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Avery tries not to think about how his mother will react upon learning of his death. It’s better to keep thoughts of his old life completely out of his mind, especially while all hands are needed on deck to help Derek get better. Once Derek leaves the hospital upstairs and moves in, it’ll be less lonely, and Avery won’t need to distract himself with the built-in media system or wander the halls trying his ID card against doors that won’t open for him. Then, they’ll be able to sift through the strange pieces of this new life and build something from them together.
It’s hard not to think of her, though, especially when he’s cooking. The 24/7 supermarket-style pantry three floors down is one of the only places he can access other than the apartment, and with no internet, he’s rediscovered the joy of spending hours in the kitchen to pass the time. It helps that Constance has quite a sweet tooth, and even the most miserable DMS agents overseeing Derek’s recovery can’t resist the sea salt brownies that Avery learned how to make when his hands were so small they needed near-constant guidance. Now, he can whip up a batch without even thinking about it – which isn’t entirely helpful when he’s trying to keep his mind from wandering.
Today is going to be a good day, he tells himself. Derek has a big day of physical therapy. He’s going to need something nice and hearty to keep his strength up. He’s going to need all-smiles-Avery.
He lays out his ingredients across the counter and turns on the 70s rock station on the media system’s radio. Carrots, potatoes, chicken. Butter and flour and small pots of various spices. Green apples, dark chocolate, bay leaves and stock. The list has a rhythm to it, the nostalgic hum of a wordless old song. Avery nods his head along to the music from the radio instead.
Recently, Derek’s appetite has been worryingly small. According to Constance, the only times he eats at all are when Avery brings him food in the evenings. According to Derek, the DMS don’t go any easier on him when he’s running on an empty stomach, but he’s still too paranoid to trust the breakfast and lunch that they offer him. Now that his primary goal is to rebuild muscle mass and improve his strength so that he can move into the apartment with Avery, it’s so important for him to be eating well.
And if Avery is the only person who can get him to do so, then he will make his family’s curry recipe no matter how much his mind wanders to the grief he has chosen to inflict upon those who raised him.
The smell of onion and garlic is like the firing gun at the start of a good race. Once they’re in the pot, Avery’s confidence sets in. He chops the vegetables into small chunks, sizing them perfectly so that they will turn soft enough to maintain their form whilst offering no resistance if Derek has little energy to chew. He seasons and browns the chicken, then adds the stock to boil. He grates the skin of an apple into the liquid to add a tart undercurrent and allows it to simmer and infuse whilst he turns his attention to the roux.
This has always been his favourite part. His mother used to take such care in preparing the blend. Avery can’t help but think about the way her apron would blow in the summer wind coming in through the back door leading from the small kitchen into the yard, her sleeves rolled up as she crushed fennel and fenugreek seeds in a pestle and mortar. Even the most fleeting household guests would be offered a place at the table and there would always be enough food for a hypothetical hungry stranger at the door. Avery learned at a young age that to love someone is to keep them fed.
He thinks of Derek as he melts butter in a pan and adds flour to bulk out the flavour base of the roux. Closing his eyes, Avery makes a wish and combines the wet and dry ingredients. With each stir, as the mixture thickens, he wishes for Derek to get better. He imagines the allspice and cinnamon like winter-scented steam rising from a hot bath to draw the stiff ache from his muscles; the cumin warming his bones; the turmeric clearing the pressure out of his sinuses and lifting the weighted haze from his mind. Avery adds a dash of honey and thinks of sweetness, of taking Derek outside in the sunshine somehow, wrapping him in a blanket and turning his face to the wind and sky. It is the closest thing to magic that exists in a world of science and gods. He cooks as an act of devotion, willing Derek back to health by the spoonful.
This is a meal he has made thousands of times over the years. He knows the timings so well that, when the rice has finished cooking and the roux has been incorporated into the broth with the chicken and vegetables, it’s exactly five minutes to 6pm. Just enough time to transfer the curry into a disposable serving dish and wait by the door for whichever agent they send to escort him up to Derek’s hospital room.
The journey up to the hospital floor takes just under five minutes. The dish is hot against his forearms, especially the one still healing from when Derek had grabbed onto him in panic after waking, but Avery doesn’t want to turn back and waste time by getting a dish towel to protect his skin. He remembers wondering how his mother could take trays straight out of the oven with her bare hands, but he gets it now. He understands her more than ever and wishes that he could see her one last time, not to say goodbye but to sit around that crowded dinner table and listen to her talk. She’d always have something to say and someone to say it to, shying no topic away from her children and treating them as equals in a community ritual of food and conversation.
He wills himself to temporarily forget the sound of her voice as the door into Derek’s hospital room is opened for him. Although the thoughts of loss still linger, the smile that widens across Avery’s face isn’t fake. This is the best part of his day, every day.
Derek looks tired, but he stands by the door anyway and greets Avery with a hug. Holding tightly onto the dish so as not to drop it, Avery rests his head on Derek’s shoulder in reciprocation.
“Hi,” he mumbles into Derek’s shoulder. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too.”
Avery closes his eyes. He could go to sleep here, standing up, arms now numb against the bottom of the serving tray. Instead, he raises his head and says, “I brought dinner.”
“Good,” Derek says. “I’m starving.”
Avery sets the tray on the small table in the corner of the room. He pulls out Derek’s chair before his own and sits down. When he sees that the skin on his arms has deepened and reddened where he was holding the hot dish, he quickly retracts them under the table.
“Did you burn yourself?” Derek asks. His voice is soft and calm.
“It’s no big deal,” Avery smiles. “It’s the only way I’ll learn to use oven gloves.”
“Let me see?”
“It’s really no big deal.”
“Let me see anyway?” Derek insists.
Avery raises his arms onto the table. He feels so stupid, thinking that he was committing some kind of honourable act when all he’s actually done is given Derek something to worry about instead of focusing on his own recovery.
But Derek does not make a big deal of it. He just leans forward and plants a gentle kiss first against Avery’s left arm, then his right. His lips are cool and highlight how hot Avery’s skin still is. “Be careful next time,” Derek says. “Please?”
“I will,” Avery feels his cheeks heating up to match his forearms.
He turns his face and busies himself by dishing up the curry into the bowls that have been provided for them. The first obviously goes to Derek, who wastes no time beginning to eat. He leans over the table like he can’t close enough distance between himself and the hot meal, closing his eyes and visibly relaxing with each bite. His lack of words, as Avery’s mother would say, is the highest compliment for a chef.
“You really shouldn’t leave it all day before you eat, you know,” Avery says.
Derek looks up and swallows. “Sorry. I just don’t trust them.”
“I know. But realistically, if they wanted to put something in your food, they could just put it in the ingredients that I get from downstairs to cook for you.”
“It’s… different. It’s safe when it’s you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Derek rests his fork on the side of the bowl. “Neither do I. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Avery reaches over the table to give his hand a squeeze. “Something is better than nothing.”
With a small smile, Derek continues to eat. Not wanting to pressure him or add to the obvious heteronomy of his situation, Avery averts his eyes and concentrates on his own meal.
He hopes it’ll be easier once they’re both in the apartment together. When he’s alone there at night, he imagines how much nicer it’ll feel being able to cook whilst Derek sits at the dining table. In this daydream, Derek is enjoying himself, taking apart the radio to fiddle with the parts and taste-testing Avery’s recipes without worrying about whatever the DMS do with him when they’ve got him alone. Avery is wearing an apron that blows in the wind and nothing is missing in his life.
The reality is that they sit in silence until the bowls are empty, and the room is windowless.
“How was your physio?” Avery asks.
Derek sighs heavily, his shoulders dropping. “Exhausting,” he says. “I’d rather hear about your day.”
“I didn’t do much other than cook.”
“Tell me about our apartment again?”
“You’ll love it. The lighting is so soft, not like in here.”
Derek closes his eyes and smiles at Avery’s familiar words.
“There’s a little living room with a couch and a big media wall. There’s a TV that I’m pretty sure has every movie ever made on it, and a radio and a bunch of CDs. I think I can even charm Constance into getting us a PS5.”
“Tell me about the blankets.”
“The bed is huge; it’s the size of two doubles pushed together. You could have an entire side to yourself and we’d never even touch.”
Derek shakes his head, and Avery laughs. “Or not,” he continues. “And there are so many pillows and blankets that you have to throw them on the ground just to make room to sleep. The heating didn’t work for the first few nights so they gave me loads of them to keep me warm and now they just keep the place so comfortable. It’s so comfortable, Derek. You’ll be able to rest properly there, I promise.”
“I know,” Derek says. “I just have to get better.”
“And you will.”
“I don’t know, Avery. When you’re not here it’s like… it’s a lot harder to try.”
“I promise I’m not going anywhere. I know it sucks that you have to push through if you want to move in with me, but it’ll be so worth it. It’ll be so much easier.”
The door behind them opens and Constance walks in. “He’s right,” she says, so matter-of-factly that she clearly has no problem being candid about the fact that the room is under constant observation. “It serves nobody, least of all you, to be so resistant.”
Avery sees Derek tense up, his fists clenching. He doesn’t like how Constance talks to Derek like a child trying to participate in a conversation between adults, or the way she looks at him like she’s hoping to speak to someone else. But she’s the closest thing they have to an ally, and Avery understands the importance of keeping the peace even if his moral compass is screaming at him to defend Derek’s honour.
He gives a bright smile and says, “I have an idea.”
“Oh?” She responds.
“What about a sleepover? Sort of like a trial shift. Derek can come back with me one evening after dinner and stay until after breakfast.”
Derek’s eyes light up.
“Interesting,” Constance says. “I can see how increasing the allocated time you have together may be beneficial for Derek’s recovery. You present a fair point.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“It’s an I’ll consider the benefits.”
With a pursed smile, Constance leaves. Derek grabs Avery’s hand underneath the table, squeezing it with both of his.
THANK YOU, he traces onto Avery’s palm with his finger, an honest message completely hidden from all eyes.