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Adam toed off his filthy boots before he entered the barns. He made sure to open the door with his elbow – hands stained to hell and back with old grease, chipped paint, and dirt. His hair, face and back were stained, too, the grime clinging to him like a second skin. His elbow was only clean because it had been covered by his sleeve beforehand; fixing up a car wasn’t something you did in your Sunday clothes.
The crackling of the gas stove greeted Adam as he stepped into the kitchen. Ronan stood at the stove with Opal sitting on the counter next to him. She was clean, for once, her fur looked soft and fluffy instead of the usual matted tufts. She was kicking her hooves against the cabinets, lightly enough to not leave permanent damage.
“You want to make sure the pan is hot before you add the oil,” Ronan explained. He snatched up Opal’s hand a second later, ready to touch the stove-hot metal. “Not- like that. Just give it a minute, it doesn’t take long.” He grabbed the bottle of oil (one of the refillable ones with a metal spout) and poured some into the pan with a flourish.
The two hadn’t noticed Adam yet so he leaned against the doorframe and simply watched them.
“Why wait?” Opal asked, tilting her body to look at the pan from above. Ronan shoved her head back lightly. “We don’t want hair in our food, Opal,” he scolded, then shrugged. “I learned to do it this way. If you want a real answer we’ll have to look it up later.” Opal nodded, satisfied with the promise of further education and banged her hooves against the cabinets harder. She stopped altogether when Ronan gave her what Blue had dubbed the Disappointed Parent Look.
“You wait until the oil is hot, then add your onion.” Opal startled at the blistering sound the onion made when it hit the pan, but she recovered quickly. It had taken her a while not to be scared of fire and even now she rather tended to shy away from it. Adam was impressed she was willing to sit that close to the stove.
Instead of reaching for the spatula like Adam would have done, Ronan simply lifted the pan, bicep flexing under the weight of the cast iron (Ronan had tried to explain the difference between pans once; Adam still used them all as if they were the same) and shook it, making sure the onions spread out evenly. He made the movement look easy, casual.
“Add the garlic once the onions are half-way sautéd.” “Sautéd?” Opal asked. “The way we’re cooking the onion,” Ronan explained, shaking the pan again but reaching for a spatula once he added the garlic, “It’s called sautéing.” Opal nodded. Adam heard the unspoken: “It’s French, Parrish, you should know this. Comes from the latin word saltare, to jump.” He bit his bottom lip to keep himself quiet.
“I don’t really have a recipe for this,” Ronan continued (he never did, cooking was second nature to him), “So we’re really just throwing things together right now. Hand me the minced meat?” Opal reached over to carefully pick up a blue porcelain bowl. She handed it over to Ronan with a modicum of concentration. “But how do you know what to do if you don’t have a recipe?” Opal asked. Ronan shrugged, casually, the wings in his tattoo lifting with the movement of his shoulders. “I don’t.” Adam nearly scoffed.
He let Opal take the spatula and stir the minced meat under his instructions, folding it from the outside in. Ronan grabbed a bottle of wine from the wine rack and was half-way through unscrewing the cap when he hesitated. “Are you eating with us?” He asked Opal.
“Kerah.” She almost sounded offended. “Res somnii sum.” I am a dream-thing. “I don’t care,” Ronan bit back, “I’m not giving alcohol to a child. Dreamt or not.”
“She drinks coolant,” Adam finally made himself known. Ronan swore colourfully while Opal whirled around, betrayal painting her face.
“Holy Mother of God. Parrish. Since when are you standing there?” Ronan clutched bottle of wine to his chest.
Adam didn't move. Couldn't move while his affection bodily dragged him through the walls he'd build up over the years. He swallowed carefully, then said: “I’d prefer the food without wine.”
Ronan nodded, put the bottle back and took the spatula from Opal, who had stopped stirring. “You wanna help?” Ronan asked over his shoulder.
Adam breathed out quietly and wiped some oil from his cheek with a slight tremor in his hand. “I though I was banned from the kitchen?”
“Good point.” Ronan glanced back at Adam, taking in his appearance. “Actually, go clean yourself up instead. I don’t need you staining all my fucking furniture.”
Adam snorted. “Sure.” He tracked his gaze over Ronan’s shoulders one last time before heading upstairs to shower.
During dinner, Opal and Ronan held a conversation about different ways of cooking meat, if you could cook with coolant (“It’s toxic, Opal.” “What’s toxic?”), and wether or not parsnip was a vegetable one could respect in food. Opal only had a small portion of food on the plate which cooled (or heated) every meal to room temperature as soon as it was plated. She didn’t eat anything too hot. Still, half-way through her meal (Adam and Ronan were nearly done with theirs), she decided she’d had enough and placed her fork on Ronan’s plate.
“Are you done?” Ronan asked her.
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?” Opal nodded again, already sliding from her chair. Ronan sighed and waved her off. “Alright, go ahead.” She went out through the patio door, sprinting off toward the woods, scaring off a family of squirrels which had gathered around the bird feeder.
Adam turned his attention back on Ronan, no longer having to keep his gaze from wandering now that Opal was gone. The food was good. Brilliant even, especially to Adam, who had grown up with canned meals and cafeteria food. Cooking was a skill Ronan seemed to pull off effortlessly while Adam could barely boil an egg.
He waited patiently until Ronan set his glass down to reach over the table and kiss him. Ronan let out a surprised noise against Adam’s lips, cutlery clanking against his plate. When it was clear Adam wasn’t going to let up any time soon, Ronan grabbed his face to push him away a little. “Adam.” Adam kissed him again, could feel Ronan smiling against his lips. “Adam, we’re – Adam. The food’ll get cold.”
“Don’t care. It’s already cold.” Adam rounded the table and pushed Ronan’s chair back so he could sit in his lap while he kissed him. The chair creaked a little under their combined weight. He smoothed his hands over Ronan’s shoulder, his biceps, digging his fingers into the flesh.
“I need you,” Adam murmured against Ronan’s lips, “to take me upstairs and fuck me. Think you can do that?” Ronan let out a strangled whimper at that, bucking his hips up into Adam. “I- ya- yeah, I can do that.” Adam smiled and let his fingers bite flesh once more before dragging Ronan upstairs.