stilljustandrew | [ainmhianverse] same as it ever was

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[ainmhianverse] same as it ever was

Andrew isn't sure how long he's been here. There's no clock in the room, no watch on his wrist, no phone in his pocket. Nobody's come into the room, and that feels like a test, or like a trap. Someone's waiting to see what he'll do.

It takes what feels like hours, between deciding to try opening the door and putting out his hand to grip the knob, and almost as long again to try to turn it. It turns, smoothly, effortlessly, almost silently, and with a tiny whimper of fear he pulls his hand away as though burned and stumbles back several steps.

On the second attempt, he's able to ease the door open the tiniest amount, and then freezes to see what will happen. When nothing does, he opens the door a touch further, and further until there's an opening wide enough to step through.

He steps through.

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"Oh. Sorry, I don't mean to hover," Max says, when Andrew stops to look up. "I was just curious to see which one you were looking at."

"Oh -- the chicken and rice one? I, I used to know how to make arroz con pollo, and it looks a little similar ..."

He taps his list with the pencil. "So I thought it would be good to see if, if we have all the ingredients? I checked off the ones I know, and then I was going to go look for the others."

Max perks up considerably hearing that. "Well now, that's a dish I haven't heard about in a while. I'm even more excited to see what you can do."

Max takes a closer look at that list, nodding in agreement. "You're very observant. That list looks about right to me. I know we are running low on a few things, like the rice, but that's easy enough to pick up at the market. Some chicken too. Here"--he takes out a jingling sack from his pants pocket and offers it to Andrew--"This should more than cover anything you need to buy." Opening the sack will reveal a stack of gold coins.

"Oh," he says at the weight of the little sack of gold, startled and pleased and anxious all at once. "I, I'll make a shopping list ... is there anything else I should get?"

It's so strange, the realization that he hasn't handled money in years.

"Buy anything you feel like getting," Max answers with a light shrug. "Whatever ingredients don't naturally renew for me here, I tend to get on a case-by-case basis. So, no need to worry about me. Focus on what you want."

"Yes, Max." He nods, with a smile that's hopeful and determined all at once, and starts making notes again.

Sleep comes hard that night, and he lies still so as not to disturb Max (still a bliss beyond everything, to rest in his master's arms like this every night) and stares at the wall, plans chasing through his mind in eager and anxious succession. He writes out a script in his head, with variations, for how his market trip tomorrow might go; he tries to come up with some kind of parameters for what to do if anything isn't available, if he could try something else instead.

Focus on what you want. That's a command, unequivocally. He can obey a command. Even if thinking about what he wants is something he's found hard for some time now.

In the end the market trip is astonishingly uneventful, and he returns to Max's suite with heavy bags hanging from his hands and a breathless glow of achievement in his face, ready to start dicing onions.

It's good to see Andrew so passionate for something. Watching the man chart out his list, Max can't help but feel this might be the key to bringing Andrew all the way out of his shell. Max goes to sleep that night feeling more hopeful about it than he has since this arrangement started.

The next day, it's hard not to want to tag along on Andrew's shopping adventure. But he needs to let the man go out into the world to conquer it himself. Max would only impede his growth, well-meaning or not.

And, indeed, when Andrew returns he is aglow with his achievement. Max's expression brightens and he feels a tug of pride in his chest. Andrew did it.

"Looks like you got a good haul. I'm excited to watch you work."

"I hope I remember how," he says, but the anticipation and eagerness are greater than the anxiety, and he's got enough forward momentum to get started. "Can I, is it ..."

There; a hitch in the momentum, the smallest hitch. "Is it okay if I use the, the knives?"

"It will come back to you. I'm sure. And you can ask me for help if you start having trouble; I don't mind at all."

Max it attuned enough that he catches that small hitch, and is quick to add more wind to those sails, saying, "Of course. Knives are essential to cooking. It's okay. I trust you not to hurt anyone with them."

His smile is smaller, but somehow steadier now, as he nods.

It's the work of a few minutes to unpack everything, and a few more of clattering around in the kitchen to pull out the chopping board and pans and other utensils, and finally Andrew settles in to the real work. The movements come right back to him like the notes of a song long ago memorized, and for the next little while he loses himself in the work, contentedly dicing vegetables.

He doesn't notice when he has to blink away tears, or if he does, he attributes it to the lingering stinging scent of raw onion. He also doesn't notice when, a little bit later, he starts humming under his breath as he works.

Max squashes down the urge to hover again, and goes to couch to pretend to crack open his book. But thirty-minutes later, he hasn't turned the page once. He's too captivated watching Andrew come alive while he sets to work dicing vegetables.

It's enough to bring Max to the point of choking back his own tears. Especially when Andrew starts to hum along with his work. At that point, Max can't even pretend he's reading. He's set the novel aside and settled in to watch openly, with his chin propped up on one hand.

"What song is that?"

Andrew glances up quizzically from the celery he's chopping, his hands going still. "What song?"

"The one you're humming." Max sounds mildly perplexed. "Did you not realize you were?"

"Oh --" He puts down the knife, lifts his hands away from the table; he isn't tensing up, not exactly, but some of the ease has gone out of his posture. "No, I didn't, I -- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make a noise. I'll be more careful."

Oh no. Max seems to have stumbled upon one of those old trigger spots for Andrew. And it fills Max with such sorrow. Was Andrew really not even allowed to hum as he worked? Was every single part of his existence that joyless?

"No. You misunderstand. I'm not upset. I liked hearing it. I don't want you to stop, please."

"... O-oh." He blinks, uncertain, and a tentative shadow of a smile creeps back into his face. "All, all right then."

A pause, as he gropes for the scattered memory of what he didn't even consciously realize he was humming.

"I think it was ... um." He bites his lip. "Do you know Sweeney Todd?"

"The musical?" The way Max's face brightens should make it clear he's definitely a fan.

"Yeah. I love it. Oh... oh no," he puts his hand over his face for a minute while he tries to keep from breaking out in a fit of giggles. "Don't tell me that was Mrs. Lovett's song about the pies?"

That brightening makes Andrew's face light up in turn, suddenly eager.

"Not the, uh -- not 'The Worst Pies in London' or 'A Little Priest,' the later one, when her place is suddenly full of customers? I can't remember what it's called ..." He hesitates, trying to call up the words. "Um, something something, all to do with herbs, things like being careful with your coriander, that's what makes the gravy grander ... " And he trails off, half hopeful, half embarrassed.

(His singing voice isn't anything special, but he's more or less on key.)

Edited 2022-04-04 17:06 (UTC)

"I can't remember what it's called either, but I know just which one you're talking about."

Seeing that look in Andrew, Max claps him on the shoulders and exclaims brightly, "We should get you into karaoke, I'd like to hear you sing some more."

"Oh," he says, and falters a little; still smiling, but with some complex unhappiness behind it. "I ... it's been a really long time since, um. Since I did that."

A beat, and he rallies with an effort. "But if, if you want me to ...?"

Max is quick to pivot, seeing that unhappiness. "Maybe we can do a little practicing first? Work up to it. Singing in public isn't everyone's cup of tea."

His expression softens, as does his tone of voice. "Was the last time you did it when you were still at home?"

"It was at Milliways, but, um. Before." That same complicated, rueful smile. "There used to be a magic karaoke machine. I ... I don't know if it's still there."

He glances down, and then as though just remembering what he was doing, picks up the knife again and resumes chopping the celery.

Max gently cocks his head to the side, trying to decide if it's better to pry or leave this lie. He choses something in the middle.

"Magic karaoke machine sounds like a lot of fun. What was the magic part?"

"Well ... it would pick songs for you, sometimes," he says, cutting with careful precision and paying close attention to his work. "And even if you never heard the song before, you'd know the words."

(A line he hasn't thought of in years is sounding in his head: Don't count me out of it / My story isn't over yet ... It's in his own voice, and it sounds like a stranger.)

"It's a shame the fae are so against technology here. I'd love to have something like that around." He has his small music player he requested from home, but wouldn't it be refreshing to get some new songs?

"By the way, you have a nice voice. I like hearing it."

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