Chapter Text
BAZ
Going to a cooking class is about the last thing I’d choose to do on a Friday evening at the end of a long week. I blame Simon. Or his therapist. Our therapist? I’ve gone to a couple of his sessions, on Simon’s insistence. The things one does for love.
His (our?) therapist suggested we try some activities together as a couple. Activities that could help us bond and create positive memories that don’t involve the trauma of fighting off dark creatures. Or being covered in blood. Or nearly dying. I suppose she may have a point. Our couples activities have traditionally run along the lines of “see dark creature, kill dark creature.” I was loathe to have her to unpack that too deeply, so I quickly agreed to couples outings for the next several weeks.
Simon immediately suggested a cooking class, so we researched one that seemed interesting to us both. We’re off to a spot where they’ll teach us to make a curry, I’m sure Simon told me the exact type, or the region, and I promptly forgot. The instructor was the main reason we chose this class, if I’m honest. From her website and youtube videos she seems funny, outrageously so, and a bit lewd. She seemed like the sort of person who wouldn’t make the whole endeavour torturous. If I’m being dragged along to a cooking class, I might as well get a few good laughs in at someone’s courgette-based innuendo.
Simon seems enthused. He’s puffing out little breaths of air into the cold of the night as we walk from the tube to where the class is held.
“…and I’m excited to learn how to make naan, aren’t you, Baz? Maybe we’ll spend less on takeaway once we know how to make a curry at home.”
“Lovely. Then I’ll get to spend all my time cooking and baking for you. As if I don’t already do almost all the cleaning and shopping.” I can’t help the snark. It pours out of me.
Simon furrows his brow and sucks his lower lip into his mouth.
“I dusted and hoovered on Wednesday,” he says softly.
Damn me and my stupid mouth.
I reach out and pull his hand from his pocket, lacing our fingers together. He squeezes my hand in return and shoots a million megawatt smile back at me. It shouldn’t take so little to cheer him up. I sigh, and you can barely see my breath in the cold air. Cold body, cold lungs, cold heart. Maybe some couples time will be good for us.
SIMON
I’m shocked Baz agreed to this. I’m shocked I agreed to this, if I’m honest. We’re not really a “couples activities” kind of couple, are we? It’s not us. But I’m not sure what us is, if I’m honest. A relationship forged in trauma? A love marked with death? Two monstrous beasts who throw all their love at one another because we absolutely suck at loving ourselves? Perhaps couples activities will help us find some normalcy, help us pretend that we can be normal.
And if that means learning to cook, so be it. I’ll be excited. I’ll put on my game face for Baz.
He seems out of sorts. I don’t know if it’s the fact we’ll be around food and Baz has a relationship with consumption that can be described as tenuous at best. Or maybe he’s right. Maybe I haven’t been carrying my share of work around the flat as I should.
I squeeze Baz’s hand. He squeezes back. At least we always get the handholding right.
BAZ
The space for the cooking class is nice enough. Each couple gets their own work station. A lot of the ingredients have been prepped for us, mis en place. The first thing Simon does is blow out the two small ambiance candles on the work surface. I raise an eyebrow at him.
“No exposed flames near the highly flammable boyfriend,” he whispers.
I check around us to see if anyone is looking, they’re not, so I snap my fingers and let a tiny flame flicker above them. “Oh, like this kind of exposed flame?”
The panicked look on his face will certainly be more delicious than anything we’re about to cook.
Simon eyes the mis en place bowls, before grabbing a pinch of raw red peppers and chucking them into his mouth.
“Aren’t those meant for the dish?”
“It’s fine. Weights and measures are mostly recommendations anyway.” I roll my eyes and he laughs, reaching for another bowl and popping a pinch of something green into his mouth. His eyes go wide and he gives a choked little cough.
“Mistake,” he croaks hoarsely. “Those were spicy.” Then he’s digging a spoon into a container of yogurt and sucking that down. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes red-rimmed, a couple teardrops cling to his lashes. Somehow, ridiculously, it all manages to make him look more beautiful. I don’t tell him that though.
“Simon, you nightmare, leave some for the actual cooking.”
Is this what his therapist meant by “quality bonding time as a couple”? Me desperately trying to prevent Simon from embarrassing me by eating all of our ingredients before the class has even begun? Me refusing to say the things that should be said? Tragic.
You know what’s surprisingly not tragic? Simon Snow in an apron. I offer to tie it in the back for him just to have an excuse to get close. From the smirk on his face I can tell he sees straight through me. It’s the only straight thing about us.
The instructor clears their throat at the front of the room and it is very distinctly not the lady whose videos we’d enjoyed, who’d made us laugh loudly with her surprisingly erudite innuendo around marrows. The person before us is a rather dour gentleman who announces that the regular instructor is home sick.
“That bodes well. If he says she has a stomach bug, I’m leaving,” I whisper. Simon elbows me and hisses to give it a chance. I do. I let the new cooking instructor drone on and on to us about how difficult this cuisine is to perfect, and how we shouldn’t expect our results to be very good. What a ray of fucking sunshine. Then he goes off on a ten minute anecdote about the time Jamie Oliver retweeted a picture of some buns he baked or some nonsense. I zone out, honestly. He ends by telling us our food will most likely turn out inedible.
“Brilliant, let’s piss off and go get a takeaway then,” I mutter. Simon elbows me. That’s the second time in so many minutes. He’s all elbows tonight. Pretty sure getting repeatedly elbowed isn’t the bonding experience our therapist envisioned.
“Take it seriously, Baz.”
I sigh and steel myself to make an effort. For Simon’s sake. For the sake of our relationship.
The class gets started, and the instructor continues to be a dark raincloud. He has the energy of a damp paper bag. He has the charm of a single, dirty shoe abandoned at the side of the road. Simon, however, is outdoing himself. He’s an endless fountain of enthusiasm. He’s focused and positive, even when the instructor is rude and vague. I suppose I thought Simon would turn all the hobs on full blast and start chucking stuff around, but he pays attention to the chef, nodding along, jaw set, with determination burning in his eyes. These recipes are clearly another monster to defeat.
In fact, for better or worse, it turns out I’m the one who’s a bit of a mess. I keep getting distracted staring at Simon, watching him bite his lip as he focuses on scraping the skin off a chunk of ginger, and staring at the little furrowed spot between his eyebrows that appears when he’s deeply concentrating.
“You look adorable when you’re focused like that,” I say to him. This is the good stuff, right? The bonding. What we came for. It’s alright that I’m not helping much, because this is supposed to be about us getting closer. And right now I’d very much like to get closer to Simon.
The instructor comes around just then to check up on us. He opens the lid of a pot and glares at the contents within.
“You haven’t been stirring this,” he says.
“We have!” Simon protests, and he’s right, well, he’s half right. Simon’s been stirring it. Perhaps he’s using the royal “we” to refer to himself. Or he’s being kind and including me when I’ve put in zero effort.
“Well, you haven’t been stirring it enough. It's not difficult. Just make your arm go round and round, surely you can manage that,” the instructor sneers and continues on to the next couple. The next victims. He’s berating them just as much as he did us, perhaps more so.
Simon’s face has soured. “What’s wrong with that guy?” he asks.
“Who can say? Perhaps his mother didn’t hug him enough.”
“That could be said of us, but you don’t see me going around fussing at people for insufficient stirring!”
I lean in close and whisper to Simon as he frowns and stirs the contents of our pot. “He does seem like a bit of a prick, doesn’t he?” Simon laughs.
“Do you think he’s homophobic?”
“I think he’s a dick. Listen to him talking to that extremely straight couple over there.” We both go quiet and try to subtly lean over to listen.
“This is ridiculous. You clearly haven’t paid attention to any of my instructions!” The instructor complains to them, before throwing his hands in the air and stalking away. Simon and I hurriedly take the lid off another pot and pretend to be engrossed in checking the status of our rice.
“So, I suppose this might not be the stellar bonding experience we’d hoped for,” Simon whispers to me as we lean over the pot.
“We’ve fought off a chimera. This guy should be nothing to that.”
“Dunno, he seems like he could be part bridge troll to me.”
“Attention!” The instructor shouts at the front of the room. “We’re going to attempt naan and I need you to focus completely on me so you don’t absolutely ruin it. So shut your mouths. And listen.”
“Yes, Chef Bridge Troll, sir,” I whisper. Simon tries to stifle his laughter and we get a death glare from the chef.
“You two. Focus,” he snarls at us. We hush. We focus. But internally I start plotting ways to destroy him.
Intent on destroying me, however, is Simon. Just by being himself. He’s rolling up his sleeves, revealing freckled forearms bit by bit. I get a little lost staring at the muscle and sinew, so when he unexpectedly slaps a ball of dough down on the work surface I jump. It’s not a graceful move.
“You’re distracted,” he laughs. I don’t dignify him with a response. (Because I’m too busy feeling embarrassed.) Instead, I lean back on the counter and watch him work.
“You’re distracted and you’re still not being very much help.” He’s smirking as he kneads the dough.
“You only have yourself to blame. I’m utterly useless when you have your forearms on display like that.” He’s really working the dough now, the heels of his palms digging into it, stretching it. I can barely stand the sight. I lean in closer and whisper in his ear. “Will you do that to me, later?”
“What?” he laughs. “Knead you?” He slams the dough down again on the work surface.
“No. Bang me against a counter.”
I hear Simon swallow, thickly, before I move away from him.
He’s biting his bottom lip as he kneads the dough, and I feel his heartbeat quicken. Good. He should feel as aroused and unable to do anything about it as I currently do. Come join me in hell, Simon.
The instructor comes round to check up on our progress.
“You’re doing this wrong,” he says, with a frown on his face.
“He’s doing fine,” I counter.
“No, it’s alright Baz. How should I be doing it differently?” Simon asks patiently. He’s so infinitely patient.
“You weren’t listening to my instructions,” the instructor complains, throwing his hands in the air.
“I can fix it if you tell me how.”
“You’ve over worked it! There’s no fixing an overworked dough! You’d have to start all over again. Useless.”
“How dare you,” I reply icily. “I’m the only one allowed to call him useless.”
“Yeah!” Simon agrees, then does a double take and stares me down. “Wait, what?”
“Pointless,” the instructor mumbles, before wandering off to hassle the next couple. I’m fairly sure he’s going to make some straights cry before the night is through. I don’t even wait until he’s out of earshot before I’m bitching to Simon.
“Shame you can’t call up the Sword of Mages anymore, I’d do anything to see you run that guy through. Or maybe just menace him a little.”
“That’s being a bit harsh, Baz,” Simon stirs a pot, frowning the entire time. This was supposed to be about making good memories, not avoiding vitriol and watching my sunshine boy get cold water poured over his efforts. That’s what 8 years of Watford with me as his roommate was for.
“He’s awful, Simon, admit it! Let’s turn all the hobs up to full whack and fuck off out of here while he’s not looking.”
“No! We can do this!” Simon’s eyes flash and he smiles. He looks around the room quickly before darting forward and kissing me.
The cooking instructor clears his voice. Loudly. “If you would, gentlemen.”
“What? It’s a couples cooking class, is it not?” I gesture innocently.
“Exactly, it’s a couples cooking class. Not a bordello.” I snort. He doesn’t appreciate that.
“Bordello. Who even says that?” Simon asks.
“Apparently disgruntled chefs who were retweeted once by Jamie Oliver you know,” I say, in a course imitation of his nasal accent.
Simon stirs a pot and laughs quietly to himself. He’s unflinchingly optimistic. He’s putting in so much undeserved effort to try and make this work. Oh Merlin, is that a metaphor for our relationship? Shit.
“Alright,” the instructor shouts from the front of the room, someone at the station beside us startles at the sound of his voice and drops a pan lid. The instructor mumbles something underneath his breath before continuing. “This is a waste of my time, because I know you’re going to mess it all up, but let’s try and get our way through paneer.”
I roll my eyes. What a prick. Simon grabs the chunk of paneer and a large knife to start slicing.
Then I smell it. His blood. Simon’s blood. He’s cut himself.
“Oh, shit!” Simon says, much louder than a cut of that magnitude warrants. It’s small. He used to knick himself deeper than that reintroducing himself to our room at Watford. It should stop bleeding soon enough with a little pressure, but he’s carrying on as if he’s about to lose a limb. “I’m so so sorry,” Simon apologises. “I seem to have cut myself!”
“Of course you have.” The instructor rolls his eyes. I think I’d like to rip his throat out. “Let me see if I can find you a plaster.”
“No, I mean, that won’t be good enough. Will it, Baz?” I don’t know what he’s on about, but I nod emphatically anyway. “I have that blood clotting disease. You know, the one where my blood doesn’t clot properly?” Shit. Simon did this on purpose. Ever the hero, he’s slashed his own finger open in order to get us out of this abysmal cooking class. Time to turn on the drama. (My speciality.) I grab a tea towel and wrap it around his finger.
“Hemophilia! He has hemophilia! I’ve got to get him to A&E immediately!” I say, taking off my apron and throwing it over my shoulder, Simon already removed his. Then I’m shoving him hurriedly through the room.
“NO REFUNDS!” the instructor shouts after us, but it’s too late, we’re nearly at the door. As we walk past another couple’s station an older lady reaches out and grabs my shirt sleeve.
“You damn geniuses. Take me with you! Save us all!” she whispers. Simon winks at her, and then I’m hauling us out onto the pavement and we’re laughing and running away from the cooking class of the damned. I shove him into the closest alley, so we’re out of sight, and then put his bleeding finger into my mouth, sucking the blood away. It stops bleeding almost immediately. Pity. I continue to suck on his finger, however. I’m not a fool. One doesn’t simply pass up opportunities to put Simon Snow’s fingers in their mouth.
“Baz,” Simon laughs as I look down at him from where I’ve now sucked two of his fingers into my mouth. “Baz! It was just the one and I’m sure it’s stopped bleeding by now, it was barely a knick.”
I talk around his fingers in my mouth. “But darling, one can never be too safe!” I give his fingers one final suck before pulling away. He wipes them on his jeans as I cradle his face in my hands.
“Ever the hero, willing to slay yourself to rescue me.”
“Again, it was an extremely small cut, Baz. It barely bled. Just enough for show.”
I kiss him slowly. “Still, you were a fucking genius to think of it.” I feel him smile against my lips.
“So that was pretty awful, wasn’t it?” he asks with a sigh.
“Simon, it was absolutely dreadful. I was seriously contemplating homicide.”
“Good thing I came to the rescue.” He squeezes my hand and drags me reluctantly from the alley. Not that I’m a fan of dark, filthy alleyways so much as the dark, filthy things we could do in them.
“Home love?”
“Don’t want to go for a curry first?” Simon asks, laughing.
“Oh, fuck no. Not for a very long time.”
We’re laughing as we walk, so perhaps this night wasn’t a complete and total loss. We’ve made a memory that doesn’t involve dark creatures (maybe a half-bridge troll) and only a small amount of blood was spilt. Our therapist would be proud. It can only get better from here.