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Dream didn’t cook.
He had lived on golden apples and pieces of beef that could only charitably be called ‘steak’ and ‘cooked’ and then later he had lived on potatoes, raw and mealy. It had taken months to get the taste out of his mouth. Months of Techno encouraging him to eat until Dream was able to keep down more than a few bites at a time.
It had to be frustrating. Dream had been frustrated, knowing that he needed to eat and knowing his stomach and mind would rebel against it. There had been times he had lashed out and had swept the dish off the table and Techno had rolled his eyes and called him a toddler and a baby and cleaned up the mess.
And he still cooked for Dream, despite it all.
This is so stupid, thought Dream with a groan.
He gripped the edge of the counter and looked down. Half the ingredients of Techno’s pantry sat out: carrots, mushrooms, onions, even potatoes. There were herbs that Dream didn’t know but had passed his sniff test and raw beef that he had dug out of the ice chest.
He had no idea what he was doing.
If Techno was here, Dream would ask him but he was out all day with Phil doing something that was supposed to be secret but Dream knew about anyway because Techno talked and, besides, this was meant to be a surprise.
“How—How hard can it be?” Dream asked the empty kitchen, trying to hype himself up. Outside, the sun was just a little below the halfway point in the sky. “It’s just fucking vegetables and shit in water.”
It was a lot harder than Dream thought.
His hands shook trying to chop the vegetables evenly, the missing fingers making it hard to grip the knife properly and there was one moment where his hand slipped and he grazed his finger, a tiny drop of blood welling up, and Dream had to sit down until he stopped feeling as if his head was full of static. But he had done it.
He had chopped the vegetables (even the potatoes) and then had cut the meat into chunks and had to stop himself from thinking about how easily a person could be carved up. As soon as he was done, Dream had tossed the knife into the sink and refused to look at it again.
Wiping his sleeve across his forehead, Dream began to season his stew. He smelled each herb, tasted some of the spices, dumped a little too much salt into the water and scrambled to scoop what he could out and then tried to mask it with a little more pepper and rosemary. He found dandelion greens and added those, too.
It didn’t taste anything like the stews that Techno made. Dream frowned.
He needed something.
In the back of Techno’s pantry, there was a dusty bottle of beetroot wine, labeled with Phil’s handwriting. That would work. Dream carefully scooped out some more of the water and then poured in half the wine. He added more herbs and spices but stayed away from the salt.
It still wasn’t right and Dream went to the ice chest and pulled out the butter and added a chunk.
Then he put the lid on the pot and let it simmer until Techno got home.
Steam rose off the bowl of stew sitting in front of Techno.
Across the table, Dream was watching him intently, his own bowl untouched, hand on the spoon, waiting for Techno to take the first bite.
“Y’know, you really didn’t have to do this, Dream,” said Techno, stirring the stew a bit.
“Yeah, I know but—but you always cook and I thought—I wanted to cook for...” Dream trailed off, shifting in his seat, finally looking away. “Whatever.”
Techno smiled.
“Nah, I appreciate it, man,” he said. “It looks good.”
That wasn’t a complete lie: the vegetables were clearly painstakingly cut into chunks all of a similar size as was the meat and the broth had a hearty, deep red color to it. Unfortunately, it colored almost everything with a reddish-purple tint to it but that was fine.
It certainly looked better than it smelled because it smelled like Techno’s entire spice rack had been dumped into the pot.
But Dream visibly perked up at his words.
“Yeah? I mean, I didn’t have, like, a recipe or anything.”
I can tell, thought Techno. He said, “Listen, Dream, the secret to cookin’ is you’ve got to cook from the heart, alright?”
A blush, pink and splotchy, colored Dream’s cheeks.
“Ugh. Just—Just eat the stupid stew,” said Dream, not moving to pick up his own spoon.
Techno took a bite.
It wasn’t awful though Techno would have never called it good. There was an odd lack of salt and an even odder mix of herbs and spices, not all of which went together, and a buttery taste that he wasn’t expecting. The beetroot wine was a bit overpowering.
He took another bite.
“Is it—is it alright?”
There was an eagerness on Dream’s face, nervousness in his voice, as he watched Techno.
Techno hadn’t been lying when he said the secret was to cook from the heart. The fact Dream had gone out of his way to cook anything when food had been such a sticking point for him, the fact he had willingly used potatoes when there had been a point he would gag at the mere sight of them, meant something.
It meant a lot.
Techno took another bite, bigger than the first two, and spoke around the mouthful.
“It’s amazin’. You wanna do all the cookin’ from now on?”
Dream scoffed but the blush had deepened and a pleased sort of relief had settled on his features. It softened some of the harshness left behind from the prison.
“Hell no.”
“I’m teasin’ you, Dream,” Techno said, still eating.
Dream pushed his spoon around his own bowl. He was quiet for awhile as Techno ate.
“Yeah—Well, to be—to be fair, you do all of the cooking and I know I’m a pain in the ass,” he said, finally, and finally lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth. Dream’s features twisted in disgust. “This is fucking awful.”
Techno snorted, reaching across the table to pat Dream’s hand.
“I don’t mind.”
One of Dream’s eyebrows jerked upwards.
“Really?”
“Really.” Techno pushed his chair to back to stand. “Now, I’m gonna get another bowl.”