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merryfuture2023-07-12 01:33 pm
staygame) wrote in merryfuture2023-07-12 01:33 pm
Entry tags:
2gether: one more kiss in the kitchen (2020)
one more kiss in the kitchen (ao3 link, see original work for author's notes) | 2gether the series, man/type, teen, 1.9k words
tags: canon compliant, lists, no archive warnings apply
---
A list of things Man misses about Type:
1. Type doesn't like cuddling in bed. This in no way surprised Man to learn, because Type is prickly about his personal space and starts getting twitchy if people even stand too close to him in line at the grocery store. Type will let Man cuddle him on the couch, will permit approximately five minutes of post-coital cuddling before demanding a shower, but the second he turns off the lamp to sleep, he's on the other side of the bed, a substantial valley between them.
But every now and then, Type will reach out—cold toes (always cold, no matter how warm the rest of Type seems to run) pressed against Man's ankle, or a hand trailing down Man's spine. "I'm here," the gesture says. "I love you," Man knows it means.
The first night that Man falls asleep without Type, he dreams about a phantom touch to his shoulder and wakes with a start. He throws his arm out in a daze, but it only finds the empty side of the bed, sheets cool against his skin.
The next time he wakes, Man realizes he'd texted Type at 4 am. i miss u.
5. Okay, yes. Man misses the sex. He is a red-blooded young adult, after all, and the sex is good.
The first time they had sex (that they made love, Man would say, and Type would hate), it had been a little awkward, a little fumbling—a condom packet that slipped from Man's shaking fingers, a cramp in Type's calf—and it was still the best Man had ever had. Love heightened every sensation, made every gasp and shudder that much more exciting.
Man's not bragging or anything, but they've only gotten better at it. Man knows how to do things that get Type to make the kind of noises that have him flushing in embarrassment, the kind of noises that have Man pulling Type's hand away from his mouth to hear them in their full glory. Type will tell Man what he wants sometimes, and Man likes it that way, when he can sink to his knees and give Type exactly what he's asking for.
One of the hardest parts of long distance is that after nearly a year of consistent sex, Man's right hand is no longer cutting it.
12. Type's taste in media seems to fit into two categories. The first: feature length documentaries about topics like rhino poaching and Olympic athletes that have Man falling asleep within the first thirty minutes.
("It's good to learn about current events," Type said. "It broadens your horizons."
"Current events are depressing," Man protested. Type hushed him, and queued up a documentary about Yemen.)
The second: reality TV. One evening, only a few weeks into cohabitation, Man had arrived home from practice early, and when he'd burst through the door (because he was always bursting in, always thrumming with excitement at the thought of arriving home), Type had slammed the lid of his laptop shut. The shameful secret was not weird porn like Man expected but instead, an episode of American Project Runway.
Man had quirked an eyebrow at Type's laptop screen. "P', why are you hiding this?"
"Because it's embarrassing," Type said, clearly flustered at having been caught. "This is what they mean when they say that TV will rot your brain."
"Not your brain," Man said, and nuzzled his cheek against the top of Type's head. "Your brain is big and beautiful." He reached around Type and hit the spacebar to resume the episode. "I'm just surprised you like this kind of thing."
"Well I'm gay, aren't I?" Type said, which made Man snort with laughter into Type's scalp.
It's not the reality TV that Man misses, but the routine of it. Curling up together on the couch, Type rolling his eyes and complaining about bad contestants on Project Runway or scoffing at the judges who've guessed wrong on I Can See Your Voice. Type's not a binge watcher but a one episode per night kind of guy, treating TV like junk food, something to be carefully rationed out to avoid overindulgence. But in Type's absence, Man watches an entire season of Drag Race his first weekend alone.
He doesn't tell Type this, because Type would judge Man for spending 20 hours on the couch and also, though Type would deny it, because he'd feel guilty for leaving. Instead, two weeks later, when Type suggests they watch the same season over the phone together, Man pretends like he hasn't seen it.
12.5. It would've been easy to mistake Type's, well, Type-ness, for cowardice. He doesn't like holding hands in public, hasn't changed his relationship status on Facebook, and, in weekly phone calls with his mother, exclusively referred to Man as his friend for six months.
But Man learned early on that Type shuns all forms of public affection, he only uses Facebook to spy on his brother, and "It's for your own benefit," Type had explained, "My mom would interrogate you for hours."
"I could take her," Man insisted, but he let it go, because he knew Type would tell her when he was ready.
Type isn't ashamed of his sexuality. He will talk about big, legal things and why they matter, and start sentences with "As a gay man". When their landlord asks, Type tells her that Man is his boyfriend, and his voice doesn't shake.
His strength is a quiet kind, but it is no less fierce, no less brave. Man admires Type. He misses Type.
19. Once, when Man zones out in the middle of his Macroeconomics class, his brain predictably wanders to Type. He remembers the way that Type's face screws up right before he's about to sneeze, adorably stupid, and it makes him laugh to himself.
Next to him, Sarawat raises an eyebrow at Man.
"I miss P'Type," Man whispers.
"That's the third time you've told me today," Sarawat whispers back.
He, of course, has no room to judge, but Man is polite enough not to point that out.
27. Man knows that he can be, as his mother kindly put it, spirited. Or, as his father less kindly put it, "Do you even take anything seriously?"
And yes, Man does take a lot of things seriously—his football team, his friendship with Sarawat and Boss, his relationship with Type. School has previously been low on his list of priorities, but being serious about Type (the most serious about Type) means being serious about this whole degree thing as well.
On their second date, before the waiter had even brought out their entrees, Type had rested his hands flat on the table and said, "If we are to continue seeing each other, you'll need to develop a five-year plan."
"My five-year plan is to be with you," Man said, flashing a finger heart.
"Not good enough," Type said. "If you want to take care of me, you'll need a real plan."
Type held Man to high standards, but he also believed in Man in a way that no one else ever had.
There was this one time, during the hellish weeks at the end of Man's freshman year, when he'd come home from a long night at the library and immediately flopped face first into bed. "Why am I so stupid?" he complained aloud. Then, he turned his head to look at Type. "Can I be your trophy wife?"
Type set his book down. "You're not pretty enough to be a trophy wife."
Man rolled over, clutching his chest. "P'Type, that hurts my feelings."
"Well, I'm not going to lie to you," Type said, but he scooted down the bed, until he was lying next to Man. "You're not stupid. Sometimes you act like you are, but you're smart and you're capable. The plan, remember?"
Man thinks about this moment when he's deep into an all-nighter, trying to finish an essay for his Comparative Politics class, Type's reassurance echoing through his brain. He wants to give Type a good life like he'd promised, and he knows that Type wouldn't have taken a chance on him if he didn't think Man could deliver. Man adjusts his glasses and sets to writing.
34. Type still takes his clothes off when he drinks too much. Weirdly, it's one of Man's favorite things about him. Underneath the crisp white button-up and disdain for impropriety, there's a side to Type that tries to strip his pants off in the back of a cab while Man has to wrestle his hands away from his zipper. At the end of their ride, Man had to give the cab driver an extra 100 baht note for his troubles.
"I miss how cute you look when you drink," Man slurs into his phone. "Remember that time after your friend's bachelor party when you tried to get naked in the cab?"
"I've never done such a thing," Type says. "Just...get home safe, okay?"
He's probably pinching the bridge of his nose, frowning at his phone. Man kisses the screen.
41. Type doesn't say I love you that often, but then anyone might look stingy next to Man, who had taken to randomly shouting "Hey, P'Type, hey!" across the apartment until he got Type's attention and then calling out, "I love you."
The first time that Type said it was at bedtime, a moment after he'd turned out the light. Instead of staying with his back turned to Man, he'd rolled over, closing some of the gap between them. Man's eyes had taken a moment to adjust to the darkness, but he could tell that Type was looking at him. "Man," Type had said, "I love you."
"I love you too, P'Type," Man said.
Type had reached for Man's hand, intertwining their fingers. "I know that I can be—" Type paused, pursing his lips—"me, but I am happy. With you."
"I know you are," Man said. "I—"
"I'm not done," Type said, a very Type thing to say. He squeezed Man's fingers. "I want to be with you. You don't do things half-heartedly, but neither do I, in my own way. Do you understand?"
Man pushed in closer, wrapping Type in a hug. He wondered if Type could feel the heavy beat of Man's pulse, the way Man's heart felt too big for his chest. "You love me," he summarized, smiling against Type's hair.
"I do."
Even now, Type doles out I love yous like he's saving them for a special occasion. In the flush of a particularly intense orgasm, at Man's bedside when he'd passed out during football practice and had to be taken to the hospital. The most recent had been too somber coming from Type's pinched, trying-not-to-cry face, just before he turned to head through airport security.
Man wants to hear the words again. He wants the weightless feeling of being in love, and not the steady ache of distance.
"Say it," he tells Type on the phone. He's starfished across the too-empty bed, the extra pillow cradled in his arms. "I want to hear it."
"I don't know what you mean," Type says, but Man can easily imagine Type's features softening, the expression he gets when he's denying Man something only for show. Man can wait him out. Finally, in a quiet voice, Type says it. "I love you."
tags: canon compliant, lists, no archive warnings apply
---
A list of things Man misses about Type:
1. Type doesn't like cuddling in bed. This in no way surprised Man to learn, because Type is prickly about his personal space and starts getting twitchy if people even stand too close to him in line at the grocery store. Type will let Man cuddle him on the couch, will permit approximately five minutes of post-coital cuddling before demanding a shower, but the second he turns off the lamp to sleep, he's on the other side of the bed, a substantial valley between them.
But every now and then, Type will reach out—cold toes (always cold, no matter how warm the rest of Type seems to run) pressed against Man's ankle, or a hand trailing down Man's spine. "I'm here," the gesture says. "I love you," Man knows it means.
The first night that Man falls asleep without Type, he dreams about a phantom touch to his shoulder and wakes with a start. He throws his arm out in a daze, but it only finds the empty side of the bed, sheets cool against his skin.
The next time he wakes, Man realizes he'd texted Type at 4 am. i miss u.
5. Okay, yes. Man misses the sex. He is a red-blooded young adult, after all, and the sex is good.
The first time they had sex (that they made love, Man would say, and Type would hate), it had been a little awkward, a little fumbling—a condom packet that slipped from Man's shaking fingers, a cramp in Type's calf—and it was still the best Man had ever had. Love heightened every sensation, made every gasp and shudder that much more exciting.
Man's not bragging or anything, but they've only gotten better at it. Man knows how to do things that get Type to make the kind of noises that have him flushing in embarrassment, the kind of noises that have Man pulling Type's hand away from his mouth to hear them in their full glory. Type will tell Man what he wants sometimes, and Man likes it that way, when he can sink to his knees and give Type exactly what he's asking for.
One of the hardest parts of long distance is that after nearly a year of consistent sex, Man's right hand is no longer cutting it.
12. Type's taste in media seems to fit into two categories. The first: feature length documentaries about topics like rhino poaching and Olympic athletes that have Man falling asleep within the first thirty minutes.
("It's good to learn about current events," Type said. "It broadens your horizons."
"Current events are depressing," Man protested. Type hushed him, and queued up a documentary about Yemen.)
The second: reality TV. One evening, only a few weeks into cohabitation, Man had arrived home from practice early, and when he'd burst through the door (because he was always bursting in, always thrumming with excitement at the thought of arriving home), Type had slammed the lid of his laptop shut. The shameful secret was not weird porn like Man expected but instead, an episode of American Project Runway.
Man had quirked an eyebrow at Type's laptop screen. "P', why are you hiding this?"
"Because it's embarrassing," Type said, clearly flustered at having been caught. "This is what they mean when they say that TV will rot your brain."
"Not your brain," Man said, and nuzzled his cheek against the top of Type's head. "Your brain is big and beautiful." He reached around Type and hit the spacebar to resume the episode. "I'm just surprised you like this kind of thing."
"Well I'm gay, aren't I?" Type said, which made Man snort with laughter into Type's scalp.
It's not the reality TV that Man misses, but the routine of it. Curling up together on the couch, Type rolling his eyes and complaining about bad contestants on Project Runway or scoffing at the judges who've guessed wrong on I Can See Your Voice. Type's not a binge watcher but a one episode per night kind of guy, treating TV like junk food, something to be carefully rationed out to avoid overindulgence. But in Type's absence, Man watches an entire season of Drag Race his first weekend alone.
He doesn't tell Type this, because Type would judge Man for spending 20 hours on the couch and also, though Type would deny it, because he'd feel guilty for leaving. Instead, two weeks later, when Type suggests they watch the same season over the phone together, Man pretends like he hasn't seen it.
12.5. It would've been easy to mistake Type's, well, Type-ness, for cowardice. He doesn't like holding hands in public, hasn't changed his relationship status on Facebook, and, in weekly phone calls with his mother, exclusively referred to Man as his friend for six months.
But Man learned early on that Type shuns all forms of public affection, he only uses Facebook to spy on his brother, and "It's for your own benefit," Type had explained, "My mom would interrogate you for hours."
"I could take her," Man insisted, but he let it go, because he knew Type would tell her when he was ready.
Type isn't ashamed of his sexuality. He will talk about big, legal things and why they matter, and start sentences with "As a gay man". When their landlord asks, Type tells her that Man is his boyfriend, and his voice doesn't shake.
His strength is a quiet kind, but it is no less fierce, no less brave. Man admires Type. He misses Type.
19. Once, when Man zones out in the middle of his Macroeconomics class, his brain predictably wanders to Type. He remembers the way that Type's face screws up right before he's about to sneeze, adorably stupid, and it makes him laugh to himself.
Next to him, Sarawat raises an eyebrow at Man.
"I miss P'Type," Man whispers.
"That's the third time you've told me today," Sarawat whispers back.
He, of course, has no room to judge, but Man is polite enough not to point that out.
27. Man knows that he can be, as his mother kindly put it, spirited. Or, as his father less kindly put it, "Do you even take anything seriously?"
And yes, Man does take a lot of things seriously—his football team, his friendship with Sarawat and Boss, his relationship with Type. School has previously been low on his list of priorities, but being serious about Type (the most serious about Type) means being serious about this whole degree thing as well.
On their second date, before the waiter had even brought out their entrees, Type had rested his hands flat on the table and said, "If we are to continue seeing each other, you'll need to develop a five-year plan."
"My five-year plan is to be with you," Man said, flashing a finger heart.
"Not good enough," Type said. "If you want to take care of me, you'll need a real plan."
Type held Man to high standards, but he also believed in Man in a way that no one else ever had.
There was this one time, during the hellish weeks at the end of Man's freshman year, when he'd come home from a long night at the library and immediately flopped face first into bed. "Why am I so stupid?" he complained aloud. Then, he turned his head to look at Type. "Can I be your trophy wife?"
Type set his book down. "You're not pretty enough to be a trophy wife."
Man rolled over, clutching his chest. "P'Type, that hurts my feelings."
"Well, I'm not going to lie to you," Type said, but he scooted down the bed, until he was lying next to Man. "You're not stupid. Sometimes you act like you are, but you're smart and you're capable. The plan, remember?"
Man thinks about this moment when he's deep into an all-nighter, trying to finish an essay for his Comparative Politics class, Type's reassurance echoing through his brain. He wants to give Type a good life like he'd promised, and he knows that Type wouldn't have taken a chance on him if he didn't think Man could deliver. Man adjusts his glasses and sets to writing.
34. Type still takes his clothes off when he drinks too much. Weirdly, it's one of Man's favorite things about him. Underneath the crisp white button-up and disdain for impropriety, there's a side to Type that tries to strip his pants off in the back of a cab while Man has to wrestle his hands away from his zipper. At the end of their ride, Man had to give the cab driver an extra 100 baht note for his troubles.
"I miss how cute you look when you drink," Man slurs into his phone. "Remember that time after your friend's bachelor party when you tried to get naked in the cab?"
"I've never done such a thing," Type says. "Just...get home safe, okay?"
He's probably pinching the bridge of his nose, frowning at his phone. Man kisses the screen.
41. Type doesn't say I love you that often, but then anyone might look stingy next to Man, who had taken to randomly shouting "Hey, P'Type, hey!" across the apartment until he got Type's attention and then calling out, "I love you."
The first time that Type said it was at bedtime, a moment after he'd turned out the light. Instead of staying with his back turned to Man, he'd rolled over, closing some of the gap between them. Man's eyes had taken a moment to adjust to the darkness, but he could tell that Type was looking at him. "Man," Type had said, "I love you."
"I love you too, P'Type," Man said.
Type had reached for Man's hand, intertwining their fingers. "I know that I can be—" Type paused, pursing his lips—"me, but I am happy. With you."
"I know you are," Man said. "I—"
"I'm not done," Type said, a very Type thing to say. He squeezed Man's fingers. "I want to be with you. You don't do things half-heartedly, but neither do I, in my own way. Do you understand?"
Man pushed in closer, wrapping Type in a hug. He wondered if Type could feel the heavy beat of Man's pulse, the way Man's heart felt too big for his chest. "You love me," he summarized, smiling against Type's hair.
"I do."
Even now, Type doles out I love yous like he's saving them for a special occasion. In the flush of a particularly intense orgasm, at Man's bedside when he'd passed out during football practice and had to be taken to the hospital. The most recent had been too somber coming from Type's pinched, trying-not-to-cry face, just before he turned to head through airport security.
Man wants to hear the words again. He wants the weightless feeling of being in love, and not the steady ache of distance.
"Say it," he tells Type on the phone. He's starfished across the too-empty bed, the extra pillow cradled in his arms. "I want to hear it."
"I don't know what you mean," Type says, but Man can easily imagine Type's features softening, the expression he gets when he's denying Man something only for show. Man can wait him out. Finally, in a quiet voice, Type says it. "I love you."