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“Reyes,” Jack said, staring in awe at Reyes’ almost clean plate. “How do you do it.”
Reyes raised an eyebrow. “Do what?” he asked, spearing his last morsel of cod on the prongs of his fork.
“Finish your food,” Jack clarified, staring morosely down at his own plate, cleared of only a few bites of cod and two steamed broccoli florets. He’d been prepared for a harsh experience when he’d been inducted into the Soldier Enhancement Program, having been told when he joined that it would be one of the most grueling undertakings the human body could possibly handle. The daily trainings, the brutal exercise regime, the nonstop labs and tests, the endless stream of injections, the cocktail of pills taken every morning and again every evening; these were things Jack had expected.
But nobody had warned him about the meals.
They ate the same thing every goddamn day. Seven meals in total to compensate for the sheer amount of calories everyone burned between the trainings and the workouts, each one consisting of the most bland, boring, uninventive foods known to mankind. Steamed fish. Steamed vegetables. Plain white rice. Plain oatmeal. Boiled eggs. The occasional blissful relief of a baked sweet potato. The scientists in charge of the program had to eliminate as many variables in their daily routines as possible to ensure cohesive results and reduce the risk of bad reactions; making sure all the soldiers ate the same thing every day made their jobs just a little easier. Why this meant they had to eliminate spices from their diets Jack couldn’t possibly fathom, but their absence was beginning to take its toll.
It hadn’t been terrible at first; boring, maybe, but growing up in rural Indiana meant Jack was used to eating five different variations of meat and potatoes every week, and in the beginning, he’d taken the meals in stride. But they were six months into the program now, and if Jack had to eat one more piece of plain cod, he was going to lose his goddamn mind.
Most the soldiers shared a similar sentiment, and glancing around the mess hall, Jack saw far more full plates than empty ones as people poked sadly at their steamed fish, or tried valiantly to eat another spoonful of oatmeal, with only salt and pepper to add any extra flavor.
Only Reyes persevered, his plate empty now as he finished eating his last boiled egg, and Jack had never felt more admiration for a man than he did in that moment. “Reyes, please,” Jack begged. “I’m dying. I can’t handle another bite of this bullshit. Tell me what your secret is, I’ll give you anything.”
Reyes regarded him with no apparent emotion as he finished chewing his boiled egg. “Anything’s kind of a broad promise, rubio,” he said once he’d swallowed.
“I don’t care,” Jack insisted. “I can’t stand this. Please.” He reached across the table to grab Reyes’ hands, ignoring the way the other man stiffened at the touch. “Help me,” he whispered.
Reyes continued to watch him for several long, silent moments, Jack refusing to break eye contact as he silently willed Reyes to divulge his secret. “Anything, huh?” Reyes said finally. “What if I want to save it until I think of something really good?”
“Fine,” Jack answered. “You can call me up in ten years and ask for my first born child if you want it. Just please, please tell me your secret.”
Reyes chuckled, a rare display of emotion he only ever seemed inclined to show around Jack, something Jack tried not to dwell upon for too long. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a small black book Jack had often seen him with at the table, the words Santa Biblia stamped onto the smooth leather cover. “The word of the Lord,” Reyes said, handing the book over to a thoroughly bemused Jack, “helps man endure even the worst hardships.”
Jack stared. “You… pray?” he asked, taking the book. “That’s it?” He’d caught glimpses of Reyes saying a silent Grace before meals once or twice, but Jack had thought it more force of presumably Catholic guilt than any real religious inclination.
“That’s it,” Reyes smirked. “A little scripture reading before meals does wonders for getting that food down.”
“Um. Ok.” Jack stared down the leather bound book, unsure if Reyes was having a laugh at his expense or completely serious. It was impossible to tell. “Should I… read a certain passage?” he asked, because as ridiculous as the idea of prayer magically flavoring his food sounded, Jack was, at this point, willing to try anything.
Reyes shrugged. “No,” he said, still smirking faintly. “Just open it up and pick one.”
Jack opened the book, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline at the contents inside. A cavity had been carved out of the pages, and nestled inside it lay a small bottle, halfway filled with a fiery red liquid. Jack looked back up at Reyes with wide eyes. “How… How long have you had this?” he gaped, voice low as he slid the bottle from its hiding place, the reason why Reyes so often ate alone in the corner of the mess hall dawning upon him.
“Since the second week,” Reyes responded.
“Dr. Walsh—”
“Walsh can suck my dick,” Reyes said flatly. “I don’t give a shit about his scientific process, I’m not spending the next year eating this fucking bullshit without something to make it taste like actual food.” He waved to the unadorned mess still on Jack’s plate.
It was a blatant breach of protocol, and if any of their superiors ever found out about Reyes adding hot sauce to his meals, he’d be in a whole mess of trouble. So would Jack. He looked down at his plate of uneaten food, the mere thought of trying to force down one more bite of salt and pepper cod making Jack’s throat clench in repulsion.
Reyes was right. Fuck the scientific process. Walsh could suck Jack’s dick too.
“Question,” Jack said, uncapping the bottle. “How spicy is this?”
“It’s going to burn your white boy face off,” Reyes answered easily.
Jack nodded. “Good,” he said, and proceeded to empty at least half of what remained in the bottle over his food. He ignored Reyes’ sharp inhale and barely muffled laughter, steeling himself against what was sure to be an onslaught of unimaginable heat before spearing a large piece of cod and shoving it into his mouth.
It took a few seconds. The first bite washed over his senses like a cool breeze on a scorching summer day, and Jack nearly moaned as he experienced flavor for the first time in six months. Then his mouth began to tingle, pinpricks of heat that spread like wildfire as he chewed. The heat hit Jack like a punch to the face, and he actually reeled backwards as the full impact of the hot sauce began to burn its way through his mouth.
“Fuck,” he hissed, tears prickling at his eyes. “What’s in this?”
“Habanero,” Reyes said, body shaking with suppressed laughter as Jack took another bite. “I warned you it was going to hurt, rubio.”
“I’m going to die,” Jack gasped as he continued shoveling food into his mouth, because as much as it hurt, the raw burning was somehow still better than the resigned nausea of eating the food plain. It spread into his nostrils and the back of his throat, and Jack had to reach up to wipe sweat from his forehead and tears from his eyes. “Fuck. This was a terrible idea. Why would you let me do this?”
Reyes didn’t answer, only shook in silent laughter as Jack resolutely finished his meal, tears sliding down his cheeks by the time he’d finished the last bite of vegetables. “You know you’re probably gonna throw all of that up later, right?” he asked as Jack got up to clear away his dishes and possibly raid the kitchens of all the milk they had.
“Fuck you,” Jack gasped, flipping him off. “You’re a horrible person. I hate you.”
Jack did throw up, not five minutes later, but managed to blame it and his tomato red face on a bad reaction to the morning round of injections, assuring any curious parties that the distinct red tint to the mess was almost certainly blood, not any foreign substance he may or may not have ingested. To his relief, he was given several curious looks, but nothing more except an order from the med techs to skip that day’s weights session and get some rest. He ignored the fact that Reyes couldn’t look at him with a straight face for at least three days after.
They didn’t eat together for several meals, and while Jack had actually welcomed the blandness of his meals immediately following the incident as a balm to his poor burned mouth, the regime quickly grew old once more. One afternoon found Jack trying to work his way through a plate of overcooked chicken breast with brown rice and more steamed veggies when Reyes, much to Jack’s surprise, took a seat across from him. Reyes never actively chose to sit with anybody.
“Got you something,” Reyes said.
Jack blinked. “Really?” he asked. Reyes didn’t strike him as a gift-giver.
“Really.” Reyes reached into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out a small leather bound book, this one gleaming bright red, the words Holy Bible etched onto the front in gold. “May the word of God help you through these trying times, Morrison.”
Jack took it, bowing his head to hide the flush of his cheeks as he opened it. Like Reyes’ Spanish Bible it had a cavity carved out of the center, but instead of the fiery hell sauce that now haunted Jack’s nightmares, this one contained a small bottle of Cholula hot sauce.
“Figured that might be a little easier on your white boy sensibilities,” Reyes explained when Jack looked at him quizzically.
Jack laughed. “Yeah, probably a good call,” he admitted, deftly sliding the bottle from its crevice and adding a few dashes to his plate. “Thanks,” he added, color rising in his face as his stomach began to flutter, tiny shivers running up Jack’s spine as he slipped the book into the pocket of his jacket. He ducked his head, hoping Reyes wouldn’t notice his blush.
Reyes shrugged. “Yeah, well… Just don’t go spilling my secret, yeah? I don’t need every person here hitting me up for a secret hot sauce stash.”
He bowed his head and began eating, and while it was difficult to discern against the dark tone of his skin, if Jack peered closely, he could almost swear Reyes was blushing too.