Chapter Text
At age fifteen, Kevin Cozner treated his excursions to the kitchen with the same secrecy that other teenage boys probably employed when sneaking out to see their girlfriends. Although, he reflected, his own father would be quite happy to learn that young Kevin was getting hand jobs from Lucy Johnson or Sandy Blevins or any of the other pretty, smiling girls from church or school that did nothing for him. It would put his mind at ease and quiet his nagging concerns that his bookish boy, fascinated by art and history and Europe and cookery, just wasn't quite right.
The Cozner's kitchen wasn't up for most challenges, and even if Kevin had had the money to buy the ingredients for coq au vin or duck a l'orange he still wouldn't have any idea where to buy some of the recommended herbs and spices. Pawnee, Indiana wasn't exactly known for being a hub of the culinary world, after all. As it was, the bechamel he had secretly prepared and stashed away in the tupperware at the back of the freezer was probably lacking in many ways. But he had it, along with ham, cheese and bread, and with no frame of reference to allow for disappointment he should still be able to pretend his croque-monsieur was the real thing.
He longed for wine, a candle, something to add savor to the occasion. But in their absence, he was still transported; sitting at his kitchen table in the dark, he relished the luscious combination of cheese, salt and hope. There was, he desperately wanted to believe, a place across the ocean where people ate such delicacies at every meal. They spoke to each other in French, with little trills and flourishes tripping off their tongues as if such things could be easily spared. There were baguettes and escargot and priceless works of art and men who touched each other easily, without fear of what Kevin knew to be true about himself.
Even if he wasn't ready to put it into words yet.
Years into the future, he will share this story with a strong, sophisticated man with dark eyes and a kind heart. He will laugh self-deprecatingly at his younger self who sat in the dark and idealized a sandwich; he will not be laughed at in return. And if he knew that, then it would ease the heaviness on his heart as he scoured the pan, careful to put it back exactly where it was and leave no trace of his nocturnal indulgence.
But for now, all he could do was slink back to his bed, with the centerfolds from Playboys and Penthouses stuck above the headboard like chain mail to deflect the blows of his father's interrogations. He slid the other half of the sandwich, triple-wrapped in plastic bags to prevent the scent leaking out, into the bottom of his school bag. He would eat it tomorrow, locked in a stall in the boy's restroom because he couldn't deal with the whispers and giggles that filled the cafeteria whenever he walked in anymore.
It would be delicious and a comfort; he knew that. But despite that, he wished it wasn't for him alone.
His cravings weren't for the food, not really. He was starving for someone to share it with.