Black Romeo I don't know what I'm doing oh dear I hope this is okay.
"Oh, blast—that's not supposed to—shite!"
Arthur might have thought he was being quiet with his mutterings, but Tanishq could hear him just fine. He was perched up at the kitchen island, after all, not in another room. Tanishq was beginning to think he had been forgotten, however, as he sat there sipping his cooling tea and watching Arthur cook. Arthur did tend to go single-minded when there was a crisis, after all.
The house was just as ridiculous as Tanishq remembered. He hadn't been to visit in quite some time, but nations with Arthur's age and temperament tended to be reticent to change, even if it was within their own homes. Of the man's many homes around his country, the little country cottage was the most ridiculous. Everything about it was soft, from the worn flannel blankets on the overstuffed couches to the patterned outer curtains on the windows, backed by lace. There were more doilies than expected, as well, and even though all of the appliances were modern—from the rather impressive TV set on the distressed armoire to the porcelain-plated refrigerator and stovetop—Tanishq knew the style of it hadn't been changed since Arthur started furnishing it in 1932.
There was a rather alarming smell coming from a smoking—not steaming, smoking—pan on the stovetop and Tanishq sipped his tea in a considering manner. Should he—
"Bugger!"
Right. Overstepping was one thing, saving the structural integrity of the house was quite another.
"Arthur, may I be of assistance?" he offered mildly, not waiting to hear the response, but rather slipping off the stool and crossing to where Arthur was bent dramatically over a wok.
"Oh—oh!" Arthur seemed startled that Tanishq was speaking. He really had been off in his own world. "No, no, I'm sure it's an easy fix, if you'll just allow me—"
Tanishq hesitated a moment, because Arthur was not moving and he wasn't sure what was the extent of their personal bubble anymore. He remembered, once upon a time, when it had been nothing at all, the both of them lounging on covered patios and eating fresh fruit in Tanishq's home, their hands brushing decadently over the plates. It hurt, being so unsure of what was once as natural as breathing.
Something under the pan flared, and Tanishq steeled himself, slipping in front of Arthur and sliding the pan out of his grip. Arthur let him, tensing up but not moving as he felt Tanishq's body press firmly against his. Tanishq just managed to stifle a happy sigh. Arthur was as warm as ever, behind him.
The moment broke, however, as Tanishq promptly marched the wok over to the sink and dumped it in, turning on the water at full blast and watching with satisfaction as the hot pan steamed merrily.
"E-excuse me!" Arthur sputtered. "I have been cooking dinner —"
"Arthur, darling," Tanishq said coolly, slipping in the endearment by habit and trying to pretend that he hadn't. It was so easy to adopt those old speech patterns when speaking English, to remember the way Arthur's mother language felt on his tongue just as vividly as he remember the way Arthur's lips felt on the same. "You were mangling dinner, and although this has been the kindest of gestures, perhaps it's time to regroup."
Arthur had no real response for that, of course. He just sat there muttering like a teapot, arms crossed as he watched Tanishq drag out a clean pan from under the counter. "How did you know I keep those there?" he asked gruffly, and Tanishq tried to smile broadly back. He wasn't sure how well he had succeeded.
"I remember everything about this house, Arthur."
"… right, then."
It was as much a whimper of defeat as it was anything else, and Tanishq started busying himself poking his nose into the cupboards and the fridge, trying to parse out what was edible. Arthur was surprisingly well-stocked; it wasn't the quality of his ingredients, but rather, what he did with them.
"What spices do you have in here?" Tanishq asked lightly as he pulled vegetables out from the fridge.
Arthur trailed obediently to the cabinet. "The usual stuff, really. Basil, parsley, thyme. I have… well, Alfred left Adobo in here and I have a few packets of gulash seasoning from the Christmas party. Instant soup. And the curry I was making."
Tanishq pulled his head out of the kitchen to quirk an eyebrow eloquently up at his host. "That. That—" he pointed at the violently yellow goop dripping out of the wok that had been wedged in the sink. "—was curry?"
Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. "Well, yes, it was curry. I was trying to make you something from home! As New Years gift! Kiku gave it to me, said it was his favorite." He thrust out the two remaining packets, both patterned in orange and green, into Tanishq's hands so that he could inspect them. They were covered in nonsensical Sanskrit and, across the top, "Taj Mahal Curry" was written in Japanese.
Tanishq tried to pull as much disdain out of his expression as possible before handing the packets back to Arthur as delicately as he could manage. "Anything that asks you to 'just add water' is not even close to what curry is. Arthur, really."
The man had the good grace to pink up under the scrutiny, although he puffed out his chest as well. "Well, pardon me for trying my best to make this visit a proper one. You always used to cook for me, and I thought I could—oh, well, nevermind what I though." He cut himself off abruptly and began aggressively filling the huge, ugly yellow kettle on the stovetop. "Tea. I thought I'd make some tea."
Tanishq had been surprised to find a handwritten invitation in his mailbox early that December, from Arthur no less. They hadn't talked much recently, not since—well, not for awhile. Of course, political meetings continued, but they were always full of pleasantries and they never, ever resulted in the two of them left alone. Tanishq assumed it was on purpose. When years passed, it became harder and harder to bring up what had thrown them apart in the first place: a milieu of responsibility, politics, and apathy.
But here it was, in his hands, embossed, heavy paper with the elegantly unmistakable script of the avatar of the United Kingdom. Arthur Kirkcland requests your presence for the weekend of January 3…
And maybe, probably, most likely, Tanishq should have ignored it. What good could possibly come out of this? A weekend of awkward pleasantries and trying not to talk about the things that had forced them apart. A weekend of awkwardly waiting until Arthur was fast asleep to take care of inopportune boners because, even now, the man was stunning. A weekend of pretending that Tanishq's heart was a logical thing that knew Arthur was no longer interested in him beyond friendliness, instead of the viciously hopeful thing that flew into a trapped frenzy seeing the pale, sharp, gorgeous man that met him at the airport gates.
Stupid heart.
"Arthur…" Tanishq started, and then realized he didn't know what to finish the sentence with. Arthur, you don't need to cook for me, I did it as a gift for you? Arthur, I sometimes dream of the tea we drank on the porch of my old home in Darjeeling all those years ago? Arthur please never touch a stove again in your life you infuriating man?
"It will be ready in just a moment," Arthur said, pretending like he hadn't heard Tanishq at all.
Tanishq let out a frustrated sound that he covered with the bang of a pot onto the stove. Ignoring him was something Arthur was very good at doing, it seemed.
"Thank you," Tanishq muttered stiffly. "And, if you would permit, I will make you proper curry." Because the man did have all the spices, even if some of them were in tin boxes in the back of the cupboard that had obviously never been open since the East India Trading Company had brought them back to this country in the first place.
He emerged from where his head was buried in the cupboard with an armful of canisters, only to find Arthur blatantly staring at him. Or rather, Tanishq thought, at his ass. When Arthur realized he'd been caught, his eyes flicked to Tanishq's and hardened with determination.
"Right then. Perhaps you can show me a bit of what I'm supposed to be doing with all this, so next time I don't make quite so much of a tit of myself."
Which was the most self-deprecating and humble thing Tanishq had heard him say in years. The sudden vulnerability of the request might not have been a surprise in anyone else, but this was not anyone else. Tanishq's heart gave a little involuntary wince, his arms twitching with a sudden wish to wrap around Arthur's shoulders.
He gentled his voice as much as he could. "Sure. Come, stand here with me. I'll show you."
It was the slowest curry he had made in his life, every bit of it drawn out and explained with care. It was also his most haphazard, and least half of it, because he made Arthur do most of it himself. So what if the vegetables were chopped too coarsely or the chicken in it was just a bit overdone? Every time Arthur asked a question or needed help, there was just a slight bit more warmth in his gaze, softness in his lips. Tanishq let their bodies press together as they shuffled around the counter, trying to remember how the dance went, how to share space once again. He leaned across Arthur's back and held his hands, showing him how to hold the knife without seriously damaging the walls or himself. They touched more in one evening than they had in decades, and when the meal was left on the stove to simmer, they kept doing it.
Arthur paused as he poured their fourth and fifth cups of tea. He wasn't looking at Tanishq, not really, but at Tanishq's hands as he dried them on the terrycloth next to the counter. His jaw clenched, and the put down the tea with a decisive motion and then, quick and abrupt as a bird, grabbed Tanishq's hands in both of his, leading him to the couch.
Tanishq let himself be led, reeling with the soft feeling of Arthur's hands in his. They should not have felt so good, not at all. It hurt, how good it felt, how much he'd missed this. "Arthur…"
Arthur shook his head. "Just. We have so much time—to—we have so much time before the food is ready. Tell me. About the last few years."
Tell me what I did wrong.
Tanishq thought he could keep himself away from this man, hold himself aloof, but he was wrong. That would only work if he was not touching Arthur. As soon as Arthur turned those bright green eyes on him, gave him all of that intoxicating concentration—Tanishq was gone.
He didn't let go of Arthur's hands.
"We have time," he said finally, sighed really. "Time to catch up on, but time in the future as well. So much more in the future."
It was a question, but Arthur had sighed like it was an answer as well. "Yes. We do."
They kissed again, and it was flavored like tea and soft as he remembered.
The curry simmered and they spoke and they kissed and they ate and kissed some more and they did it all very slowly because they had all the time in the world.