantages that come with being a white male – though he’d like for those advantages to not be advantages, the world should’ve really moved on from that by now –, his family, his friends, Dodger. Being Sebastian’s home though, the first person he turns to for advice and reassurance and love, that might be what Chris feels most privileged for. In a selfish, their-bubble-is-their-whole-world kind of way.
And right now, it is, right now they’re together. A decision made without words, to forget the outer world and revel in this space they’ve carved out for themselves.
Chris is startled out of his sappy reverie by hair tickling his throat, followed by Seb running the tip of his nose along it.
And if Chris would have to ever answer the question ‘What’s your Achilles heel?’ with more than ‘The people I love.’, he’d probably say ‘The tip of my husband’s nose.’. Which he’s very aware is stupid, it’s the damn tip of someone’s fucking nose, but then again, it’s not just anyone’s nose and it’s not just any nose and it’s not just any tip of anyone’s nose, it’s Sebastian Stan-Evans’s tip of Sebastian Stan-Evans’s nose and that makes it the cutest fucking thing Chris has ever seen or touched or kissed.
With Chris stuck in a reverie, mentally waxing poetic about noses, Seb makes a questioning little hum that gets his attention this time.
“I’m sorry, honey, I know you’re hungry, sorry.”
Sebastian presses a kiss to where his face is still buried in Chris’s neck in a way of reassuring him that it’s okay, Seb knows he gets lost in his own thoughts a lot, just wants to make sure they’re good thoughts and not anxiety. It needs conscious effort from Chris to not fall into another I-love-him-so-much rabbit hole.
Apparently, he doesn’t react fast enough, Sebastian’s head already not on his shoulder anymore, big round eyes searching Chris’s face for anything that might show even the barest hint of unease. And that’s all wrong, Sebastian’s head should be on Chris’s shoulder, Chris should feed him pasta, should hear happy soft noises, should look down and see closed eyes and relaxed shoulders and plush lips tugged up in a contented smile.
Chris pulls Seb back into his arms, strokes a hand over his hair, down his neck and his spine, resting at the small of his back, his fingers just barely touching the top of his ass. It’s one of his sweet spots and Chris is not above using that knowledge to his advantage. To get Seb back into his sweet headspace and far away from worrying about Chris and his overactive mind. It seems like they both need it today.
“Relax, baby, I’m good, never been better with you here in my arms, being so sweet, worrying about me even though there’s no reason to. Was just thinking about your cute little nose, sweetheart, how I love it so much, how I love you so much.”
Chris can tell Seb is torn between rolling his eyes, giggling and succumbing to Chris’s praise, which ends in him making the most adorable little huffy snorting noise into Chris’s neck and pulling his knees up so they’re resting over Chris’s thigh, trying to get even closer.
“I love you so much, too,” is being mumbled into Chris’s neck when he gets a bite of now lukewarm pasta onto the fork, fully intending to bring it to Sebastian’s mouth within the next two seconds. His mouth though, has other ideas.
Chris couldn’t stop himself from kissing down the side of Sebastian’s face, down to his lips, even if he wanted to; his subconscious, maybe even his instincts by now, his soul, something so deep in his bones and his heart, filling his entire body and threatening to burst with it, deciding for him that whenever his other half declares his love, Chris must give him a kiss, must try to convey how deeply, inexplicably grateful he is to be loved by him.
Sebastian understands all that, the feelings that are too all-consuming to put into words, and he never fails to let Chris know by humming into the tender press of their lips, his very own way of reassuring Chris he doesn’t care that he can’t find the words, that he feels the same way, forever and always.
For a few seconds, Chris just rests their foreheads together. Tightens his hold on Sebastian’s hip. Takes a deep breath. Tries not to cry with how much he loves the man in his arms. Remembers the fork with pasta is still resting on the plate in his lap and his kisses don’t feed Sebastian anything actually substantial, even if he’d most likely joke he could survive on Chris’s love only. And isn’t that another thought to start crying about.
Chris clears his throat, gives Seb’s forehead another kiss and says, decisively and acutely aware of how raw with emotion his voice is, “Come on, let’s get some food in you, honey,” before lifting the fork to his baby’s mouth.
A huffing noise has Chris’s hand stopping halfway on its way. He didn’t think Seb was in a bratty mood today, but he’s been wrong before. Not in a long time though.
When long fingers nudge the plate and Seb starts to wriggle around in what Chris interprets as an attempt to get into his lap without spilling pasta everywhere, Chris has to chuckle in amusement. His husband gets adorably non-verbal when he’s so sweet, full of whines and huffs and giggles, but heaven forbid he actually voices what he wants. Chris knows Sebastian could speak, could open that pretty mouth of his and simply say ‘Wanna sit in your lap.’ And of course, Chris would never ever deny him. Seb likes to be a bit lazy though, likes to simply make noises and bat eyelashes and have Chris understand what he wants and have him tend to his every need. Likes to only hear Chris’s voice in the space around them and be completely surrounded by it, hear it in his head as if it’s his own. Makes it easier to accept the loving words and compliments, he once told him.
So, after putting the plate aside, out of the way of long Romanian legs, he puts one arm under Sebastian’s thighs, the other still around his shoulders, and lifts Seb up into his lap. Or at least he pretends to lift him. It’s more a signal for Seb to move than anything else. Chris is strong, he’s proud of being able to surround his husband with his muscles, press him to his chest, lift him up and carry him wherever. He’s not strong enough however to lift Seb’s 180 something pounds while slouching in bed. Maybe he should go to the gym more, make that his new goal to work towards.
With more wriggling and cute noises, Seb has eventually found a position he deems acceptable. He’s by far what one would call a small man, almost the same height as Chris himself and while his body is slimmer, his long legs gave them a hard time to find a satisfying cuddle position at the beginning of their relationship. Now though, after five years of practicing, they’re as in tune with each other as they could possibly be. Chris knows just how to move his arms and legs to make sure that Seb can comfortably slide down a bit, rest his head on his chest, right over his heart, and fold his legs up on his thighs, hands playing with his sweater – or his chest hair if he happens to be shirtless – tracing the patterns of numerous tattoos that Sebastian probably knows better than he does by now.
Once again, Chris strokes his hand from the top of Seb’s head down to his perfect little bum, this time cupping one cheek in his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, causing Seb to push back into Chris’s hand and sigh happily. It’s exactly the reaction Chris wanted to get and he rewards Sebastian by nuzzling a kiss into his hair.
They’re not really into the whole reward and punishment thing, never defined what they have as anything but taking care of each other, giving each other what no one else can give them. It’s enough for them. For Seb to know that Chris will always only ever be sweet on him even if he’s in a bad mood and defies Chris’s words, and for Chris to know that Seb will always only ever make Chris feel like he’s exactly what Seb wants, needs, at any time of any given day, and never even a tiny bit less than that.
Dinner has gone cold by now, fallen victim to their love that simply doesn’t have the wherewithal to heed the passage of time, too blindsided by its own perpetuity and incessancy.
Chris knows Sebastian will say no if he asks him if he wants the pasta heating back up, that he doesn’t want Chris to move, maybe ever, and Chris is fine with that, couldn’t be happier about that, and still he asks, because he doesn’t want to be the bad husband who feeds the love of his life cold pasta. Which is totally on Chris anyway since he was the one getting lost in saccharine thoughts and kisses. Only fair for him to now have to try and complete the almost impossible task of getting decent food into his husband’s belly without actually moving at all. He thinks he’ll have to compromise.
“Do you want me to heat up the pasta for you, baby?” Chris strokes over the swell of Seb’s ass to make sure he’s listening and hasn’t fallen asleep by now. It wouldn’t be the first time. Chris has to smile at the many memories of Seb falling asleep on his chest; one moment they were talking, the next Seb had fallen asleep within a one-minute lull in conversation. Chris really can’t help all the kisses he presses into Seb’s hair today. His husband is utterly irresistible in his unassuming sweetness.
Chris feels something resembling a shake of the head on his chest and whispers “Okay, sugar,” having heard the unspoken ‘I don’t want us to move until I give you the signal to do so and I don’t care about food right now.’ If Chris were less of a personification of the heart-eye emoji around his husband, then maybe he would have pressed to make him eat, tried to convince to go into the kitchen. He isn’t though, so he doesn’t argue. Their hearts are more demanding than their bellies right now.
Hands sneak under the hem of Chris’s sweater, immediately seeking out the ink under the skin over his heart. It depicts the stars above Constanța, Romania, on the 13th of August 1981. Chris had gotten the tattoo a long time before they ever got married, would’ve gotten it the moment he talked to Sebastian for the first time, in the car park of the university Chris did his PhD at. The university he still works at. The very same car park he sees every day. Makes his way around it though because he takes the bus. It was love at first sight, for Chris at least.
He sighs shakily, the effect Sebastian’s hands have on him, the effect of what this tattoo stands for, not having dampened with the passage of time.
Chris wraps his arms tight around his husband, one hand spread out under Sebastian’s sweater and the other cupping the back of his head, fingers winding into soft curls, gently pushing Seb’s head further into his chest. They both hum, smile, chuckle in unison, and because the universe had a great day when it willed them to find each other, when they whisper, “I love you,” that too, is in unison.
**********
Something is nibbling on Chris’s socked foot, pulling his sweatpants out of his socks, a shiver running up his leg where the chilly air not-so-gently kisses his exposed skin. Chris moves his foot, conscious as always, of Sebastian’s weight in his lap. He blinks his eyes open, seeing Dodger over where Seb has star-fished out and is now lying in between Chris’s legs, face smooshed into his chest, not drooling because Seb is an ethereal being who does not do such humanly things as drool in his sleep.
When Chris smooths a finger over Sebastian’s eyebrow, his beautiful face twitches in his sleep, muscles contracting for the slip of a moment, then relaxing again with an exhale slightly louder than his soft little snores. Because endearing snoring noises apparently aren’t above Sebastian. Chris gets constantly teased about his drooling and snoring, but as soon as he brings up Seb’s snoring, it’s suddenly not called ‘snoring’ anymore but ‘making noises in one’s sleep’. Chris loves his husband, he really does, it’s just that sometimes he’s ridiculous and insufferable about entirely insignificant things and yet, somehow Chris loves that too.
The clock on the nightstand tells him they were asleep for almost two hours, the pasta next to it reminding Chris of how they didn’t even manage to eat their dinner, so occupied with being in love. He shakes his head at himself. His mum always told him that he’s quick to forget the world around him. Seems like nothing has changed during the last twenty years. Not that Chris expected it to.
Dodger yawns, gets up, jumps off the bed and pads over to longingly look out at the garden, then back at Chris with trustful eyes, knowing exactly what kind of effect those brown puppy dog eyes have on him. Not for the first time, Chris is torn between his dog and his husband, this time deciding that all of three of them need dinner and Dodger will be the first to get his.
Holding Seb’s head with one hand and his waist with the other, Chris rolls onto his right side, taking Seb with him and gently laying him down onto the bed in the process. Just like their optimal cuddling position, this move had taken time and practice to be executed perfectly. Now, more often than not, Chris manages to not wake his husband up when he transfers him from his lap to the bed and he’s oddly proud of it.
Today though, isn’t one of those days. Seb grumbles into the pillow underneath his cheek, pushes his whole face into it while at the same time reaching an arm out for Chris to come back to bed. Chris makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, not ever getting used to the sight of the angel in his bed and the pull he has on his heart.
He leans over and kisses his husband’s cheek; tells him he’ll feed Dodger and heat up their dinner. More unintelligible noises are being grumbled into the pillow, one eye opening to look up at Chris. His heart stutters in his chest. He’s seen this exact picture more times than he can count and yet something about this moment is unexpectedly unique every single time. The unabashed domesticity and trust that comes with witnessing someone’s sleepy eyes seeking you out to be the first thing they see, the red string that ties all of these moments together. It makes Chris feel so proud, so complete, so settled. It’s indescribable.
Chris tangles their fingers together, squeezes Seb’s hand, can’t resist giving him another kiss where he’s got that absolutely adorable crease between his frowning eyebrows, and with herculean effort, Chris lets go of his hand and takes a step back from the bed.
“I love you, honey, be back in a sec.”
“I love you, too, baby.” And with that, Sebastian closes his eyes again and snuggles further into the sheets. Chris couldn’t be more in love if he tried.
Dodger follows him out of the bedroom, his head pushing against Chris’s legs in demand of pets. Just as much in love with his dog as he is with the man in his bed, Chris crouches down and gives Dodger his long-awaited scratches. Chris often lacks words to describe how much Dodger has helped him, saved him from intrusive thoughts and anxiety and panic attacks and the overall inclination to make life unnecessarily hard for himself. How he makes every day better by simply being his excited, loyal self. Chris honestly doesn’t know if he’d be where he is right now if it weren’t for his four-legged family member.
“Let’s get some food in you, bubba.” As if Dodger actually understands the word ‘food’ – and Chris believes he does, his furry boy is equipped with a smart mind and bottomless pit of a stomach after all – he takes off in the direction of the pantry where the dog food is safely hidden away from his oversized appetite. Chris follows him at a more sedate pace, having learned somewhere around the age of seven that running to get food will end with your parents scolding you for slipping on the tiled floor and almost knocking your head open on the kitchen table. Dodger does indeed slip on the tiles, just like little Chris did all those years ago, his claws clacking on the floor and fluffy tail trying to make the slide around the corner less disastrous, though Chris doesn’t scold him for it. It never fails to make him laugh fondly and so far Dodger has always managed to avoid broken bones. Which means he’s good to go as long as he doesn’t injure himself and give his dad a heart attack.
After feeding Dodger, Chris goes back to the bedroom to check on his husband, to see if he has fallen asleep again or if he’s already reached the stage of pouting into the pillow about how Chris cruelly, heartlessly, left him in bed.
The latter is the case, big eyes and a plump bottom lip trying to manipulate him into coming to bed again and maybe starting something that goes beyond the forehead kisses they’ve been trading all evening. With herculean effort once more – and Chris thinks with all the effort it takes him to resist Sebastian, he really expects his muscles to grow –, he only gives Seb another kiss on the forehead. And then one on his furrowed brow and one on each of his flushed cheeks and one on that beautiful tip of his nose and one on the dimple in his chin and one on his lips. Chris may be guilty of not using all of that Herculean effort after all.
Sebastian hums into Chris’s kisses, blushes when Chris tells him he’s beautiful, and then his stomach growls and Chris buries his snicker in Seb’s neck. And licks said neck for good measure. His herculean efforts are really going to shit right now.
The wet, hitched breath on Chris’s neck doesn’t make it any easier to pull back but he can’t just ignore his baby being hungry, has done so once today already, so his caretaker instincts – Sebastian would call them mother hen instincts – take over and he gets into action.
He picks up the plate full of pasta as well as the tray with the second plate and drinks on it, planning on at least quickly heating them up in the microwave. Sebastian lets out the most pitiful sound to date and Chris almost despises how hard it is for him to turn away. It’s only the kitchen, he has to remind himself. He’s not going to the depth of the Tundra for a year. Scott might have a point when he accuses Chris of being overly dramatic.
“Baby, don’t be that like that, I just wanna get you some food,” Chris basically whines, begs Seb to have mercy on him and not make simply heating their damn food up such an ordeal for him.
Seb’s stomach makes itself known again, compelling him to mumble an ‘okay’ into the pillow that by now must have heard more of Sebastian’s words than Chris himself, and consequently allows Chris to leave the room and heat up dinner.
When he enters the kitchen, Dodger is staring into his now empty bowl like it will somehow magically fill up again if he just makes puppy dog eyes at it for long enough. Chris opens the door for him, the gaping emptiness of the bowl forgotten over the excitement of sniffing about on the lawn like he doesn’t do it at least three times a day.
Sticking the pasta in the microwave, Chris looks out of the window, watches Dodger run around, entirely unaware of the stunning sunset the sky is gracing them with tonight and he must admit, sometimes he’d like to borrow a bit of that obliviousness, to simply enjoy the here and now without worries about the future or past, not care for how the sunset marks another day gone by, only care for what’s right in front of his nose.
The microwave’s ding rips Chris out of his thoughts, signaling for him to make his way back to Sebastian. Deciding that he’ll just leave the door to the garden open so that Dodger can come in whenever he wants to, Chris makes another trip to the bedroom, now with the knowledge that Seb is definitely awake, the promise of food keeping him from falling asleep again. He and Dodger don’t have that many differences after all. Maybe Chris is just really into boys who like being fed.
On the bed, there is what can only be described as a blanket lump with brown hair at the top. Chris can’t even see a face. The snort he lets out is less than elegant, making him clutch the tray in his hands to his chest in a failed attempt at grabbing his left pec in laughter.
The blanket lump huffs, moves, and reveals a pillow-creased face that lights up as soon as it sets stormy eyes on the food in Chris’s hands. He’s even treated to seeing that lovely nose scrunch up. With a bit of perhaps unnecessary urgency in his step, Chris strides over to the bed, puts the tray next to him, and leans down to kiss the tip of Seb’s nose. Which just makes it scrunch up even more and Chris is only human, so he gives it another kiss. Sebastian giggles and it kicks off a chain reaction of Seb being the cutest human being on earth and Chris falling under his spell like it’s the very first time all over again.
Dinner is in serious hazard of going cold. Again.
“Sweetheart,” Seb manages to get out between being slathered in kisses. “Dinner-” he giggles again, “dinner is getting cold-“ more giggles, “Chris!”
With a last kiss to Seb’s eyelids – and it’s almost appalling how even his damn eyelids are so pretty -, Chris snuggles his way under the covers in order to become a part of his beloved blanket lump, and tugs Seb under his arm, making sure the blankets are tucked in everywhere so that the cold air doesn’t have a chance to attack his baby.
“I know, I know,” Chris concedes with one last kiss. For now, at least. “Let’s try that having dinner thing again.”
With a snort, Sebastian wriggles one arm free of the blankets and takes a plate and fork, handing them over to Chris, taking the other one and settling it in his lap. Eyes now entirely focused on the food, Chris is pressed up to his side, but has been long since forgotten.
After having looked his fill – not really, not ever, only for the time being –, Chris starts eating his own dinner, occasionally glancing over to watch Seb pull a face when he’s inevitably burnt his tongue on a bite of too hot pasta. It happens almost every time he’s really hungry, an indicator for Chris to know he’s made the right choice prioritizing his husband’s need for food over that for kisses. Chris shouldn’t find the face Sebastian makes so very cute, but he does, and it makes him want to soothe the burn on his tongue, preferably with his own. He doubts that is how medicine works, but their medicine is of another kind anyway, their cures not the ones found in hospitals and pharmacies.
They finish eating in silence, only the sound of Dodger slinking back into the room disturbing the stillness for a few seconds. Out of the corner of his eye, Chris can see Sebastian smiling at Dodger spinning in circles before letting out a satisfied huff and lying down, his fluffy tail almost entirely obscuring his face.
Chris knows that Sebastian doesn’t have to turn his head to know that he’s being looked at, the lovesick expression on Chris’s face nothing new. It’s his default facial expression when looking at his husband anyway, only made worse when he witnesses Sebastian’s soft spot for Dodger.
Silently reaching for Sebastian’s now empty plate, Chris deposits them on the floor next to the bed, mentally making a memo to look where he’s putting his feet when he leaves the bed again. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d find his beloved socks covered in food residues.
He has to chuckle when he’s reminded of how Dodger had come bounding over, intrigued by the clattering of dishes, and hadn’t stopped trying to lick and sniff at Chris’s feet for the next two days in hopes of them miraculously having turned into a restaurant. Chris is pretty sure his feet had never actually smelled of food to begin with since his socks had to take the brunt of his inattention, but he had asked Seb for a second opinion anyway, just to make sure. He had dutifully smelled his feet and seconded that they did not indeed smell of anything resembling a food vendor. They had never found out if Dodger had really been lured in by the clinging smell of food or if he’d just been a little bit too invested in Chris’s feet those days. With a cheeky smile, Seb had added he couldn’t blame him for either, resulting in a lot of tickling kisses to the arch of Chris’s – clean, right out of the shower – feet and Chris giggling so much that he had to beg Seb to stop lest he die of shortness of breath.
It had been a good day. Ordinary and calm and domestic like today. Like most of their days were now. Chris loved it with a vengeance.
Next to him, Sebastian makes a questioning sound, big eyes looking up from where his head apparently was too heavy and took its rightful place on Chris’s shoulder. Chris has a déjà-vu to two hours ago. Not that he’s complaining. At this point his shoulder has probably molded itself to the shape of Seb’s head, a thought that Chris is undeniably, sappily happy about.
“Just remembered that day when I stepped into the food next to the bed and Dodge wouldn’t stop trying to eat my feet,” Chris explains, pressing the words into soft hair. He can feel the smile against his shoulder, accompanied by a huff of laughter. Sebastian remembers that day too.
“Can we read something?” Sebastian’s voice, muffled, and it makes Chris smile, makes him so happy he can’t put it into words. And he doesn’t have to. All he has to do is kiss Sebastian’s forehead, grab the book and his black-rimmed glasses from the first drawer of the nightstand and tuck the blankets snug around them.
He’ll try to convey his happiness in the form of reading Hermann Hesse, who no doubt inspired Chris to become the person he is today, to the man who, every day, inspires him to keep being that person.
Chris puts his glasses on, holds the book in his lap with one hand, the other still firmly wrapped around Sebastian’s shoulders under the blankets. He looks down at him to check if he’s good to start reading.
Sebastian nods, says, as if he’s annoyed by it, “I love the glasses, Professor Evans-Stan,” and presses a closed-mouth kiss under Chris’s ear.
Chris shudders, blushes, because how could he not, his skin turning red under his beard, doesn’t know what else to do except squeeze his husband closer to his chest. It’s nothing Chris hasn’t heard at least a hundred times before and yet everything about these six words catches him off guard every time. From Sebastian loving his glasses and by extension him, over Chris actually having reached that age where he has to wear reading glasses and consequently became even more of a stereotype of a professor, to them sharing a last name. Because they’re married. Yeah, Chris can’t believe this is his life sometimes. Oftentimes.
“I love you, Mr. Stan-Evans.” And with that Chris begins to read out loud the story of Siddharta finding his way to true happiness.
Over time, Sebastian’s upper body makes its way towards Chris’s lap, Chris putting a pillow on his thighs and gently pushing Seb’s head down onto it. Seb goes willingly, automatically, arms wrapping around Chris’s waist. A satisfied sigh escapes him when Chris rakes his fingers through his hair.
Sebastian will fall asleep in a few minutes and Chris will too, eventually, after his eyes can’t stay open anymore and his hand has stilled in Sebastian’s hair. They’ll wake up sometime in the late evening, Dodger to blame for it, and will go through their nightly routine of brushing their teeth side by side with toothpaste smiles reflected in the mirror above the sink, stumble into pajama pants, give Dodger a kiss goodnight, bicker over who’s hogging too much of the blankets even though they know that Chris will spoon up behind his husband so the blankets are big enough for both of them.
Chris wouldn’t change it for the world. And he knows Sebastian wouldn’t either.