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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"... 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."

Unconsciously, he ducks his head a little lower over his work, but he's smiling.

"Thank you." Very soft. "Would you ... like me to sing some more? While I'm doing this?"

"I'd love to hear you sing some more," Max answers brightly. "Whenever you feel like singing, I'll enjoy hearing it. Especially if it means you're happy or you're enjoying something. I never ever want you to stifle yourself."

Andrew glances up, with an uncertain but sincere smile.

"You ... you'll tell me if I'm being annoying, though, right? I, I don't want to be annoying."

"I'll tell you."

He probably won't, because he really can't see himself being annoyed by it. But he also knows no amount of insisting that he'll never find it annoying will be convincing in the same way. This is the easier way to reassure Andrew.

"But, have I ever acted like you're annoying me before?"

He shakes his head, with that same smile, small, half-hopeful. "No, Max. I, I'll do my best to ... to keep it that way."

And he sweeps the chopped celery up with the blade of the knife, sliding it carefully into a small bowl, and reaches for a carrot.

"I know you will." Max pats Andrew on the back lightly. He could just leave it there but... he feels there's more to say.

"I don't want you to worry about stuff like that around me. This is our home, and I want you to feel comfortable being yourself in here. And, yes, I know that's easy for me to say, but I do mean it. It makes me happy to learn these things about you. Okay?"

He looks up, hands going still again. "Okay," he says softly. "I ... I'll try not to worry."

And he does try, picking up his humming again as he proceeds through the recipe: sauteeing the onions and garlic in butter, adding the carrot and celery, measuring out the rice, warming the chicken stock, seasoning the chicken (making sure to rub some of the spice mix under the skin), finally assembling everything in a heavy baking dish and putting it in to bake.

By the time the rich smell of it is permeating the rooms, he's almost able to stop worrying.

Edited 2022-06-12 15:21 (UTC)

"Good boy." Max claps Andrew on the back and then moves off to let him have more room to work.

The time passes in comfortable silence, save for Andrew's humming and the sound of his pan sizzling on the stovetop. Soon enough, the small space is filled with the delicious smells of onion and garlic, and Max's mouth is already watering. By the time the dish is going in the oven, his stomach is really rumbling.

"Damn, Andrew, that smells amazing. I'm so excited to finally try it. I already know I'm going to love it."

The sense of rising anticipation as the dish finishes cooking -- almost without worry, almost without dread that something will go wrong -- is one he hasn't felt in a long time, unfamiliar almost to the point of newness. It's a strange contrast to the sense of deep familiarity he felt in the actual physical work of putting together the meal.

He has to stop himself from jumping up every few minutes to check on the dish in the oven, setting a timer instead. When he gauges there's about ten minutes left, he offers to set the table, trying to keep from jittering.

When he finally takes the dish out of the oven in a cloud of fragrant steam, the sight of it is almost a shock: I made this. I made this and it's good.

Max figures setting the table is a good way for Andrew to blow off some of that jittery steam, so he agrees and practically sits on his own hands to keep himself from jumping up to help.

He does come over as soon as the smell of their cooked meal intensifies, letting him know it's out of the oven. He's by Andrew's side as that look comes over the man.

"It turned out beautiful, didn't it?" He affirms gently. "I'm proud of you. You should be proud, too."

He motions to the table. "Well, why don't we dig in? My stomach has been rumbling ever since I started smelling it. I can't wait to get a bite."

Andrew looks up at Max's voice, his eyes wide and bright with something like wonder; it takes a moment for him to close his mouth, swallow, and smile.

"Yeah," he whispers, and then a little more solidly, "Yes. I -- thank you. It's been ... a really long time."

He adjusts his oven-mitted grip on the baking dish, and picks it up to carry to the trivet waiting on the table, serving pieces ready to dish out portions. He's suddenly voraciously hungry, mouth watering in anticipation.

The bright wonder in Andrew's eyes makes all the awkwardness they've both endured so thoroughly worth it. To see this poor frightened man come alive like that, Max can't think of anything more gratifying. It's almost enough to move him to tears. But before he lets that happen and potentially upset Andrew over it, he grabs a seat at the table and pulls his piping hot plate of food eagerly to him.

"To the first of your many delicious home cooked meals," he says, raising his first bite of food like a toast. Then he takes a long savoring taste, eyes closed in ecstasy as he chews.

"Oh, yeah. Tastes even better than it smells."

It does taste wonderful, and the look of unabashed enjoyment on Max's face is somehow even better. He can't think of a single thing to say, but it feels almost as though he doesn't need to, as though having the same melded flavors in their mouths is its own form of communicating.

I made this, some part of his mind keeps repeating in stunned amazement, trying to believe it.

There's enough for seconds for each of them, and some left over. He finds himself wishing the meal didn't have to end.

Food is a language they both appreciate. Sometimes, he really sucks at saying the right things, but he never misses when he's talking through the language of a good meal. It hardly takes long for him to finish his plate. He doesn't hold back going for seconds, and even goes as far as to run his finger through the juices once that's gone to lick up the very last of it. The temptation to over-eat is there, but he resolves to store the leftovers away for later.

Finally, he decides he probably should say something now. "I'm so proud of you. There's nothing about that dish I'd ever think of changing. In fact, I'd be honored if you let me add the recipe to my book. I'll credit you, of course."

Andrew stares at him, stunned silent, overcome; his jaw drops, then lifts again as his smile widens enough to make his cheeks ache. There's a shine to his eyes that might be tears, or might just be joy.

"I -- I'd be honored. It's yours."

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