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Taehyung is on fire.
His skin is ablaze where Jimin’s hands settle on his waist and hips, fingertips tracing idle patterns against his skin under the hem of his silk shirt. When he closes his eyes, he imagines that Jimin is tracing his name there, leaving his mark, a reminder that they belong to each other. He tilts his head back and he knows that Jimin’s gaze is drawn to the long line of his throat, can imagine the intensity of his gaze, but he keeps his eyes shuttered so he can revel in the flashing of the lights behind his eyelids, in the weightlessness of being held close to someone else while the music rises to a crescendo and time is suspended.
Love is a wonderful thing, he muses. Sometimes it feels like your favourite blanket–soft and comfortable and familiar–and other times, it’s like a blazing forest fire or maybe a tidal wave–beautiful and wild and overwhelming and intense. Sometimes it’s the warm glow in your stomach after drinking hot chocolate or a coffee with caramel, and sometimes it’s the fire in your chest while you’re taking shots. With Jimin, it’s easy. The push-and-pull between intense and soft is natural, like the synchronous motion of two partners dancing a waltz. Where Taehyung is lacking, Jimin is his complement; like puzzle pieces that perfectly slot together, they fit together like it was always their destiny to end up here. And perhaps it was.
Jimin’s hands slide a little further up his torso, brushing the curve of his ribs, and Taehyung’s eyes fly open. Jimin is already watching him, gaze lustful and loving at the same time, studying his face, settling at his lips.
Taehyung grins, sultry and smooth. His palms come to rest on Jimin’s shoulders, sliding downwards a little until the heels are pressed against his chest, muscle flexing under the touch. For once, Jimin is taller than him with his favourite platform boots, so he rises up onto his toes to brush his nose against the side of Jimin’s neck and press his lips close to his ear.
“Look at all the eyes on us,” he whispers.
Like clockwork, Jimin’s grip on Taehyung becomes tighter, fingers clasping firmer but not to the point of pain, never the point of pain . Ever protective, ever possessive, but ever gentle. Even so, it’s Taehyung’s favourite game—riling Jimin up so much in a setting like that until he’s close to bursting, close to setting himself on fire like a phoenix. Later, he might dissolve to whispering dirty secrets in his husband’s ears and soon after, they’ll find themselves pressed to the wall in the bathroom like they’re teenagers again.
To still be so in love with his partner after so many years, it’s something Taehyung will never take for granted. And it’s something that is so clearly and beautifully reciprocated, in the way Jimin holds him tight, takes him apart, puts him back together.
When he rises up onto his toes again, it’s to press his lips to his husband’s. For a moment before their lips touch, they hover close together, breathing the same air, lungs shuddering, and then Jimin dips down towards him and seals his mouth over Taehyung’s.
Taehyung still gets butterflies when Jimin kisses him like this. He can taste the wine on Jimin’s lips, and he knows Jimin can probably taste the vodka on his, a sweet dissonance that has him pulling away to suck in a breath and immediately surging back for more. He shifts as close to Jimin as he can, pressed so close that they’re nearly one person, hands wandering, bound together. One soul, two bodies.
As they sway, the background fades away into a faint hum and narrowing the world solely to the two of them–Taehyung’s hands running over Jimin’s neck, shoulders, and chest; Jimin’s hands slipping to rest palm-flat over Taehyung’s ass for a moment before returning up to their home on the curve of his waist. For a moment, the lights catch the shine of the two rings snug on Taehyung’s fourth finger and reflect a rainbow prism onto the apple of his cheek. His eyes follow the glow and not for the first time, he thinks about how good, how right it looks, the luster of the silver band and the pearl engagement stone shimmering against his tanned skin, bringing all the colour to the surface. And on Jimin’s hand, something much the same. Something that binds the two of them together.
Something in the centre of his heart rises in a crescendo, turning into words that squeeze at his throat and beg to be spoken. So, he obeys. He tugs Jimin down closer to him, rubs their noses together in an eskimo kiss. Whispers, “I love you, my Jimin. I’m yours, always yours.”