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“Why the fuck is there cardamom in this?”
Miles blinked. “Do you not put cardamom in your chai? Is there something wrong with you?”
A rough hand slapped his, pushing it away from the pot bubbling on the stove. “If you're gonna put weird shit in my tea, you don't get any,” Scar grumbled. “Back off.”
“Hey, that's not fair— I'm just making it better.”
“You ruined it,” Scar complained (really, he was whining, but Miles knew he'd get smacked again if he pointed that out). “It tastes like toothpaste.”
Miles just rolled his eyes, wrapping himself around Scar and resting his head on the other man’s shoulder. “Yeah, but you love me. So.”
He tsked. “Not enough to let you ruin my holiday.”
“You sure about that?” he teased, ruffling Scar’s hair.
His boyfriend muttered something unflattering under his breath (which Miles chose to ignore), and kept stirring the tea. The movement threw all the aromatics of the drink into the air, and if Miles inhaled just right, he could almost taste it. The flavor settled on his tongue like an old friend, and he smiled.
“Go check on the rice and be useful,” Scar said, carefully peeling Miles off of him. “And don’t eat anything,” he added sharply, “Wait until dinner.”
Miles groaned, but did as he was asked, because he was well-behaved. But not that well-behaved. After slowly lifting the lid of the pot, the steam curling over his glasses, he took a quick look to make sure Scar was distracted, and deftly grabbed a bite of the rice. Then, he almost dropped the lid.
It was fucking hot.
The dish, sabzi polo ba mahi, was a traditional one, heavily herbed rice and a piece of fish. It was simple, sure, but it was one of his favorite meals. The combination of dill, cilantro, garlic chives, and parsley was a light flavor, and it tasted of spring. It was easy enough to make, and he couldn’t quite explain why he loved it so much. It was just a warm meal that made everything feel special, a holiday treat that made the rest of the year worth it. And Scar knew this. Scar knew how much he loved this. So why was he turning the stove up so goddamn high?
There was a snicker from behind him.
He didn’t turn.
“Bastard,” he muttered, his tongue stinging with heat.
Scar snorted. “I did tell you not to eat anything.”
“Yeah, well- you shouldn’t expect me to listen!”
He rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth to the way his face creased, smile lines dented in his skin, even if his expression wasn’t fully jovial. “Ishvala, come here. Do you need a kiss to make it better?”
“I think I do, actually,” Miles grumbled, and let himself be used as a glorified chin rest. Even if he was the one who was supposed to be comforted, he couldn’t say that he minded. His boyfriend’s embrace was warm and soft, and he smelled like a spice shop, cinnamon and cloves and ginger curling off his skin. Scar wasn’t one for being sappy or affectionate, so Miles did his best to coax out these sweet moments, where they could just be.
It wasn’t on purpose, but the two had shifted, and Miles was now leaning against Scar's chest (Scar’s… very sturdy, very strong, very muscular chest, he had to add). His boyfriend’s arms rested loosely around his back, and while he couldn’t see his face, he knew Scar was smiling. He could feel it, in the peaceful arch of his shoulders, and the lack of tension in his hips. It was a rarely seen visitor, but a welcome one nonetheless.
It was all too much, too much of a good thing, and Miles was drunk on the feeling. The sweetness wove through his veins, and all he could think to do was this.
“Dance with me,” he said softly.
“But there’s no music,” Scar pointed out, more confused than contrarian.
Miles shrugged. “So what?”
Hands fluttered to his waist, and his own betrayed him, tracing their way to Scar’s shoulder blades. They’d been together for so long, and every touch still felt as good. It was trusting but hesitant, excitable and patient, and he felt like dying every time Scar pressed a whisper of a kiss to his forehead. (Scar said that was all he could reach. Miles did not appreciate the reminder.)
Scar led, and they just swayed in the kitchen. Neither knew how to dance, really. Not like this, all soft angles and gentle footsteps. There was more tripping than twirling, more cursing than curtsies. They were not great at this. But he had the love of his life to flail and stumble with, and that’s all that mattered.
A kiss found its way against his lips. He tasted like saffron. He tasted like home.
“I think I'm all better now,” Miles said with a smile.
Scar rolled his eyes. “You’re just hungry.”
“So what if I am? You’re a good cook, even if you insist on using the wrong spices for everything.”
(Scar had a history of… unconventional flavors. Even if it didn’t taste as bad as expected, putting rosewater in curry was a cardinal sin, and Miles refused to let go of this heinous insult to Ishvalan cuisine.)
His boyfriend pushed back, a barbless thing that fluttered harmlessly to the ground, as all of his insults did. “Fuck you.”
“First, dinner. Afterwards, maybe.”
“I’m going to dump this if you don’t behave,” Scar hissed.
Miles raised his hands in mock surrender, sliding into a seat at their tiny kitchen table. “Hey, hey, fine. But if I don’t have flatbread in my mouth right this instant-”
A piece of bread was flung in his direction, freshly baked and still so, so warm. He caught it with tentative fingers, trying not to press the air out of the light sangak.
Scar brought the rest of the food, arms laden with large plates. He laid out cups of rich brown chai, sabzi polo ba mahi with steam still swirling off the delicate cuts of salmon, dolmeh barg topped with small dried barberries, the rest of the sangak, and round qottab that smelled of almonds and cardamom. It was too much food for the two of them, and Miles knew it. But apparently, Scar didn’t.
“I’m sorry this is all I made,” he ground out, “I didn’t want to make you wait too long, and-”
“Scar, I- what?”
His boyfriend winced.
“You’re seriously apologizing for cooking four different dishes in one day? I know my vision is shit, but my hearing must be going, because you cannot be standing there, saying you’re sorry for making some of the best smelling food on the continent. I know I'm not hearing that.”
Scar stopped. “You're sure?”
“Ishvala, of course I’m sure, you absolute peabrain. Please stop being an idiot so I can eat the wonderful food you made that I am so excited to try and am so incredibly appreciative of before this gets cold.”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
Miles snorted and shook his head, digging a spoon into the rice. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Scar chided teasingly.
He groaned. “Fuck you.”
“Maybe later?”
“Hey! That’s my line!”
Nothing was perfect, and nothing would be perfect. But Miles thought he was pretty satisfied with whatever flavor of not-perfect he’d managed to find. Things seemed to be working out just fine.