[ainmhianverse] same as it ever was

[stilljustandrew]

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.

Comments

[stilljustandrew]

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.

[maximumcake]

"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."

[stilljustandrew]

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.

[maximumcake]

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."

[stilljustandrew]

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.

[maximumcake]

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."

[stilljustandrew]

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.

[maximumcake]

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."

[stilljustandrew]

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."