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“I don't understand why people keep askinʼ if you and I ever—” Zolf trails off, staring off into the depths of the pantry.
He's figuring out what to cook: there's some spinach that's going off soon, and eggs; add tomatoes and a bit of the manchego, and he's got a hearty omelette. Fry up some of the leftover potatoes from yesterday, maybe with a bit of onion and some of the spices Azu and Hamid brought back from their trip to Cairo, and—yes, that will do for a meal. “I know we share a flat and all, and we've been through some stuff together, but it feels—I dunno, prejudiced, or somethinʼ.”
“Mhmm,” Wilde says.
Zolf turns to look at him; perched on the ornately carved bench under the window, elbows leaning on the little dining table, Wilde looks at ease. He's reading the paper; not paying much attention.
“I just think,” Zolf starts again, leaning back into the pantry to dig around for the onions. He picks out a middle-sized one that fits right in his palm and squeezes it thoughtfully. It's firm and dry, and will be easy to chop. “I just think it's annoying, y'know? Cel keeps giving me these knowing looks, whenever they think that they've caught me, as if the fact that we—well—” he trails off again, gathering up the eggs and the cheese and the spinach to go with the onion. He's not exactly sure what he's getting at. It's all good as it is, isn't it? Only the questioning is bugging him.
He pushes the door to the pantry shut with his hip and sets his ingredients up on the counter, before he starts rummaging around the cupboard for the good pans (Wilde always uses the bad pans, those that burn the food easily, and claims they're all the same, but Zolf is not having any of it. There are good pans and bad pans, and one of these days, Zolf is going to sneak out the bad pans and throw them into the Thames somewhere. A double screw you, to Wilde, and to Poseidon. It's a fine plan).
The kitchen has been built originally with human-sized occupants in mind, so the counter is far too tall to work at. In order to fit himself, Zolf has installed a bench that brings him up in a comfortable working position. Satisfied that he's done looking through the lower cupboards, he pulls the bench over and climbs up.
Good pans located and placed on the stove, Zolf gets to chopping. He peels the onion carefully, delighted as it peels easily and almost in one piece; then he starts chopping it in half-inch by half-inch squares, methodically.
“Not sure why it's gettinʼ to me like that,” he grumbles, slicing the knife clean through the layers of onion. “it just feels—private? Maybe?” He gestures with the knife. “Like, even if we were a—a couple, right, then whose business is that but ours?”
“Quite,” Wilde says, flipping a page in his paper.
“And that's the thing, right? No one's givinʼ Azu or Hamid weird looks for goinʼ off to Kenya together, or, I dunno, Barnes and Carter for being joined at the hip, whatever that is about—”
The onions go to the side, and Zolf gets the potatoes next, chopping them up in cubes.
“But as soon as it's the two of us, they all get so weird about it.”
Wilde makes another noise of approval. Zolf peers at him out the corner of his eye and bites down on a smile. There is such a calm to Wilde these days, something deep-rooted and secure that shines through the layers of magic and flamboyance and quick laughs that are always somewhat in play. Here, in their home, he is so much himself, wrapped in a flowery silk-robe and with hair mussed up so artistically it must be a magic trick. Magicked up, sure, but at the same time healthy; He has been sleeping (Zolf's checked) and eating (Zolf's cooked) like a normal person, and he has been making awful, frustrating jokes, getting on people's nerves, which is the most clear indicator for the man's wellbeing that Zolf can think of.
He lights the stove under the widest pan with a spark of magic, then does the other one.
“Show-off,” Wilde says. There's a smirk in his voice, and when Zolf turns to him, he's got his chin in his hand, smiling from ear to ear—at least as far as the scar-tissue on his cheek allows. He looks so pleased it's almost too much to bear.
The sight makes Zolf's heart jump to his throat.
“Says you,” he grunts, quickly busying himself with scooping a chunk of butter into the pan and distributing it over the heating surface. “You've prestidigitated yourself to a better bedhead, if I'm not mistaken. Talk about show-off.”
“Ah,” Wilde says, smirk deepening. “You noticed! I'm touched. I can do yours as well, if you like.”
“Oh, thanks, Oscar,” Zolf says and rolls his eyes. He picks up the onions and dumps them in the butter, and it immediately starts sputtering. He grabs a spoon and starts pushing them around, dunking in some dried cumin and coriander. “That's exactly what I need, a magically enhanced haystack on my ʼead.”
“Doesn't have to be a haystack. I could make it stand right up, like Cel's.”
Zolf snorts and picks up an egg. “You keep your spells out of my hair, Wilde, or I swear on the gods, you'll get no dinner.”
Wilde gasps in mock offense. “You wouldn't.”
Zolf raises his eyebrows. He breaks the egg on the counter and pours it down into a small bowl, careful not to drop any pieces of shell in there, then repeats the process. “No? Sure you wanna test that theory?”
Wilde leans back against the windowsill and pulls his feet up on the bench, one knee up to his chest. He gives Zolf a long, calculating look.
“On second thought, I quite like the natural haystack.”
Zolf grins. “Thought so.”
He turns back to his pans and continues to work in silence. The potatoes join the onions, and the spinach goes on the clean pan with butter to cook for a minute until wilted. Zolf tosses in some salt and pepper and stirs, then transfers the spinach onto a plate and pours half of the beaten eggs into the pan, letting it solidify about halfway through before adding half of the spinach and some shredded cheese.
“There's an acrobatics group in town, performing,” Wilde says, folding up the newspaper. “Supposed to be all the rage. Thought we might catch it, if you're up for it?”
“Who says?” Zolf asks. Satisfied that the cheese is melted, he flops half the omelette over, folding it along the middle. It slips the pan easily—evidence of the good pans' merit.
“The Times, no less,” Wilde says, getting up from his seat and making his way over to Zolf. “Bunch of kids, throwing each other in the air. We could do with getting out more, don't you think?”
Not getting in the way of the cooking, Wilde slots himself against Zolf's back and puts his chin on top of Zolf's head.
“I guess,” Zolf answers, swatting Wilde's hand away from the remaining ingredients. “It's not one of those posh things you like to slander, though, is it?”
“Goodness, no.” Wilde laughs and rests his hands on Zolf's shoulders, squeezing slightly. He's like a cat, sometimes, Zolf thinks: gets awfully affectionate when he's hungry. Not that he minds.
“I think this should be right up your alley, in terms of underground performance practice. The review said things like art from the European working classes and the like. You won't even have to comb your beard.”
“Oh, shut up,” Zolf says. He transfers the first omelette to a plate, and pours the remaining egg-mixture into the pan. While he waits for it to cook, he leans back against Wilde. “Food in a minute,” he says. Wilde hums and turns his head, so his cheek now rests against Zolf's scalp.
“This is probably why people think we're a couple,” Wilde says, arms snaking their way around Zolf's neck.
“They—” Zolf swallows. “People know about this part?”
“Maybe,” Wilde says.
“They ask you as well? What do you tell them?”
“Sometimes I say that you're immune to my charms.” Wilde sounds smug. “Which is true. You wouldn't notice flirting unless it hit you in the face, and I'd like to think we're past that kind of antagonism.”
There's a pause.
Zolf clears his throat and adds the rest of the fillings to the pan. Wilde just sort of hangs on him, which, given his not inconsiderable height, can't be a very comfortable position.
“Zolf—” Wilde says.
“Wilde,” Zolf says at the same time.
“Mmhm?”
“Are you flirting with me?”
Wilde stills, fingers tightening in the fabric of Zolf's shirt.
“Would it make a difference?” he asks.
Carefully, Zolf folds the final omelette in half, and turns the stove off under the potatoes. He thinks for a moment, leaning back into Wilde's embrace. Wilde softens immediately and draws him closer, face pressing down into Zolf's scalp.
“Probably not,” Zolf says, eyes fixed on the omelette. “Do you—do you flirt with other people, too?”
Wilde gives a long sigh. “Occasionally. I like the game of it.”
“Am I a game to you?” Zolf scoffs, only half joking.
There's a thoughtful silence. Zolf flips the omelette over, then turns the heat off.
“With you, it's different,” Wilde says eventually. There's a frown in his voice, as if he, too, is working something out. “I'm not—I usually want something from people. Information, entertainment… You know. With you, I'm—content. It just spills out of me, and you—well.” He takes a breath and releases Zolf from his grip. “Should we eat?”
Zolf swallows and nods. He places the last omelette on a clean plate and scoops half the fried potatoes on each, while Wilde sets the table in silence. When Wilde gets out a water jug from one of the high cupboards, Zolf says “Let me,” and snaps his fingers.
Wilde makes a surprised sound and grabs at the jug as it fills with water. He turns and looks accusingly at Zolf.
“Show-off.”
Zolf grins at him.
“Thought you'd know me by now.” Adding a few of the small, perfectly ripe tomatoes, Zolf deems the portions done, and picks up the plates. Wilde shakes his head at him and sits back down at his place under the window. He pours water for both of them.
Zolf sets the plates down on the table and takes his place across from Wilde, picking up knife and fork.
“Eat up,” he says and digs in.
They eat in silence, a sort of loaded mood settling down between them. Zolf glances up to find Wilde quickly averting his eyes, and their hands brush against each other as they reach for the water jug at the same time. Zolf pulls his hand back quickly, gesturing for Wilde to go first, and Wilde does the same, knocking his own empty cup over in the process.
“Oh, for goodnessʼ sake,” Wilde mutters, righting his cup and flicking the water droplets away with an irritated snap of his fingers. Zolf watches as Wilde frowns, turns his head away, fidgeting in his tell-tale 'I hate feelings' manner.
Zolf silently agrees with him. He reaches out with a leg and hooks his metallic ankle around Wilde's, then fills their cups with water with a snap of his own fingers.
“I'm not immune to your charms, Oscar,” he says. Wilde picks up his cup and drinks from it, eyes intently focused on the wall. “I'm here, am I not?”
Wilde absently rubs his foot against Zolf's ankle and raises his eyes to the ceiling, cup pressed against his lower lip.
“You are,” he says thickly. “And so am I. And I don't want to be anywhere else.”
“Yeah,” Zolf says. “We don't need to get hung up on definitions. Especially if they don't fit.”
Wilde looks at him.
“It doesn't bother you?”
Zolf leans back in his chair and scratches at his beard. Does it bother him? Is he missing something? Honestly, he's more content than he's been in forever, all things considered.
“No,” he says, fingers running down his beard to toy with the circlet closing the braid. “No, it really doesn't.”
“We are sort of together.” Wilde turns and leans his elbows on the tabletop, cup still gripped tight in his hands. “It's not a completely unsound assumption to make.”
“Guess not.” Zolf tugs lightly at the braid, eyes trained on Wilde. “I'd—I'd be— sad, if you up and eloped with somebody else.”
Wilde brings his other foot around and traps Zolf's ankle between his own.
“Me? Why would I do that? You're the one obsessed with romance,” he says, cheeky grin spreading across his face.
“Maybe I'm not scandalous enough for you,” Zolf ventures, adding his free leg to the cuddle-fest under the table. “Maybe someone shows up and sweeps you off your feet with elaborate word-plays and an offer to dip you in honey. Decadent bastard,” he adds without much heat.
Wilde sets down his cup and picks a tomato off Zolf's plate, humming in consideration.
“Tempting,” he says. “Do they cook?”
Zolf shrugs.
“I dunno? They might?”
Wilde pops the tomato into his mouth and chews, a finger tapping at his chin.
“Mushroom soup, when I'm sick? Chocolate cake?”
“You only love me for my cooking, I take it?”
Wilde laughs.
“That, and your sunshine personality—ah. There we have it.” Zolf sees the heat rushing to Wilde's cheeks, eyes suddenly downcast again. He frowns, confused, before his brain catches up with his mouth.
“Ah,” he says.
“Mhmm,” Wilde replies, nodding, foot tapping restlessly against Zolf's leg.
“That's—”
“The heart of the matter, one might say,” Wilde says, clearly aiming for flippant and hitting just above awkward. He thumbs at the scar on his face and looks away.
“Well, that's—convenient,” Zolf says and instantly wants to jump out the window. Unfortunately, Wilde's in the way.
“Convenient?” Wilde scoffs, turning back to look at Zolf with raised eyebrows. “Really?”
“I mean—oh, sod it, heart of the matter? How is that better, in any way?”
“Well, at least it's a pun,” Wilde says, shaking his head.
“I'll give you—why can't we just say we love each other and quit being so damn awkward about it!?” Zolf realises he's raising his voice and bites into his cheek to stop himself from yelling. He's red in the face, surely, and so is Wilde, but there's also a relieved grin there.
“You do?” Wilde asks, chin going down in his hand. His eyes are shining, and Zolf swallows around something odd in his throat.
“Yeah,” he says. “ʼs why it's convenient, yeah?”
Wilde throws his head back and laughs, loud and pleased, his shoulders shaking with it.
“Stop,” he wheezes, hands coming up to cover his mouth, and Zolf lets out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. He starts laughing himself, quietly at first, but when he makes eye contact with Wilde, it descends into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.
Eventually, they both manage to calm down.
“So, kind of a couple, then?” Wilde suggests.
“Well. Definitely a couple of idiots…”
Wilde lights up.
“Did I tell you I love you?”
“Oh, good grief, Oscar.” Zolf says.