Work Text:
Every day, from the moment he woke up until he went to bed late at night, Wilson's head was spinning. Here and there; the solution to problems that had made no sense the night before, ideas, solutions or improvements to vicissitudes that only he could find in the mundane, articles to read, or write, letters to answer and send -although that last one swarmed his mind to a lesser extent since the last dinner at his parents' house had gone not quite right-.
Today, -more precisely since two weeks ago, he thinks- however, what was running through his mind was less a scientific topic and more something from the social sphere, to his surprise and to the surprise of anyone who would listen that.
On a street corner, not far from the midtown, a year ago today a coffee shop had opened. A modest establishment that barely made any noise in its beginnings; he had not been present at the event, to tell the truth, and had not really been interested in entering until one specific day when Mr. Carter had pushed him there under one of his ridiculous excuses for a ridiculous attempt to, among much talk and one useful thing or another, ridicule him.
But the place had its charm, and it was such a pleasant atmosphere that a couple of meetings later, Wilson found himself alone and of his own volition opening the front door and settling in at a table against the wall after having gone to buy supplies.
The place was staffed by a single man: slightly taller than him, dark, with curly hair and beard and a strong French accent that was hard to ignore because of how conclude the whole package. Warly was as new to the city as his coffee shop was, and here was another reason why the scientist felt so comfortable there: unlike other places and people, Warly's coffee shop was free of the prejudices that haunted the city about his person. There he was Mr. Higgsbury -he had been, anyway, now he was just "Wilson"- he was served like everyone else, and Warly talked to him as he did to everyone else. He smiled at him, looked him in the eye, and that was a lot.
At first he thought he had only made a good impression and hence the brunet was so polite in his interactions, serving him without rejection, dislike, or fear. Perhaps Warly had liked him before someone else came to him with their venomous words and spoiled another social interaction for him, but time passed, and Warly never stopped smiling at him; on the contrary, it was a much more affectionate gesture. Wilson was the last table he served when he left laden with dishes, even if the scientist was closer to the kitchen door, he noted, and after that he would lounge nearby. Casual conversations, he wasn't surprised when Wilson told him he was a scientist and happened to live far from the midtown, like that monster everyone was talking about.
It had been too long already for him not to know, too long for him not to have been warned that he was associating with someone dangerous, but by this point, Wilson allowed himself to believe that Warly simply wasn't interested in any of those absurd rumors. Overconfidence? Maybe, or perhaps, he had the good sense that everyone else in that horrible town lacked.
He sighed loudly -he used to do that when thinking for a long time about Warly, so no doubt he must have been tired- and looked at the little box in his hands. It had been a year since the only person Wilson could call his full-fledged friend had settled in town, and now here he was, nervous as a child about something that really didn't have as much depth as he was giving it credit for: the restaurant was turning one year old, and he wanted to give the chef a gift that he knew in good faith worked. He had invented it, for heaven's sake.
But for some reason, it didn't seem enough in his head. Suddenly nothing he had done was right; not the actual formula of the invention, or the method, the idea itself, well, he wasn't even confident in such absurd things as the way it was applied or the damn decoration of the box, as if the outside was what was important and not the weeks of late nights Wilson had spent improving it, stinking up his house and staining his robe in the process. But the problem was that it was important, because it was for Warly.
The sad box looked back at him. It was wrapped in a sober brown paper, recycled from some package that had come to him some other time for lack of time to get something better, and he had barely remembered to get it a touch of color -a blue ribbon, the same shade as the vest Warly always wore and Wilson hadn't realized he was so aware of- before setting off on the right path to the restaurant, but not before sighing again.
If we're honest with each other, the reality is that maybe Wilson was a little scared. What if Warly already had something similar, that worked better? -he doubted it, but the possibility existed-, what if he didn't like it, or saw it as too weird? What if the man only tolerated him because he hadn't dragged any of his scientific stuff into the restaurant, and now he would see him like everyone else? A menace, or heretic, or any of those things people used to write on his front door.
It would be fine, Wilson thought, it had happened to him before and if it happened again it wouldn't be a surprise either and it's not like he liked to keep ignorant riffraff in his close circle, but fuck if it was going to hurt. He should have tested him before, before getting so attached to his presence. Or not test him at all.
Making something up for him had been the last of his plans. Yes, it had been in his head from the beginning, but he would have preferred something simpler, or more usual. Sadly for Wilson, if it was outside his area of expertise he didn't have many more ideas either.
He knew that Warly loved cooking, ergo, food, and loved his mother; that he was a charming man who liked to do at least one little thing differently every day to keep himself fresh. Absolute routine overwhelmed him, he was superstitious, he knew how to sail -or something like that he had mentioned- and he could both raise animals and tend crops.
Wilson didn't know what to give him under any of those concepts, nothing he hadn't done himself at least, all the other possible gifts seemed so... inconsequential!
Within his possibilities had even been a dinner, an idea he quickly and harshly dismissed because what could he, inventor and scientist who lived on coffee and bacon and eggs, cook for Warly?
No, everything that wasn't made specifically for him seemed like a mediocre gift, but now that he was there, in front of the restaurant -oh god, he was already in front of the restaurant-, it seemed too much.
He sucked in a breath, straightened his jacket, and went inside, careful not to let the doubt show on his face.
A familiar little bell greeted him as he entered, and the couple of people present gave him a longer than polite glance before returning to talking quietly. Well, it could be worse and there could be more people. The truth was that his visiting hour was strategic, for it wasn't too long before closing, trying to avoid as much of the population as possible and extending the moment of truth more than healthy.
Dark curls crossing the doorway to the kitchen caught his attention as he sat down, and the usual serious look brightened at the sight of him, though before Warly approached him, he walked over to the other table with a cup of coffee in his hand and one of his practiced smiles. Wilson hid the box in his lap and, again, forced himself to look normal.
— Salut, mon amie! I didn't expect to see you here today.
— Good afternoon Warly -he cleared his throat-, ah, I had some... things to do in town and thought I'd stop by to say hello, you know....
Bullshit, but if Warly noticed, he didn't tell him. He held up a little notebook and picked up the pencil stuck over his ear in one fluid motion.
— Ah, magnifique. Always a pleasure to have you here -he murmured as he reached for a blank page and Wilson almost forgot how to breathe-, what can I get you today?
— But aren't you about to close? I don't want to delay you too long.
— Don't worry about it, we can stay and chat here, okay? You ask for whatever you like.
A voice interrupted them, and thank goodness, because the nerves were making Wilson's throat a desert. The people at the only other occupied table called out to his friend and, as far as he could hear, asked for the check.
— Yes, yes, just a moment! -he replied before turning to look at him again- So...?
— Just tea, that's fine... Thanks Warly.
The brunet gave him a look that could almost be interpreted as reproach before turning away, and Wilson could then concentrate with the expressions of displeasure from the other table -good, because he could deal with those better-, which remained there until Warly returned to charge them and even after, when he approached him with a cup and....
— I had some pumpkin pie left, bon appetit.
He didn't respond, concentrating on the two adults walking through the door muttering something, and when the bell signaled their departure, Warly finally followed his gaze, exhaling. There was a moment of silence.
— ... I don't think they're coming back, I'm sorry about that.
— People come and go every day, mon amie -the man shrugged, turning the "closed" sign on the door and locking it.
— Still, I think you should be less effusive with me when I come in if you don't want to scare off your customers... it's not the same for them to see me eating here as it is to see you being so nice.
— Don't be absurd, Wilson, I would do no such thing.
Wilson pursed his lips as he entertained himself by scraping the whipped cream off the pie with the spoon and only raised his eyes when Warly sat down opposite him, giving him another of those reproachful looks that were funny to him because of how expressive and common they were. An eyebrow raised, and a smile that demanded an explanation.
— It's just a suggestion, I wouldn't want people to talk trash about you too.
— Ah, I don't see you so concerned about Mr. Carter's reputation when you both come to discuss your business here.
Because Maxwell Carter was a stuck-up idiot and any kind of stain on his reputation would mean that they were moving forward as a society, and that people were no longer fooled into such absurd things as so-called "magic". Of course, he couldn't answer that, so he simply adjusted his vest and frowned.
— Maxwell and I have known each other for far too long, and he has so much control over the people of this town, he could do almost anything without any repercussions, say, talking to me in public.
Warly shook his head in amusement, and a couple of strands escaped from the ponytail he kept his hair in, ravishing Wilson for a moment.
—You underestimate the power of a good dish, mon cher. They won't be the first couple to leave in disgust and then come back for more, I must tell you. Although, if they didn't come back, that’ll be just fine -he waved his hand-, I don't want that kind of people eating my food.
— Those kind of people?
— Pre-judgmental, is that it? I think it doesn't take a very critical eye to know you're a good man.
Hearing that as he took a bite of the pie was, in some bizarre way, like a hug, and a punch at the same time, because Wilson didn't know if he'd still be thinking like that at the end of the day. The box weighed heavier on his legs and, to gain composure, he wiped his mouth with a napkin before speaking.
— Ah, I appreciate that Warly.
— Although I will admit that I'm a little curious as to where all this... collective panic is coming from -of course he was, it was only natural that it should be so, but noticing Wilson's surprised expression, he quickly ran a hand through his beard-. Of course, you don't have to tell me about that either, excusez-moi.
He thought about it for a moment and shook his head.
— Humans are afraid of what they don't understand, preferring to ignore it, or eradicate it, while science dissects it thoroughly to understand it. It's nothing more than a long conflict of interests where I'm at a disadvantage... -he felt silent for a moment and before Warly could answer, he added:- and I've never cared much about what people think, so rumors run free, it's not like they would believe me if I tried to disprove it.
Silence fell over them for a moment, before Warly clicked his tongue and waved his hands.
— Ok, ça suffit, let's talk about something else, how do the experimentations go?
It was very, very hard to be in a bad mood in that place. He had noticed it almost from the first time he had been there, and now a smile crept across his face despite the previous topic of discussion.
— Nothing worth mentioning... Actually, I was interested in how you had been doing these days... -well, here the nerves were back.
Warly told him about Maman Angeline -he always, always, always started conversations by mentioning her, and it was what shaped his mood, obviously-, who was stable and still had recurring moments of lucidity. About some new dishes he had been practicing, or old recipes from when he worked as a chef in another city, and he was animated when Wilson mentioned that he would gladly be the first to try them.
— Sure, sure mon cher, after Maman Angeline, who else would I show them to before you?
It wasn't the tea, nor was it the sweetness of the pie that gave Wilson that peculiar warmth when he heard him say things like that. And he just laughed, because he didn't know how to respond.
Of course he didn't know, that for Warly to see that usual shadowed and serious look relax, let alone hear him laugh, was response enough.
Finally, it was during a small complaint against a customer and the taste of one spice or another that Wilson saw his chance to break through.
— ... that's why I've always said that waiters are the most fundamental part of any restaurant, I don't know how much more I can take, non.
— Well... you've been putting up with it for a full year now -he mumbled almost sheepishly, earning a curious look from Warly.
— A year?
Wilson cleared his throat, finally lifting the box from his legs and holding it close to himself on the table, and the brunet immediately opened his eyes wide. Surprise and understanding crossing his face in an instant as he leaned back in his chair and looked between the box and him.
—A year ago you opened the restaurant.
— ... I didn't thought that....
— I wasn't at the opening, but I do remember it -maybe he should have said something more emotional before handing it over, but his head wasn't very reliable in these situations and he was capable of pinching the paper from nerves if he stopped to think about it too much, so he held it out in front of him before continuing and waited for Warly to take it-. It's not... I made it up. I thought it might help you in your garden.
He breathed more lightly when the gift had left his hands, though he felt himself getting stuck again when Warly stared at him.
— If you don't want to use it, that's your right, as we were saying a moment ago not everyone is a supporter of science, and I respect that -the brunet opened the box slowly. Inside, six organized jars greeted him with a clinking sound. He lifted one to examine it: it had a straw through the lid and inside, a greenish liquid with a strange consistency-. It is a formula to nourish the soil. It uses algae fermentation as a base, so it doesn't really have anything unusual in it.
— Did you made it?
Wilson couldn't interpret the emotion in his voice, so he nodded, and nerves forced him to keep talking without saying anything about what you're supposed to say when you give a gift.
— For the past two months, yes. Maybe longer. I tested that it didn't change the taste of anything, and in all the testing I did, there's nothing really different. Although, of course, maybe you notice that kind of thing better than I do... but, again, if it doesn't work for you, you don't have to use it.....
Warly had been aware of what date it was since he had woken up that day. He thought it would go unnoticed by the average customer, including Mr. Higgsbury, someone regular who usually didn't go for weeks at a time, and he was fine with that. Maman Angeline wouldn't remember it, for the obvious reasons, but it didn't put him off. He would prepare something nice for her and maybe have a glass of wine while they listened to the radio. Nothing too extravagant, because no one besides him cared that much.
So now, with a gift in his hands and a nervous scientist in front of him, he couldn't help but get excited. He smiled affectionately.
How many times had he told him about his garden - two or three? It wasn't something he mentioned much, but it was important to him because it had also been one of the things he had shared with Maman on his best days. Wilson knew that.
— Mon amie, this is... -very much his style, they both thought at the same time, but while Wilson sank deeper into himself at the idea, Warly raised the jar even higher- it's wonderful, and you made it for me?
Finally a shy smile crossed Wilson's face.
— Happy anniversary of the restaurant. I was afraid you wouldn't like it.....
But as he spoke and relaxed, because according to him the worst was over, Warly had stood up, excited, and with a tug of his hand -softer than Wilson expected but also stronger- had lifted him from his seat as well, pulling him into a hug.
His fists clenched tightly at his side, though Warly didn't leave him much time to react either, or think about anything -anything, apart from how his body had felt against his, and the way he smelled- pulling away at once and keeping his hands on his shoulder.
— You're kidding, right? C'est magnifique! Thank you, thank you, I had not even imagined you would know about the date.
He was smiling at him with such enthusiasm that Wilson, for once, was able to swallow the lump in his throat and tilt his head.
— I cheated, I asked Maxwell to be sure, but I definitely couldn't let it pass -his green eyes stood out so beautifully against his brown skin, and for once, he didn't run away from them. He hid in them, in Warly's sharp features and the way he was holding him, and had to plead for the warmth not to show too much on his face-. You're the only one who treats me right around here, you're... my friend, and I know how important this place is to you.
Just a few years ago, Maman Angeline still used to knit almost compulsively. Even if her fingers were starting to hurt and she was constantly losing her hooks. Warly scolded her for that, but his adorable mother never listened, because everything she did was meant to be for someone else. For her friends, in retirement homes, she knitted. For donating, she knitted. For Warly, she knitted. He didn't thought he understood, but one of her latest creations was the tablecloths that decorated the tables at the restauramt, and as he received them, Warly saw it.
That his mother loved to the point of creating and creating, and didn't he do the same? For everyone, tastes and memories, and he didn't mind sharing even with those who wouldn't understand, but at that moment, in his arms was someone who did.
He intended to help overcome the sorrows and appreciate the happy moments with the flavors in his food, Wilson intended to help people with his inventions, to mold the things that already existed and transmute them to make something better.
So at that moment, and to his misfortune not being able to do anything else, he wrapped him in a hug again, stronger and more lasting than the previous one.
The scientist's first reaction had been, of course, to tense up again, but Warly squeezed him tighter and his rational mind finally started to tell him rational things; he was definitely not going to kick him out of the store anymore, or hate him -had he really thought all those things? his father was not lying, he do was a very emotional man-, and with that idea, he allowed himself to sigh, and hug his friend back.
It had been... too long since he had felt such closeness with a human being other than his mother as she said goodbye to him. And the genuineness in the embrace, the strength that Warly hid and pressed them together with, made him exhale again.
— Thank you cher, thank you -the chef muttered.
— It's nothing, Warly.
Maybe they were there longer than usual between two gentlemen, and maybe Warly had to fight his most romantic impulse and kiss him there, unannounced; the reality is that it didn't matter much to either of them.
When they parted, they could be sure that a vital part had parted with the other. Their eyes lingered on each other's, wanting not to stop looking at each other, until Wilson cleared his throat -oh, his throat was a desert, no doubt-.
—Well...
—Do you want to go for a drink? -Warly talked first, as he moved away to gently put his gift back in the box. Seeing the doubt in Wilson's expression, he spoke again:- Or at least let me give you a lift home.
It was a bad idea, he reminded himself, to be seen together, but those green eyes would not let him refuse.
Or he didn't want to deny himself the pleasure of looking at them even a little longer.
— I'd love to.