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Language:
English
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Published:
2017-08-20
Words:
521
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1/1
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8
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37
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December 25

Summary:

"I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t trust your cooking. Stay out of my kitchen."

Work Text:

“Can I help?” 

He just laughed, momentarily prevented from taking a sip from the spoon over the steaming bowl of deliciousness in the making, and looked at his friend leaning to the doorframe.

“Oh, you. Sit this one out, birthday boy. I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t trust your cooking.” 

Viktor smirked back and walked to stand next to him at the counter anyway; he took out a plate and a knife, maneuvering familiarly around cupboards and drawers exactly like someone who was invited for a meal every time he visited, and started cutting up the remaining vegetables with the skilled precision no one usually believed he had.

And just for that comment, he poked Chris’ side with his elbow.

Both their eyes were occupied with their work, but Chris bumped his hip into his, pushing him away just the slightest. 

Then Viktor threw a piece of carrot in his direction.

And received a slap on his ass with the towel in return.

He untied Chris’ apron on his back.

Chris threw the piece of carrot back at his face.

Then dropped the spoon, fast as a lightning, and tickled his friend unexpectedly when Viktor tried to put an empty bowl on his head.

The war went on long enough that in the end Christophe decided to just put down everything before either of them got injured - or worse, the food burnt - and steered Viktor back out through the door by his shoulders. 

“Stay out of my kitchen!” 

By the time they could stop giggling like children, Viktor had set the table and returned to lean to the doorframe again, watching as Chris portioned the masterpiece into dishes.

The question came as sudden as fake the causal tone of his voice was. 

“Did you mean that?” 

Viktor’s face was… empty. As his stomach must have been after his long jet-lag-sleep, vacant and involuntarily crying out for help. The only one unaware of his own Famine.

He crossed his kitchen with two big steps, and reached out to raise Viktor’s chin. Oh, if he could only heal those blue, blue eyes. They focused on him like desperate tides trying to hold onto the land, always, always drawn back in to the deep.

“Yes,” he smiled. “I love you, mon chéri. Always trust that.” 

And Viktor’s hugs had always been tight and warm, waves crushing himself and the receiver. Squeezes that had meant more than any word the legend, the man, the boy could have uttered. This time was no different, and it made Christophe think just how many more chances he would get to take a peek in to Viktor’s head. How much harder it had gotten each time to persuade him to accept his invitation. How much lonelier could a 25-year-old Playboy get. How much less he would be able to help as time goes on. 

“It smells amazing!” 

He watched as Viktor went for the plates to carry them to the table instead of him. It was his job after that to get the bottle from the fridge. 

They both needed some champagne. Fast.