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Ricky feels like a housewife—the unhappy kind. Not actually, but there's not a single universe where he doesn't exaggerate everything. He feels like a housewife, and some days it's extremely rewarding.
Ricky's messy like all boys. He cooks sometimes, and he's sure Gyuvin licks his plates clean because he loves Ricky. He does their laundry meticulously, separating the black and white from the colorful.
He walks their dog three days out of the week, and he kisses Gyuvin on the lips when he steps through the threshold of their beautiful Italian-inspired home right on Laguna Beach.
He's got the perfect fiancée, the cutest dog, financial stability, and still he sits at their pool bar, inexplicably sad and slowly sipping away at a glass of some expensive cabernet Gyuvin had gifted him on their most recent anniversary trip around Napa Valley.
It's only really been a week since they got back, and everything is much the same except for the pretty golden band wrapped around Ricky's ring finger.
So he's not sure what it is that's making him feel like all of the unhappy housewives he's seen on television. He's not unhappy, not really, but he isn't happy either. It makes him feel even more guilty now that he's newly engaged.
He's given so much of himself away already, and it leaves him wondering if there's anything left to pick from. He hasn't picked up a paintbrush in almost six months, and it worries him.
Financially, they're more than fine, and Ricky doesn't have to worry about putting paint on a canvas for the rest of his life—Gyuvin makes more than enough with his wedding photography and freelance work.
But it makes Ricky feel almost useless, jealous even, squinting his eyes as his fiancée snaps another photo of him when he brings the wine glass back to his lips.
When they fall into bed that night, Ricky turns to Gyuvin and leaves little kisses all over his collarbones, nosing at the skin to finally get the courage to say something. He's not sure why he's so afraid— it's just Gyuvin.
"I think I'm depressed," he speaks against the skin right above Gyuvin's nipple, words a little muffled.
Gyuvin hums in acknowledgement, his hand in Ricky's hair coming to a stop.
"Lay down and face me,” Gyuvin says, carefully maneuvering Ricky off of him.
So he does, laying his head down on the softness of his pillow, facing Gyuvin and noting all of his features as if seeing him for the first time again.
"Talk to me.” Gyuvin burrows deeper into their comforter, and it reminds Ricky of all the sleepovers they’ve had over the years. What a beautiful thing to grow alongside someone, to have your whole life be connected and intertwined.
"I don't know. I miss painting." He traces the shape of Gyuvin's face with his eyes, committing every soft edge and curve to memory. His lover's eyes are impossibly brown, sparkly like lapis even in the dark. "I get jealous when I see you taking pictures of everything," he pauses, trying to figure out how to say what he wants. "That you can find everything beautiful enough to make it your subject."
"Is that what you think?" Gyuvin reaches over, a hand back in Ricky's hair. "I don't find everything beautiful, just you.” He curls one of the loose strands around his index finger.
Ricky blushes because even after all these years, after a marriage proposal and a promise of forever, such brazen and bold declarations of love wake the dormant butterflies in his stomach.
"So what, I'm like your muse or something?"
"Or something." Gyuvin grins at him, boyish and gentle. The butterflies morph into wasps, and they fly around angry. Ricky's chest might just burst open. "What can I do for you?" He's so sincere, the smile on his face softening as the hand playing with Ricky's hair finds its way to his cheek and rests there. It's warm, a welcome weight that reminds Ricky that he's present.
"I don't know. I know that's not very helpful," he sighs, nuzzling into the hand like a spoiled house cat. Housewife, house cat—same difference. "Maybe I should start seeing a therapist."
"You know I'm going to say yes to anything that would be beneficial for you." Gyuvin scoots closer, soft lips leaving a wet kiss on the tip of Ricky's nose. "What about we get a good night of sleep and leave your tomorrow to me, hm?"
"Yeah, okay," he whispers, because he trusts Gyuvin and because his eyes feel heavy, both from the exhaustion of doing absolutely nothing and the weight of the emptiness that comes along with that.
Sleep takes him quickly, his back meeting the warm skin of Gyuvin's front. It feels a lot like lying beneath the sun.
He's got the windows open, and the sound of the waves crashing makes him feel like he's got stars inside of him constantly clashing and colliding, giving life to something new.
There's still a cosmic void somewhere in there because things don't magically change overnight. But at least today, he sits in his studio, Gyuvin splayed out on the floor awkwardly. The position is doing no favors for his existing back problems, but he insisted on sticking around.
Ricky doesn't fight him on it, more than happy to have the other around while he paints. He's letting it pour out of himself today, steady like soft rain.
"Am I like your muse or something?" Gyuvin's voice has the same effect on him as the ocean waves.
"Or something." Ricky smiles to himself, looking at the mix of colors on the canvas. It's Gyuvin in the dark, pearly white teeth and stars in his eyes. It's soft, beautiful, much like the subject of the painting—the man he loves. Because all of the time, love seems to find him.
It's something sweet and warm, like winter in LA.