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It’s been a few years since the end.
With the arrival of the fleet from Earth came more technology, as if this godforsaken planet would be able to handle much of it. But they make do. It takes the load off the Plants, the stuff the Earth Fleet brought. More biodegradable materials, hardy plants that manage to survive the weather here, packs of food that aren’t plant-made for once.
Matter of fact, Vash’s ripping open a pack of food now. However, it’s Plant-made – says so on the packaging, in big bold red letters: A PLANT TOILED FOR YOU! (He suspects it’s something to do with Chronica’s new policies after she’d taken the Seven Cities’ governments by storm.)
Slowly, he’s gotten used to them. Even if the plastic still is a little hard to tear open without brute-forcing it entirely. Even if he’s still a little unfamiliar with the way hot oil bubbles in cast-iron pans. Even if he wishes he had someone to eat the pasta with.
He pulls out the noodles, a brick of off-white. Like all Plant produce, it has that faint smell of chemicals, like the water in their tanks that they stew in, glowing that comfortable blue.
As he puts the noodles into boiling water, sprinkling in salt, he smiles, mentally utters a thanks to the sister that produced this, even if she’s iles away in the recently-rebuilt New July. It’s the thought that counts.
They’re all producing less now, the Plants – another government (read: Chronica) regulation. There’s limits on what Plant Scientists can harvest from them now. Electricity (all solar-powered by now -- might as well put the scorching twin suns to use), paper (if you wanted it so bad, you’d have to get it from the guys that make them out of plants’ leaves), and tobacco.
In the background, the radio crackles with the one o’clock news. There’s an anti-smoking campaign going around now. They’re trying to abandon the substance altogether, since it takes an extra toll on Plants to produce something so harmful, and since it’s “absolutely unnecessary for all lifeforms, humans included, as they gain nothing”. They’re handing out nicotine gum again today at all clinics, the same ones that are now government-mandated to provide assistance to anyone who’s quitting smoking – for free.
Well, he knows someone who would hate that.
The pasta’s more or less risen to the surface of the water, oil bubbles beginning to form. He takes it out. Into a new bowl it goes. Keep the pasta water, remember, Spikey, can’t just go throwing it away, a certain priest’s voice calls.
He smiles, despite the fact that he’s imagining that voice.
Some things you gotta wait for. Let the sauce simmer for a few minutes. They usually come in those packs all raw. He wishes he’d paid more attention when he was being taught this.
He remembers when exactly that was too. Somewhere in a sand steamer bound for November City, they’d started talking about food, and the guy decided it would’ve been a great idea to detail every step of cooking angels’ hair pasta. Home recipe, he’d called it. Used to cook it for the little kids in Hopeland.
If the way into a man’s heart is through his stomach, revealing his secret ingredient would have to be true, saintly love.
“And you wanna know what it is, the oh-so-famous secret ingredient?”
“Love?” Vash grins, a little stupidly.
Even with the rumbling overhead, he hears the undertaker sigh. “No, dumbass. That one ain’t even a secret. I’m talking about lemon juice in the sauce. The kids love it.”
It’s here that he smiles again, squeezing the lemon in. The dark red mixture bubbles slightly, and he tosses the tomas mincemeat in (not before also saying a thank you to the tomas.) The original recipe uses tomas sausage, but for some reason, it’s only sold by the butcher near the Hopeland region, and Vash finds he can’t go there without seeing the orphanage and shedding a few tears.
And now… onions.
And remember, you gotta cut them fast and all. Man up and power through, ya hear me? Maybe cut them before starting on your pasta so you have more time to stir your sauce.
(Man up and power through. Well, that’s one thing he isn’t following...)
He thinks of him. That mop of black hair, that stench of sand and sweat. That coarse voice. That tan skin. That cross he carried on his back ‘till the end.
These damn onions, he thinks, as his eyes start to sting.
It’s not that hard to say. He misses him. He always will, until the end of time itself, until he gets to see him again (god knows how long that would be). He misses those mundane times, suspended in a comfortable silence. All those times they’d eaten together, and maybe he’s taken them for granted.
It’s sad. Of course it is. When hasn’t it been? It could have been them both, under the same twin suns, the same five moons, sharing their tomorrows. Imperfect, but shared tomorrows. But now, his last pack of Skulls still sits in Vash’s bedside drawer, next to his rosary. In time, they’ll be the last pack of smokes on Planet Gunsmoke.
The tears are flowing, little streams down his face, and he takes care not to let any fall on the onions. It’s kind of disgusting when you think about it. It’d be fine, if he was the only one eating this, but he’s planning to leave some for Livio after he comes back. And he can’t let him eat food that’s been contaminated with tears over his brother. That’s weird.
And so he wipes them off with the back of his hand, places the knife into the basin with care, and dumps the onions into the sauce, now a pleasant aroma.
He sticks a (washed) finger in, takes a lick. It’s still a little off. The sauce is a bit watery, the salt a bit too much, but it’ll pass.
And so, he ladles the food out. One plate, one container. Pasta, then sauce, then covered with bigger plate and lid respectively. The countertop mostly cleared, he stacks the container atop the plates, taking the pan and whatever other crockery and bringing them to the basin.
The water’s warm from the weather. It rushes against his hands as he rinses everything. He takes the soapy sponge, rubs it against the plates almost mechanically. It’s routine by now, something he’s slowly gotten used to when he and Livio started living together in a run-down little house in a ghost town.
Maybe, one day, like washing dishes, he’ll get used to this, an emptiness where Nicholas should be. A hole in his heart, gradually growing smaller. Maybe one day, he’ll cook this dish again and think of him without that ache, that sadness that claws at his skin no matter how he pushes it down.
Wolfwood will never get to eat this dish. And he’ll never be able to eat at the same table as him again. But at the same time, there’s so many other people he’s eating at this table with, and life goes on.
He turns off the tap, once, and then pressing the faucet a little harder when it leaks. He takes his cutlery, one fork, one spoon, and his food.
He places his plate on his side, leans over to put the container on the other side. He sits, face-to-empty-space, and eats. It tastes good. It’d taste better if he were eating it. But it still tastes good.
///
“Do you think that family’ll be alright?” Vash asks, breaking the momentary silence in that sand steamer cabin. “Especially the mother. It can’t be easy to get over losing the man you’ve been married to for so long.”
“Of course they won’t, needle-noggin,” Wolfwood says. Through the rumbling of machinery in the background, Vash hears him, clear as day. “It’s going to take a while. Months. Years even. You don’t just walk it off like that.”
Wolfwood waits, continues, “It’ll happen eventually. She’ll be fine, one day. But not soon. Shit like this takes a while. And you can’t really blame her either.”
///
In time, happier days will come. For now, they look far away, but he'll get there. Eventually.