Chapter Text
2. Stew
They sit crammed in at the table, canning pickled green beans, and do their very best to ignore the rest of the kitchen. Brine in the jar, a bit of dill, a clove of garlic, plus the beans of course. They're one of Eurydice's favorites. She is making an effort to not look at the vegtables, though Orpheus keeps side-eying the zucchini next to him like it's going to bite him when he's not looking.
There's significantly fewer of them now, at least. The crate took care of at least half, and they've slowly been making their way through them as the week has gone on. It's truly amazing how many things can have zucchini added to them. Sauces. Casseroles. Fritters. Orpheus had promised to make them pancakes the next morning, and she was half-convinced he'd put zucchini slices in, just to use it up.
She stretches, pushing her chair back on two legs. It's kind of impressive how many noises her back makes as she leans. "I can't sit around here anymore. Want to go for a walk?"
He pushes back from the table as well, scattering garlic cloves and beans this way and that. "Sure! I've been meaning to work on some songs."
–
There's a feeling in the air as they step out, humidity building in the summer afternoon. Orpheus points out anvil clouds and thunderheads off in the distance, flashing with lazy lightning as they travel slowly over the forests and plains in the distance. They'll have to be mindful of the weather.
Except they really aren't. They go into the forest, following older paths Eurydice has traced over, catching the interest of various animals as they go lightly through the trees. There's a clearing in a ways, where the pair lay down and rest, and Orpheus sings out, something new about the forest and the summertime. Usually some animals will at least come and investigate the sound, but the woods are quieter today, so Eurydice sings instead.
They have gotten to the rather nice point of Orpheus laying in her lap, gazing up at her adoringly as he kisses down the length of her torso, when the first raindrop hits, square on the top of her head.
"Did you feel that?"
Orpheus (sadly) pauses his ministrations and asks: "Feel what?" just in time to be hit between the eyes. "Ah."
"Maybe we should head for home?" Eurydice hauls Orpheus to his feet, feeling the sprinkle of water on the back of her neck and shoulders. "Quickly?"
The pair run back in the rain, getting lost once or twice among the dripping foliage, as the summer thunderstorm circles above them, proclaiming its might in flashing lightining and rolls of thunder. Everything gets soaked– their clothes, the lyre, the ground beneath their feet. Eurydice slips and almost twists an ankle in the mud, only saved by a well-timed grab from Orpheus.
By the time they make it back to the cottage, they've given up on running, already soaked through. Orpheus looks so put-out it makes her laugh- bangs plastered to his forehead, clothes dripping on the rag rug. He's a little reminiscent of a scarecrow out in the downpour.
Though by the way Orpheus looks at her, she's not much better herself. He's laughing as well, in that self-concious way of his, where he can't quite tell if he's allowed to find something funny. She raises an eyebrow into an expression of mock-disapproval as she wrings out her dress. Good Lord, she's soaked.
And now that they're out of the rain, she's freezing. The house is dark, all the cheer of summer muffled by the cloud cover.
"Here, love." Orpheus has dug two threadbare towels from the linen closet, and draped one over her head. Eurydice watches appreciativley as he strips out of his sodden shirt and trousers, pulling a fresh set of clothes for the both of them out of the bureau at the foot of their bed. He was never what you'd call muscular, but working in the bar has put some light muscle over his shoulders and arms, and it's a nice picture in the low light of the house.
Orpheus flushes pink when he notices her staring, though his expression quickly shifts to concern when he notices her shivering.
"Do you want to go warm up?"
"No, no, it's alright. I'm starving, we ought to make dinner–" She pauses when she sees the worry on Orpheus' face. He's no good at hiding how he's feeling, not around her. "It's alright, love. It's just a bit of rain."
"You should go dry off. I can make dinner. Is stew alright? I know a recipe from my mother…" He trails off as he turns away into the kitchen. Oh, his mother. He must be feeling low.
"As long as you use up some of that zucchini." She's just trying to lighten the mood, now. The grey of the clouds has pulled a veil over the house, windowpanes dripping with the force of the rain still tumbling down from the heavens.
Orpheus turns back, just for a moment, and smiles softly.
"I will."
–
Eurydice lies in their bed and watches her lover move quietly around the kitchen, humming to himself. It's something she's never heard before, which means it's either very new or very old. with the way his voice glides through the notes, though, she bets it's old.
He doesn't talk about his mother much. When they'd first been together, that lovely, perfect summer, she hadn't asked. That type of question tended to reflect back on the asker, and she hadn't wanted to talk about her own family, especially not at first.
She'd wondered if Hermes had been his true father, and from the swiftness of the god Orpheus had gained his talents. But the old god had shaken his head and laughed, and said that he'd only known Orpheus' mother, an old friend of his. A Muse. You could practically hear the capital letter in the way he'd said it.
Oh, and then she'd asked him, burning with curiosity, and he'd quietly told her that his mother was a singer, and a wanderer too, and that one day she'd gone wandering without him, and not come back. He doesn't remember much of her, but some days he'll sing songs of hers, and sometimes he'll recall to Eurydice little snatches of life with her. Railroad cars, bars from knee-height.
She's not shivering anymore, wrapped in the threadbare sheets and patchy quilt of their bed. She's just drowsing, the noise of the rain on the roof lulling her further and further into sleep.
–
Orpheus wakes her with a light kiss on the brow. The world still retains some of that dreamlike haze as she resurfaces, the warmth of the blankets and soft glow of the house keeping her fuzzy around the edges as they sit at the kitchen table. The air is warm and slightly dewy with steam from the pot.
"…This has much less vegetable matter on it than last time I was here."
"The soup did take up a lot. Thankfully. I didn't know if dinner would have fit." He still has to shove some errant zucchini off to one side as brings the bowls over from the stove. It looks fantastic, little sprinkles of herbs scattered artfully among a landscape of cooked vegetables and melty cheese.
"It smells delicious. Thank you, for making it."
"Of course." There's still something off with him, Eurydice can tell. Usually his head-in-the-clouds air is not so foggy.
She takes a sip of the broth. Damn, it's good. He's a fine cook, nothing special, but this is really something else. She makes an appreciative noise and glances over, but he's still a little spacey and doesn't react.
"When did you learn the recipe?" Toss-up on whether he'll feel better or worse after this particular line of inquiry, but it's worth a shot.
A ghost of a smile. That's a good sign, probably. "We were in a town by the ocean. She'd been playing this one bar for a few nights, getting ready to pack up and head inland. There was this…gale?" He waves his hands loosely in the air, uncharacteristically lacking in words. "Reminds me a little of this storm. We got stuck in this tiny house next to the bar for a couple of days. She made the soup every night, I think."
"I would've gotten tired of it. Even if it's this amazing every time." To emphasize her point, Eurydice takes a rather large bite of stew and looks pointedly at his own plate, which he hasn't touched.
"Yeah, I don't think she knew how to cook that well. But she knew how to make this." He does, finally, take a bite of the stew as well, which seems to bring him back to reality somewhat. The pair eat in companionable silence (well, as much silence as can be had when one is eating soup) for a while, Orpheus humming slightly again between bites.
Time to simply go for it, then. Eurydice breaks the silence by nudging her lover with her heel. "What was up with you tonight?"
"…" His spoon pauses halfway to his mouth, then retreats back to the bowl. "I don't know." He begins tapping his fingers along the table, some fast rhythm Eurydice can't quite find the beat of. "I just got a bit nervous. Maybe it was the storm. Or getting caught out–?"
Eurydice thinks she can hazard a guess. "I'm here, yeah? Not going anywhere. Let's clean up, and go to bed early tonight." The pair make their way around the table, bringing bowls and cutlery with them. Orpheus sticks close to her, shoulders brushing as he dries the dishes she hands to him.
"I don't think the storm will stop anytime soon." Eurydice hears the small tremble in his voice.
"We're dry and warm in here, though." She tips her head to the side, resting it on his shoulder. "I don't mind the noise so much when we're not out in it."
The two of them put the kitchen to rights (not half as much zucchini anymore, they can fit it all on the kitchen table with room to spare) and make their way towards bed. It's still quiet in the house, though Orpheus is never really quiet - always tapping, or humming, or joggling his leg in a way that shakes whatever furniture might be near enough to feel it.
Under the covers, Eurydice draws him close, warm skin against warm skin. She's far removed from the steady beat of the rain on their roof, plinking against the tin almost musically. She hopes Orpheus can hear it too, and not the weather that took her away all those months ago.
Slowly, under that rhythm, they sleep.