Fic - Galolio - Cooking Dinner

[lady_mab]

For Joanie! 💞 It was raining as I wrote this, too, absolutely perfect

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It’s a concert of sound that fills the droning silence in Lio’s head.

The TV is on in the living room, set to low, barely noticeable, on a show that Galo knows every line by heart to but insists on keeping on anyway.

Galo and Lio move in tandem in the kitchen — Galo in turns rattling through a story and quoting the characters on the show. He’ll pause suddenly and brandish his spatula at Lio, challenging him to a duel, then immediately press a hand to his chest in shock as he takes on the offended party and defends his own honor.

Lio is used to this, this hum this cacophony. This low thrill of mundanity that buzzes in him well into the evening, will be with him when they’re in bed later, will tide him over until the morning, when he will roll over and come to waking as Galo peppers his face with kisses.

For now, though, he stands in the kitchen opposite Galo, and they dance around each other as they make dinner. Well, they dance as well as they can, though the steps are interrupted as Galo wraps his arms around Lio’s waist and spins him once before dipping him dramatically over the kitchen floor.

His words are a beat ahead of those on the TV. “For all the love in the world,” he says, grin beautiful and brilliant in a way that sends Lio’s heart pounding far more than the sudden change in his center of gravity, “I will never surrender your hand until the day you tell me you will not have me any more.”

Lio tilts his head back and laughs, though the woman on the screen says something that he can’t hear over the sizzling wok and his own joy. He reaches up to press a hand to Galo’s cheek, and says, fondly, “For all the love in my heart, I will never send you away.”

Galo’s frown lasts only long enough for him to start saying, “That’s not the line—” before Lio kisses him.

They only stop when the oil in the wok gives a loud, pointed pop!, and they jerk back upright before laughing in realization.

Outside, it is raining. Water coats the windows, turning the streetlights wobbly and unreal. There’s the distant promise of thunder, a storm that will roll in during the night to wake them with jagged forks of lighting and percussive booms.

But that is a problem for them at 3AM. For now, the kitchen is warm, a bright haven in the darkness pressing against the windows. For now, Lio is warm, a glow in his chest burning brighter with each touch — a brush of the elbows, a finger to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, a hip bump, a kiss.

For all the love, Lio thinks, watching Galo, you are mine.