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“I can smell it, you know?”
The only reason Jiaoqiu agreed to let Moze handle the vegetables was his constant whining and his hovering presence over Jiaoqiu’s shoulder. Moze’s persistent overprotectiveness and that vigilant gaze he could feel on his back were starting to drive him to the edge. Assigning Moze a few tasks was the only way to keep his own sanity.
“No. I don't.”
The annoyed yet slightly flustered grunt is more than Jiaoqiu expects. The corner of his mouth twitches as he tries to suppress a smile.
“Love,” Jiaoqiu begins, his smooth voice betraying a hint of amusement as he steps closer to the countertop. His hand sweeps out carefully until his fingertips graze the edge, his palm gliding along until he brushes Moze’s arm. “I don’t need my eyes to know you’re trying to poison me,” he jokes lightly. Only after he feels Moze tense does he realize the unintended sting in his choice of words.
“It’s not funny,” Moze mutters, his disapproval clear. But despite the complaint, his fingers tighten around Jiaoqiu’s wrist, guiding his hand to rest at his hip. The feel of slippery fabric under Jiaoqiu’s fingertips tells him Moze didn’t bother changing his clothes before entering the kitchen. Disappointing. At least he’s removed the jacket this time; long sleeves dipping into pots would definitely have been the line—especially since Moze was the one who insisted on helping with Jiaoqiu’s return to the kitchen.
“Neither is ruining my dishes with coriander,” Jiaoqiu counters, his hand gliding to find Moze’s belly, where he nudges him with his finger. Though Jiaoqiu can’t see him, he can imagine how annoyed Moze must look, and he’s sure he’s trying just as hard to suppress a smile. Jiaoqiu misses those rare half-smiles, those awkward little hints of amusement Moze tries so hard to hide.
“I was testing your alertness,” Moze replies, his tone almost too serious, as though even he’s more inclined to believe in that excuse than admit to any hint of mischief.
“Oh?” Jiaoqiu tilts his head, reaching out and tracing his fingers along Moze’s arm until he finds his hand. “Are you sure you didn’t just make a bet with the General?” he teases, bringing Moze’s palm close to his face.
The scent of coriander grows stronger as he lifts it, the aroma so intense that he can’t suppress a grimace just before he’s about to place a kiss.
“You reek,” Jiaoqiu remarks, wrinkling his nose. “Contaminated with coriander.” He chuckles and gives Moze a gentle nudge, savouring the low thud as Moze’s back hits the countertop.
“I can hear it, you know?”
It’s the third time Moze checks to make sure the soup won’t boil over or the water for the dumplings won’t bubble up. At first, Jiaoqiu tries to be patient—but then he realizes that Moze isn’t some apprentice, here to learn the healing power of food. No, he’s a voluntary intruder, one Jiaoqiu has to endure. And questioning his skills in the kitchen isn’t something Jiaoqiu takes lightly.
“Come here,” Jiaoqiu commands, turning away from the dumpling wrappers.
From the start, he’d warned Moze that this was a bad idea. If not for this strange, clumsy attempt at showing care, dinner would not only be finished but already eaten by the whole squad. And only then, if Moze had continued to show signs of care, Jiaoqiu would have gladly handed off dish duty to him.
“Everything is under control,” Jiaoqiu says, resting his hand on Moze’s chest as he hears his footsteps stop and feels the warmth of his body radiate close by. Moze stands so near, as though Jiaoqiu wouldn’t see him if he kept a reasonable distance. It makes him smile; Moze, of all people, with his ability to blend into shadows, should know better. Jiaoqiu wouldn’t be able to see him at any distance; but seeing isn’t the same as noticing—and Jiaoqiu notices everything.
Jiaoqiu’s hand moves up Moze’s chest, his fingers finding the curve of his jaw until he cups his face with both hands, holding him steady, focused, as if he's trying to force Moze to understand. He can feel Moze's face twitch as the flour dusts his skin. And that unexpected pang of guilt comes on, knowing all too well how much Moze hated feeling unclean.
“I’d hear the soup boiling over from the other room. And, believe it or not, I know exactly how long it takes to boil water.” A hint of annoyance seeps into Jiaoqiu’s otherwise calm, steady tone.
“It’s not about that—”
Moze’s whole posture conveys uncertainty, almost defensive reluctance to meet Jiaoqiu’s straightforward gaze without a potential escape route. Moze, a man who could escape any prison, can’t escape Jiaoqiu. Which only means, as Jiaoqiu has long suspected, that he simply doesn’t want to.
“If you’re not here to belittle my craft, then… could it be that you’re worried about me?” Jiaoqiu’s teasing tone deepens. “That’s sweet, I have to admit.”
Even though they’re both fully aware of this protectiveness (at least, Jiaoqiu hopes Moze isn’t that deep in denial), the bluntness of Jiaoqiu’s words makes Moze gasp softly. He could swear the air shifts, suggesting Moze’s instinct to turn invisible was triggered. Or at least that’s what Jiaoqiu imagines, and no one can take from him the amusement of that vision.
“Of course I am. You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Moze grumbles. His tone is gruff, almost as though he’s threatening Jiaoqiu with his concern.
Jiaoqiu chuckles, finding comfort in this familiar awkwardness. He reaches for Moze’s lower lip with his thumb, feeling the telltale frown he knew would be there. To end Moze’s suffering, he leans in and kisses him, savouring the soft warmth of his lips—even as he notes the unwelcome taste of flour on them.
“Listen… you hear that?” Jiaoqiu murmurs after they pull apart, his ears perked up. “Now it’s overboiling.”
The kiss broken, Moze bolts for the stove, leaving Jiaoqiu with a quiet, satisfied smile.
“I can feel it, you know?”
Jiaoqiu instinctively turns his head toward the sounds of Moze returning, frowning slightly at how, the moment he’s back, Moze starts in with his usual unnecessary comments. He’d only sent him to the canteen for extra plates—ones he didn’t even need—just to get a break from Moze’s constant fussing.
“You should. It’s blazing hot,” Moze murmurs, setting the plates down on the table to Jiaoqiu’s right. His ears catch the soft thud of porcelain.
“Is it? Didn’t notice,” Jiaoqiu smirks before turning back to the stove, determined to pick up where he left off. He’s skilled and experienced, but he’d never claim to be infallible—he’s not foolish enough for that. Everybody makes mistakes; in the grand scheme, misjudging the pot’s size isn’t exactly a disaster.
His fingers skim the pot’s edge as he works, one hand tracing down to feel the bottom before he continues pouring. The heat of the sauce radiates against his fingertips, reminding him to keep steady. Ironically, with Moze’s looming presence behind him, it’s much harder to focus, but he allows it—for Moze’s peace of mind. Just as the task is finished, Jiaoqiu sighs and sets the empty pot aside, ready for the confrontation. He licks a bit of sauce from his finger, frowning as he assesses the spice level.
“I can’t feel the heat because I’m used to it. Plenty of burns over the years,” Jiaoqiu says with a warm smile, though he feels like he’s explaining something simple to a child, not his suddenly overprotective boyfriend. He turns from the stove, catching Moze by the arm to gently pull him a step back, away from the heat. “But I can feel the sauce didn’t spill over and—Oh?”
His ear twitches as he senses Moze’s fingers at his wrist, lifting his hand gently.
“Ah, yes. That’s a cut. As you can see, there’s already a band-aid. I think I’m still competent enough as a medic to patch up a cut,” Jiaoqiu mutters, trying to ignore the slight bitterness creeping into his thoughts.
There are things he can still do, things he’s learning to adjust to, and others he may have to leave behind. But the kitchen? That’s the least of his worries. If anything, here, amidst the familiar scents of simmering broth and spices, he feels liberated—almost as if he’s reclaiming a piece of himself.
Moze sighs deeply, his fingers wrapping around Jiaoqiu’s hand, and he lifts it gently, to press a light kiss where the cut is covered. Jiaoqiu lets him take his time, but in the back of his mind, he knows that the pots still need looking after, and the bubbling sauce demands his attention.
“It’s your first time in the kitchen,” Moze says, attempting to rationalize his worry, though he sounds less than convinced himself.
“It’s not any kitchen, it’s my kitchen,” Jiaoqiu replies, hooking his fingers on Moze’s belt, the other comfortably sitting on his neck, the thumb brushing over his jawline.
“You’re right,” Moze murmurs, so softly the words are almost lost. But they’re words Jiaoqiu would know anywhere.
“What was that?” he repeats, voice laced with mischief as his fingertips brush over Moze’s cheekbone. “Didn’t quite hear you.”
Moze only grunts, trying to shift away, to hide his embarrassment (and stubbornness). But Jiaoqiu’s gentle tug on his belt keeps him close, their bodies almost flush against each other. It doesn’t require much strength; Moze isn’t exactly eager to leave.
“Wait… Are you blushing?”
“No.”
Jiaoqiu presses his palm to Moze’s cheek, feeling the heat beneath his skin, as though Moze thought he could somehow hide it. After all, Jiaoqiu knows his body even better than he knows his kitchen.
“I can feel it, you know?”