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There are very few days when it is Oscar alone at home without his husband. Fewer still even as they grow older and more set in their ways, as Oscar’s books and plays take him to London intermittently and Zolf’s distaste for most people outside his immediate circle makes him not stray beyond the boundary of their home if he isn’t needed to support Oscar’s endeavours.
However, they still happen. Today, Zolf has been invited to a limited preview event for Harrison Campbell’s latest book (and last, he claims, though he’s said that about every book in the last five years). He had a plus one, but Oscar’s working to a deadline and realised that a sacrifice needed to be made to ensure he delivers everything on time.
Reliability is something he’s still reckoning with. It felt odd, at first, to be beholden to anyone considering everything they did to put the world back to rights. But he recognises that being dependable serves him now just as well as insouciance used to.
And talking of serving…
Oscar makes his way into the kitchen a little like a lion tamer on their first day on the job. It’s not an intimidating space when Zolf is in it, filling it with incredible scents and warming meals. But when he’s on his own, he feels like it can sense his fear.
“No.” He says, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. “This is fine. I’m fine.”
He tends to learn best through doing, always has. But there’s a satisfaction in feeling like he picked up skills simply through watching Zolf, through being in the same room, listening to the snick of his knives and the hiss of oil in a hot pan. He can pull together a simple meal, all on his own.
Pork chops. New potatoes. Green beans. The meat fresh from the butcher and the vegetables picked from the garden this morning.
Hearty food. Good food. Simple.
He hopes.
There is roughly an hour and a half until Zolf returns, which he’s pretty sure will give him enough time to get everything prepared and cooked so that it’s fresh out of the oven when Zolf walks through the front door.
And it is, relatively speaking, straightforward.
He pre-heats the temperamental oven that only ever seems to light first time for Zolf. He doesn’t cut himself once, even though he’s managed to do that while slicing a loaf of bread before. He seasons everything and sets them cooking at the right time according to the recipe book, brings water to a boil without letting it overflow and, most importantly of all, clears up after himself.
The front door opens just as the last grains of sand flow through the hourglass set on the kitchen window and Oscar preens with satisfaction at a job well done.
“Darling!” He calls, straightening his little apron and swanning out into the hallway.
“Something smells good.” Zolf says, kicking off his boots and walking over to his chair to remove the prostheses that Oscar knows weigh heavy after a day on his feet.
He speaks with such quiet appreciation that Oscar fears his cheeks might heat up a little. He’s always appreciated being told he’s done a good job.
“I made dinner.” He says, proud of himself. “It’s just ready to plate up, if you’re ready to eat?”
“Let me clean up.” Zolf says, lifting his chin and then pressing up a bit further in invitation for a kiss that Oscar isn’t slow to bestow upon his smiling lips. “Gives you a bit of time to do the same to the kitchen.”
Oscar chuckles, leaning against the wall beside the downstairs bathroom and giving his husband a little privacy despite the desire to just plonk down on the edge of the bath and keep talking. It wouldn’t be the first time. But Zolf always appreciates a little alone time after being in the city, and it’s the least Oscar can do to help that along.
“I’ll have you know, apart from the items currently in use, everything else is already clean and put away. I can learn, darling. I respect the sanctity of your domain.”
Zolf opens the door of the bathroom and gives him a sly look, one that makes Oscar’s stomach do a happy little leap. “Yeah, I know you can when it suits ya. Show me then.”
Oscar leads the way back to the kitchen, gestures to the perfectly laid table and then pre-poured wine (he can play the host with skill, even if his cooking has never quite followed suit). Zolf takes his usual place and smiles with obvious approval at how nice everything looks, how tidy the worksurfaces are and the smell of their dinner on the air.
It’s only when Oscar opens the oven that things start to look… less… good.
He frowns a bit at the tray of meat and potatoes. The meat looks small and dry, the glaze that he’d put on now a little clumpy mess on top. The potatoes are wrinkled and look a touch burnt around the edges, and when he puts the green beans alongside they are… limp. Not the vibrant green they were when he blanched them earlier.
Zolf must see something in his expression as he walks across to the table with both plates, setting one down in front of Zolf with a little sigh.
“You can say it.” Oscar says, all but collapsing down in his own chair.
Zolf studies the plate carefully for a moment, turning it to and fro. Oscar wishes he wouldn’t, just as much as he appreciates that there’s an obvious effort taking place to be polite.
“Well.” Zolf says. “Maybe it tastes alright?”
Oscar knows he could wallow, could really take offense at Zolf’s words. But instead he laughs, a snorty little sound that he presses the back of his hand to his mouth in an effort to stifle.
“I tried so hard.” He says, through wheezes, watching Zolf’s eyes crinkle with mirth.
“I know, love, I can tell.” Zolf says, and he’s the braver of the two of them, cutting into the meat and not managing to hide a little frown at how dry it is. He takes a bite of it, and chews far longer than he should have.
“Well?”
“The flavour is alright.” Zolf says. “Needed more salt on the meat. Bit more glaze too, then it wouldn’t have gone like this.”
Oscar nods, filing that bit of information away in case he ever recovers from this indignity and wants to try again.
“Potatoes were just cooked too long - oven might have been a bit hot too.”
“That bastard thing.” Oscar huffs, wiping his eyes to catch up the tears that escaped during his laughter. “I knew it only liked you.”
Zolf nods, tries a couple of green beans and shrugs. “They were in the water too long, love. And if you’d’ve used a bit more garlic it might have hid the worst of it.”
Summoning all of his bravery, Oscar starts to dig into the meal as well, sneaking looks at where Zolf is enduring the mess on his plate remarkably well. Zolf’s right, and it’s as relieving as it is frustrating to know that he was, really, close to not mucking this up as much as he did.
A little more seasoning. A more gentle hand when it came to cooking. A more confident approach to identifying and fixing his mistakes.
Experience, in a word.
“S’not inedible.” Zolf says, taking a deep swallow of his wine. “And I appreciate you cooking, love. It’s lovely not to have to do it after a long day.”
Oscar perks up at the chance to distract himself from his momentary failure, leaning in and resting his elbow on the table. “Oh how was it? Tell me everything.”
Zolf spills the story between slightly troubled bites of his meal and indulgent pauses for wine, Oscar doing his best to also put away the food that was good, before he got his hands on it. Zolf sings the praises of the book because of course he does, though the gathered masses were a little different this time, more industry people than fans.
“‘E didn’t like it, I could tell.” Zolf says. “And when we spoke after, he told me his publishers ‘insisted’ he focus on his peers or some shit. As if that’s his typical audience.”
“I can’t imagine that they were particularly receptive.”
“Course not.” Zolf says, with a scoff. “Wouldn’t know fun if it bit them on the arse.”
Oscar smiles and he takes in Zolf’s preemptive eye roll with utter delight. “Oh, what a shame. Being bitten on the arse is some of the most fun I’ve had.”
“Should hide the book from ya.” His beloved husband says. “Not sure you deserve it after that.”
“Cruel.” Oscar sighs, sitting back in his chair and throwing his napkin atop the remains of his meal. “Terrible.”
Zolf doesn’t dignify him with a response, simply tops up their wine and indulges in watching him for a while - one of Zolf’s favourite activities, and one of Oscar’s too. He was, he feels, made to be watched, even when he’s fucked up doing something nice for the man he loves.
“Finish that up.” Zolf says eventually, gesturing to Oscar’s glass with his own. “Then we can make dessert.”
It makes him perk up a bit, he can feel it happening - were he a dog he thinks his ears would have shot right up. “Oh? Together?”
It’s not something that happens all that often - Zolf will often appoint Oscar as his sous chef, responsible for the things that can’t be messed up easily, but it’s very very rare that they cook something as a team.
Zolf nods. “Together, yeah. Think you’ve proven you’re capable enough.”
It’s silly how much that makes his heart feel full. He and Zolf share so many hobbies and interests, but there’s always been a gulf between them when it comes to cooking. It’s stress relief for Zolf in the same way as shutting himself up in his office and writing is for Oscar.
Oscar taps his feet on the floor in a little rhythm as he finishes his wine with a flourish, then gets to his feet.
“Put me to work, my love.” He says. “I am ready to be creative.”
Zolf decides on crème brûlée, one of Oscar’s favourites when they’re out and something Zolf’s become a dab hand at over the years. Oscar leaves the oven to Zolf, trusting the damn thing even less than he did before tonight, but every other step is driven by him under Zolf’s instructions.
A strange peace settles over him as he works, as Zolf corrects his technique with the blunt insistence that he’s come to appreciate over time. There’s none of his typical fluff when Zolf’s telling him to keep a better grip on the knife when cutting the vanilla pod or to pay attention to the heat before he boils the cream, and he’s all the more efficient for it.
“Looking good, love.” Zolf says, as he starts to fill the ramekins. “We’ll make a chef outta you yet.”
When the tray is in the oven, Oscar takes a deep breath and then exhales sharply, tension flooding out of him. He collapses down in the little nook that usually keeps him out of the way and holds out his hands for Zolf.
“That was more stressful than I thought it would be.” He says, as Zolf moves closer and eases Oscar’s legs a little further apart with the wheels of his chair.
“Y’didn’t show it.” Zolf assures him. “Though I did think you were a bit quiet.”
Oscar laughs delightedly, gripping his husband’s hands tight and pulling them up to kiss the strong lines of his knuckles. “That’s what concentration does to me, darling.”
With a thoughtful noise, Zolf eases one of his hands free and lifts it to cup Oscar’s cheek, thumb rubbing over the jut of his lower lip. “Yeah, think I prefer it when you fill the silence with noise, love. Y’re much better at it than I am.”
Oscar can’t deny quite how lovely it is to hear that. For his husband to validate his tendency to speak his mind freely and often these days, to assume a rapt audience in Zolf even if it’s not explicitly confirmed.
“Then let me tell you of my day, darling, while we wait for our treats to cook.”
He manages to sum up the extent of his productivity - this deadline doesn’t feel like it will escape him, like most of the others - Zolf listening happily and interjecting where necessary, before they pull the tray out of the oven once more.
Then, Zolf sets to gently cooling two of them with the help of magic, not willing to wait, while Oscar sets the others in the icebox for a treat tomorrow as well. Once he’s done, Oscar sprinkles sugar over the tops and when Zolf holds his fingers up, Oscar leans in to kiss them gently, ducking out of the way with a little laugh as Zolf snaps and a flame appears between them.
“I think that’s my favourite of yours.”
Zolf chuckles, eyes not leaving his task. “Sure, that one. Not the one that brought you back to life.”
“So flashy.” Oscar teases. “I’ve learnt to prefer the basics.”
Shooting him a quick look that says you calling me basic? without actually having to put words to it, Zolf grabs a plate and sets the two ramekins on top. He shifts away from the counter and Oscar plucks up the plate, following him back to the table.
They sit closer this time, heads together, romantic and lovely as they dig into their desserts. And it is as near a perfect example of crème brûlée as Oscar has ever had the chance to eat, all from his hands and Zolf’s instructions.
He does his very best not to let his sounds of appreciation grow too pornographic, but the look Zolf gives him when he opens his eyes and pulls the spoon slowly from his mouth shows him quite how badly he’s failed.
“Pleased with yourself are ya?”
Oscar hums, dropping his spoon and leaning in to draw Zolf into a quiet kiss. “Pleased with us darling. What a good pair we make, producing such delicious treats. Perhaps I could tempt you into creating more deliciousness with me?”
He watches carefully, prone not to expect anything from his flirting, but quietly hopeful all the same from how Zolf’s been looking at him since getting home. He stays still as Zolf takes another spoonful of dessert, and lifts it up to his mouth.
“Go on.”
Oscar parts his lips and makes a real show of swallowing the mouthful, humming in delight at the flavour across his tongue.
“That’s not an answer, darling.”
Zolf’s palm is so warm and heavy when it settles on his cheek again. “Yeah it is.” He says, fingers drifting down to curl around Oscar’s chin. “Go and get ready. You cooked, I’ll wash up.”
Oscar thinks he’s particularly restrained by not jumping right up out of his chair, glancing down at his plate and finishing up the final little bit of his crème brûlée, sugar crunching between his teeth.
“Any special requests?” He asks, watching Zolf’s laughter with a fizzy sort of warmth in his gut.
“Grab the book on the way up.” Zolf says, piling their plates together. “Chapter 3.”
Oscar laughs, combing his fingers through his hair and letting little sparkles fill the air around him. Zolf rolls his eyes at the showing off but squeezes his hip as he stands up, smacking his arse when he dares turn around.
“Is this a hint to the product of Harrison’s wonderful brain?”
"MIght't've just wanted to smack your arse, love.” Zolf says. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Indeed my love.” Oscar laughs, wandering off to ferret through Zolf’s bag with full permission to be nosy. “You are so very wise.”