Work Text:
For Elliott, entering the blank canvas of his new Birmingham flat felt almost foreign. By now, he was conditioned to the full, slightly chaotic, but colourful and warm environment in Kirkby, so being completely alone was like stranding a minnow in a desert.
Elliott looked around the flat like a lost child, taking in the flat, neutral-painted walls and the stark, cold floor. He reached into his bag, pulled out a frankincense-scented air freshener, and plugged it into the wall with a click, remembering Salah's words when he'd given it to him: a house should smell like home.
It was no wonder, then, that Robertson had given Salah at least a dozen organic soy candles for the latter's birthday. Elliott chuckled at the memory, inhaled a deep breath of frankincense and bergamot, and got to work.
The kitchen cabinets, which were initially bare, were filled with cups and plates. There were only four of each kind, aside from Elliott's favourite mug that Jones had given to him back in the academy, but it didn't matter; he didn't plan to invite many people over, anyway.
The spice rack, a gift from Nemmer, stood on the tiny counter, next to one paltry bottle of cinnamon. Next to that were twin lemon-shaped salt shakers, gifted by Chiesa, as well as a ladle, spatula, measuring cup set, and pair of tongs. Elliott had bought those himself, but he didn't feel his collection was big enough to earn a place in the kitchen drawers. So, instead, he folded up his clothes and stored them in the drawers. It was definitely odd, but the drawers were big enough and would do until he found a proper dresser.
As Elliott moved to the living room, he yawned loudly, even surprising himself with the volume. He wished he'd come earlier in the day so he could shop for furniture, but he supposed his sleeping bag in the living room would do. To make it look more put-together, he piled on some soft throw pillows--courtesy of Alisson--onto the bag, and put a couple of photos of him, his family, and his teammates on the box-slash-sidetable. Two plastic containers--the ones that held his shoes--made a relatively stable sofa, enhanced by more pillows and a blanket Diaz had given him before he left for Germany.
Elliott glanced around the room. It was still filled with unopened and uncrushed boxes, but he decided that he was satisfied with his work for the night. He sat cross-legged on the floor and turned on his laptop, pressing a few keys. While he waited for what he wanted to load, he reached into a blue cooler and opened a Tupperware container full of potato salad. It had been Robertson's idea to give Elliott some food for his new house. Of course, everybody had caught on, and eventually Elliott ended up loading four coolers of assorted food--potato salad, asado, chicken soup, brigadeiros, almond brittle, caramelised brussels sprouts, and more--into the back of his car.
Finally, Elliott's laptop screen lit up with three familiar faces. He'd agreed to call them first, and now, as they arranged themselves on the bed, it almost felt like a piece of home was right there in Birmingham with him.
"Hey Robbo, hey Mo. I made it."