Ivan is tall and strong, very tall and strong. So he does the chores around the house that require such qualities. He has mastered the art of dusting. Perfected the dance of vacuuming, moving furniture to and fro to get to the spaces untouched by light. He has even found a certain enjoyment in taking out the trash, smiling at their Lithuanian neighbor as he hangs his partner's less than appropriate clothing out on the line to dry in the late summer breeze. But as he brings the first load of their own laundry down the stairs he stops, inhales, and sets the basket on the ground to be dealt with at a later time.
Yao is the one who does all of the cooking. Now, it's not to say that Ivan is a poor cook or that Yao is not strong. Ivan can very much hold his own in the kitchen, and where Yao really is strong, he lacks his lover's hight, . But ever since he and his lover had moved in together he hadn't touched a single pot or pan (Save for washing them). Yao is a fantastic cook.
And when the Russian man hears the crackle of oil in a wok or smells the scent of infused spices he just can't help it. He's drawn to it.
Today it's raining, so something hot and sizzling is called for. Stir Fry it appears to be. That's what Ivan observes as he enters the kitchen. He loves eating Yao's food, but really, he thinks that watching him make it is even better.
The way he chops and dices the veggies. So fast. So precise. Seemingly so easy. When Ivan cooks he is much slower about it, and the pieces never come out as nice. Not that the Chinese man rushes through it though. Hardly. His pace is set, never wavers. It all seems so graceful, so beautiful. Yao is simply beautiful.
"Are you done with the clothes yet?" The smaller man asks as he adds oil to the wok. He doesn't even look up to acknowledge the other's presence as he turns to the peppers to begin in on them. Ivan smiles.
"I just brought some down." Yao gives a curt nod to this as he bends down to check the oven. Whatever is in there is probably some sort of sweet dessert filled with fruit and sugar, because otherwise the Chinese man doesn't use the oven much.
"Well, the washer and dryer aren't in here."
Ivan sighs. Sometimes Yao would let him sit around the kitchen and just watch him, but on Sunday, on chore day, it was all about productivity.
Whites, lights, darks, denim, towels. Each have their own bin in the wash room. Ivan could still hear Yao in the kitchen and he can just imagine the knife flying across the cutting board, the ingredients being tossed into the pan and then lifted and tossed about with skill and patience. It was almost like he was conducting his own unique symphony. Ivan pushes the start button on the wash machine and walks quickly (Running would just get him a scolding) back to the kitchen. The chicken has been grilled and cut up, ready to be added to a wok already filled with brown around the edges peppers, peas, water chestnuts and broccoli. Bypassing the barstool where he would have a perfect view of his lover as he manned the stove, he strides past and places his hands on the mans hips as he draws up right behind him.
Startled a bit, Yao turns his head to the side and when he sees that it's just Ivan, lets out a sigh (Of relief that is isn't a stranger) and glares a little.
"Can I help you, aru?"
"No, not really." Ivan replies, leaning down to rest his head on Yao's shoulder. He smells like his cooking. Vibrant, pungent, subtle, sweet and spice. He pulls his head away just as the Chinese man squirms and rolls his shoulder to rid it of the extra weight.
"Ivan, I am trying to cook, go somewhere else."
"But I want to watch. That's not so bad, da?"
"Then go sit down."
"I get a better view from here." And with that he leans in and places a kiss to the shorter one's temple. He expects to get a sharp jab in the ribs and, sure enough, that's what he gets. But he also sees the smile tugging at the other's lips. Ivan loves it when he can make his Yao-Yao smile.
The Russian remove his hands and saunters over to the window above the sink to look out. He remembers when they were searching for a home to purchase together that one of the must haves for both of them was to have a window above the sink.
For Yao it was because he likes watching the sunset in the early evening when he is washing the dishes.
'It's so much better than looking at a wall or some lifeless painting aru.'
For Ivan it was because he liked to look out at his and Yao's garden. That was another thing they looked for in a house. Lots of gardening space. Sunflowers for himself and seasonal fruits, herbs and veggies that the shorter man that he liked to use when he cooked covered the ground at the back of the property.
He washes his hands before going and sitting at the counter. Yao hates it when he doesn't wash his hands, but out of all the little quirks about his little lover, this one he doesn't mind so much.
Sometimes, but very rarely, Yao will sing or hum as he cooks and Ivan will prop his head up on one of his hands and listen. But most of the time the Chinese man is silent, set in concentration. So Ivan will sing or hum instead. Sometimes its a pop song, sometimes it's something more traditional. It irritates Yao (So he says) But he never tells him to stop. Today though both are quiet, content to be listening to the sizzling of food and the steady thrum of the rain.
Toss, toss, stir, taste, a splash of oyster sauce, a pinch of ginger, stir, toss, toss. Finally dinner is ready to plate.
The dish is crafted with a helping of steamed rice that had been contentedly cooking on one of the back burners and garnished with a curled slice of lemon (No dish was complete to eat without a garnish, a set rule in the house).
Yao raises an eyebrow at Ivan as he stands holding the two plates and Ivan quickly stands to takes his, planting a chaste kiss on his lover's lips before moving from the bar to the dining table. Yao takes the seat next to him.
"I don't know how you do it." Ivan says absentmindedly as he digs into the aromatic meal. Yao looks at him with a questioning look, dabbing his mouth clean before speaking.
"What do you mean, aru?"
The Russian man looks at a forkful of his food before placing it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before looking back to his lover to respond.
"I mean, the food, how do you make it so..." So what? Ivan isn't even sure himself. So amazing? So delicious? "How do you make it so...you?"
Obviously caught a little off guard, Yao stops, a bite halfway between his plate and his mouth. "What are you going on about?" He asks, a confused look and a slight blush covering his features.
Ivan doesn't respond, just smiles that smile that he does, that one smile that both infuriates the Chinese man and makes his guarded heart swell and flutter inside his chest.
Ivan knows the look upon his lovers face. He's thinking. Thinking about his words laced with subtle riddle, a skill he had learned from Yao himself over the years. How food can reflect it's chef. It's like how a dog looks like it's owner...only completely different. Yao has the most adorable thinking face.
"You're so silly sometimes, aru." Yao says after a moment and Ivan chuckles as he stands, grabbing up the Chinese man's now empty plate with his own and takes them to the sink to be dealt with later, with the setting of the sun.
Yao stands as well, moving to the oven to remove the sweet smelling dessert from the warm little box. It looks and smells of fresh berries and caramelized sugar. Plates and forks are taken out, but the pastry must cool. Humming a random song, Ivan strides forward to take Yao's hand as he sweeps him around the kitchen, even through half-hearted protests their both smiling and soon enough Yao is humming along as then step and turn.
Yao is graceful, everything he does is precise. He's patient, even when he doesn't want to be. He's bitter and sweet, subtle and full of spice. Mysterious, like a flavor you can't quite place. All in all, a masterpiece.
Ivan can't help but fall more in love with every new meal.
/OOO/
I love these two, I wish I was better at writing for them, written for a contest on DA, what do you think, reviews?