Work Text:
After a long, mellow rainy day in Paris, Vanitas leans on the wall, sitting on his bed, listening to the rain tap rhythmically on the window. His fingers flick through the pages of his book, all while being covered head to toe in blankets.
Next to him, bathed in the fading sunlight glancing through the gray clouds, Noé is napping, half on the floor, other half on the bed, as his stomach begins to grumble.
To that, Vanitas realizes that it's long been dinnertime. It was his duty to take care of the meals, simply because he did enjoy cooking, found it relaxing and didn't want to risk lying half-alive in his bed, suffering a food poisoning because he let Noé enter the kitchen. Spending another two, five seconds watching the rain, he lets a deep sigh out and totters, still covered in a blanket, down to the kitchen.
He looked at the wiped cleaned counters, the table stacked with fruits and vegetables and felt the lingering smell of baked goods in the air.
In a pot, he melted a knob of butter. As it started foaming, he whisked two tablespoons full of flour in and watched as it took on a creamy, light amber color.
He didn't need onions. Noé didn't like their texture, he knew. It's onion free, for him. He cut the carrots, the potatoes, filled the pot with parsnips, parsley, the greenest vegetables.
Memories came flowing into his head, they felt lightheaded, caused fluttering in his stomach.
He remembered how he had made this for his father, for his little brother, for Luna, back when he was little. His own recipe. Now he is making it for noé, for him. Maybe it meant more, this way. Tasting the same thing, with the people that have taken a spot in his heart. Maybe it meant even more to him, with Noé. He wants to eat it with him together, to share the moment.
The air is already warm, the smell of creamy soup, with the boiling vegetables is covering the kitchen. Filling the plates with his soup, he returns to his room, expecting to be awaited, as his carrying hands become hot.
He hoped Noé was hungry. He hoped the soup tasted good, that it would be warming Noé up from inside, like the sun, like home.
A balm to the aches of those last months.
This is for him. He made this just for him.
