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Gabi first mentions cooking for him in Berlin, an offhand comment made over beers and fries while they wait for their döner kebabs in a hole-in-the-wall in Friedenau, far from all the tourists. They’ve come straight from the car launch, unsatisfied by the dainty little canapés and half-full flutes of champagne that had been served at the Kraftwerk. Nico’s already resigned himself to the fact that his very nice, dry clean-only jacket is going to end up smelling like grilled meat and garlic sauce.
“How’s the move going?” he asks. “Still on schedule?”
Gabi groans. “My place is a mess.”
“Even more than usual?” Nico asks, because he knows the normal state of Gabi’s apartment. There’s a reason why they typically end up at his condo instead.
“Haha, very funny,” Gabi says. He leans across their table, which has roughly the surface area of a pizza box, so their foreheads are practically touching. “Why don’t you come over and see for yourself? I’ll cook for you.”
Nico’s eyebrows go up. “Is that how you plan on getting a contract extension?” he asks. “Sabotaging your teammate by giving him food poisoning?”
Gabi throws a mayonnaise-dipped fry at him. “I’m serious,” he says. “I got a cookbook for Secret Santa, remember?”
“And you actually read it?” Nico asks skeptically. He’s seen the cookbook Esteban gave Gabi. It’s a fiftieth anniversary edition of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, with a beautifully designed cover, meticulously detailed recipes, and line drawings instead of glossy photos. It’s the perfect gift—for someone who actually knows how to cook, not someone who’s almost single-handedly keeping UberEats in business.
“I looked at a few recipes,” Gabi says breezily. “They seemed easy enough.”
Nico’s about to challenge that frankly outrageous claim by reminding Gabi that he once somehow managed to burn toast, but their order number gets called, and he has to go up to the counter to claim their kebabs. By the time he gets back to their table, Gabi’s found another TikTok brainrot that he insists on showing Nico, and there’s no more talk of cooking after that.
Gabi brings up cooking again in Barcelona, after the shakedown. Nico had pulled a few strings and gotten them a table at Disfrutar, a feat he’s quite proud of even though the significance of scoring last-minute reservations at a three-star Michelin restaurant is totally lost on Gabi, who eyes each artfully plated dish set before them with suspicion.
“What the fuck is this,” Gabi hisses, glaring at their latest course. Nico had vetoed his usual hoodie and forced him to change into a proper shirt with a collar before they left the hotel. Gabi’s left the top few buttons undone, exposing the long column of his throat and providing a tantalising glimpse of the gold chain resting against his sternum—Nico’s Christmas gift.
“Surely you’re familiar with the concept of carbonara,” Nico says.
“Shut up,” Gabi says. “Why is the macaroni transparent?”
“It’s not actually macaroni,” Nico says, exasperated. Their server had literally just explained everything in detail, but of course Gabi was too busy taking a video to pay attention. “It’s gelatin made of jamón ibérico.”
“So it’s, like, fake macaroni,” Gabi says dubiously.
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.” Nico tries not to think about how he’s used the exact same line on his five-year old niece to get her to eat her vegetables, and focuses instead on taking a forkful of carbonara and holding it out for Gabi to taste. “Here.”
Gabi still looks wary, but he leans forward and accepts the offer, lips closing around the fork with a little too much enthusiasm for a public setting. His eyes widen in evident surprise. “It’s good.”
“Told you,” Nico says smugly. He’ll make a foodie out of Gabi yet.
“But not as good as real carbonara.” Okay, maybe not.
Nico rolls his eyes. “I’ll take you to Giacomo when we’re back home. You can order as much ‘real carbonara’”—he makes the stupid air quotes—“as you want.”
“I have a better idea,” Gabi says. “I’ll make it myself.”
“You’re going to make carbonara,” Nico says flatly.
“From scratch,” Gabi adds. Nico snorts. “What? I have a pasta machine!”
“Since when?”
“Since I moved in, I guess? My mom must have bought it. The movers found it in the broom closet, still in the box.”
“I guess that answers the question of how often you actually clean your place.”
“I have a cleaning service!”
Their argument—except it’s not really an argument, it’s just how most of their conversations go, constantly pulling each other’s pigtails —is interrupted by the arrival of their next course: a singular slice of mackerel next to an obviously fake olive. Gabi makes such a hilariously offended expression that Nico can’t help but giggle at him, which in turn sets Gabi off, and their server has to pause his explanation until they manage to stop laughing and compose themselves.
As a general rule, Nico believes in being honest, even brutally so. Unverblümt, because German has a word for everything. There’s no point in sugarcoating the truth, no matter how bitter.
But the moment Gabi cracks the eggs open right into the pot of pasta, Nico knows he has to lie through his teeth.
“Looks great,” he says, ignoring the voice in his head that sounds a lot like his mother sternly telling him Lügen haben kurze Beine when he was a kid. “Can’t wait to try it.”
Gabi smiles at him, soft and a little shy, and turns back to the pot to resume committing culinary crimes.
The water isn’t even boiling yet. Nico is really about to consume undercooked pasta and raw eggs, and suffer the consequences, knowingly, willingly, and gladly—all in the name of love. But it’s totally worth the risk of salmonella, to be able to do this: lean against the counter and watch Gabi move uncertainly around his own kitchen, clearly out of his depth but determined to see things through.
It’s only dinner at home, something they’ve done a hundred times before, but he’s gone all out: he’s cleared the ever-present stack of unopened mail from the rarely-used dining table, unearthed plates, cutlery, and an actual tablecloth from god knows where, and even procured a bottle of red wine of a respectable vintage. Lights have been dimmed; candles are waiting to be lit. A deep house mix is playing on his laptop in the corner.
Nico feels like he’s received a precious gift—clumsily wrapped, but carefully chosen and freely given. Something to be treasured.
He opens Instagram, snaps a photo of Gabi from overhead, captions Homemade Carbonara By GBL 😎👍, and hits post.
Then he turns off his phone and settles in to watch Gabi work.
“I’m going to miss this place,” Gabi says wistfully.
At some point they’d migrated from the dining table to the living room, after getting into a debate over Schumacher’s DQ at Spa ‘94 that was really just an excuse for them to rewatch the race and bitch about the FIA. They’re both sprawled out on the couch with their food and drinks, manspreading because they can.
“I mean, you could keep it,” Nico says.
Gabi stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
“For your sim rig, maybe.”
“You want me to keep paying for a separate apartment just for my sim rig? Come on, even I know that’s shitty financial advice.”
Nico shrugs. “You can afford it.”
Gabi narrows his eyes. “Wait. Did you—” He swallows. “Did you change your mind? Is that what this is about?” He looks down at his plate. “Fuck, is the carbonara that bad?”
“The carbonara’s fine,” Nico says quickly, because he’s already lied once tonight, might as well do it twice. “And of course I haven’t changed my mind.”
Gabi relaxes. “Okay. Great. Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but half my stuff’s already in your condo.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Over the past few days, Nico’s condo—their condo now, he supposes—has filled up with boxes upon boxes filled with Gabi’s things. Getting from one room to another is like going through an obstacle course. “Kind of hard not to, really.”
“I’m just saying. It would be really fucking inconvenient if I had to take it all back.” Gabi pauses. “Also, my lease ends this week. So there isn’t actually anywhere for me to take my stuff back to. You’re stuck with my stuff.”
“Well, the stuff comes with you, so that sounds like a decent package deal.”
“Decent,” Gabi scoffs, but he looks pleased. He jabs a finger at Nico. “I know what you’re doing, you know.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’re trying to get out of sim racing with me. That’s why you want me to keep my rig here. I’m onto you, old man.”
He’s actually correct. Nico would definitely rather not lose his guest bedroom to Gabi’s sim rig. But it’s not the end of the world; they’ll get a bigger place eventually. Maybe an actual house, up in the hills, with enough space for the sim, the dog Gabi’s been dropping hints about, and maybe, someday, even—other creatures.
He can’t let Gabi know that yet, though, so instead he just knocks his knee into Gabi’s and says, “Whatever. Eat your fucking carbonara.”