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None of them were used to cooking.
Christine was used to grabbing a bite to eat around performances, Raoul had grown up with a paid chef in the house, and Erik habitually ate so little that he’d never needed to cook.
Yet now that they were sharing a house and sharing a kitchen, they’d decided to at least try.
This meant buying a recipe book, buying ingredients, and figuring out how to use them.
“If you don’t cook, how are you so good with knives?” asked Raoul.
“Are you sure you’re prepared for the answer to that question?” replied Erik, glancing up in a brief flicker of yellow eyes.
Christine stirred the stock while Erik stirred white wine into the risotto rice.
Raoul put the radio on, switching between stations until he found something upbeat but not too ‘pop’ for Erik’s discerning tastes.
Eventually, they reached the stage where it was all in the pot and only needed to stay on the heat as the liquid reduced down.
The radio still on, Raoul took Christine’s hand and twirled her in circles around the kitchen, while Erik stood at the hob, occasionally stirring with a wooden spoon.
He set it down briefly, and was ambushed from behind. Raoul’s arms around his waist, Raoul straining on tiptoe to rest his chin on Erik’s shoulder. “C’mere, Erik.”
A little suspiciously, Erik allowed Raoul to pull him back from the hob, only to realise that he was now going to be the one getting twirled around the room – or he would have been, except he was too tall for Raoul.
“Come on, Erik, work with me here.”
“I’m surprised at your assumption that I know anything about dancing.”
Christine snorted. “After all your lectures on the quality of the ballet at the opera?”
“That is different.”
“But is it really?” she said.
Then Christine came forward. She repositioned the way Raoul was holding Erik’s hand, then placed Erik’s hand on Raoul’s waist.
Raoul shot Christine a look and grinned.
“Go on,” she said.
Raoul started turning on the spot, and Erik moved with him so as not to be pulled awkwardly.
Erik tried to relax. He just wasn’t used to being held like this, he told himself. He was still surprised when Christine spooned him in bed.
“There’s worse fates than this, you know,” Raoul joked.
“I’m not… I don’t hate it,” said Erik.
“You look profoundly uncomfortable.”
“I’m not used to it.” Erik dropped Raoul’s hand and stood back. “I’m just not good at romantic things.”
“Liar!” called Christine, from where she stood stirring the risotto. She tsked. “Says the man who sang to me for literal months, bought me flowers, played the harp as I fell asleep…” She turned the heat on the hob down a little.
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” confessed Erik. “Not really.” He didn’t like admitting to not knowing things, but it was true. He straightened his waistcoat reflexively with one hand.
“You’re figuring it out,” said Raoul kindly.
Erik looked at Raoul, his hair slightly rumpled compared to its usual style. Looked at Christine, smiling at him from across the kitchen as she leaned against the counter.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps I am.”