With an opened bottle of red wine and music playing, dinner would be ready soon. The pan was hot and the butter simmered.
'Must you put butter in everything?' Kirk had asked him one night.
'There is a reason why the French are renowned for their cooking: butter.'
Kirk had lightly scoffed behind the rim of his glass, but added nothing more. He wasn't one to say much. Instead, light blue eyes would watch the deft movement of a blade as Hernan sliced up the onions for the sauce.
'Do they not make you cry?'
Hernan smiled. 'I've built up tolerance over the years.'
'Onions produce the chemical irritant syn-propanethial-S-oxide when cut. It's what makes us cry.'
'I see. Did you know that onions were revered by the Egyptians? They were a symbol for eternity, and they would bury their pharaohs with them.'
'Really?' there was a teasing glint in his blue eyes, and his smile was no longer hidden behind his glass.
Hernan had laughed. 'Are onion facts turning you on?'
'That depends, do you have more?'
'Hey, no dirty talk in the kitchen. You know how spotless I keep my counters.'
'Yes, I know. Dinner doesn't wait in this family.' Kirk had slowly slipped off his stool with his glass at hand and a look over his shoulder. 'I'll set the table.'
Hernan set his knife down. It was Kirk's victory, or in other words, if Kirk had to wait, so did Hernan. He had cursed under his breath, but the Hernan now couldn't help but smile at the memory.
Kirk had set the table for two. He had leaned at the waist to center the flowers, and the warm glow the candles casted across his features was mesmerizing. Hernan was lucky he didn't burn dinner nor himself from how distracting Kirk had been.
He had refilled his glass, before clasping his hands together for grace. Kirk wasn't religious, but he respected Hernan's traditions. He'd listen to Hernan's short prayer, but never had anything to add. However, that night, he did.
He had bowed his head with his hands folded. 'I am not a religious man by any means, nor do I believe in fate or magic. However, being with this man – he makes me want to believe for there is no science to explain how someone like him could walk into my life. To whatever higher power there may be, thank you for bringing Hernan to me.'
A hand reached over the table, and intertwined with his. Although the grip was weak, his light blue gaze was steady. 'Thank you for dinner, Hernan.'
Hernan had squeezed the hand back. He wanted to say something more – to say everything would be okay, but the hand in his told him not to. Kirk was tired. His prayer was to thank Hernan for everything, and to leave it there.
'Let's eat.' Kirk had let go in favor of serving himself. Hernan had followed his lead. He allowed Kirk to take over the conversation as he listened to what Tina or Will had done that day, and Kirk's walk through the park. He listened even when Kirk got to the final part – the part he was waiting for.
Kirk had made his appointment, and decided to stop his treatment.
'You cooked, I'll clean up.' Kirk went to clear the table as Hernan remained seated. He couldn't move – couldn't speak. All he could do was think, but even then, he felt numb as his mind was spinning with thoughts, ideas, memories…
'Hernan,' Kirk called out to him when he felt arms wrap around him. Hands took his soapy ones before Hernan was pressing a kiss to the back of them.
'Stop, my fingers are wrinkled.'
'I told you…' Hernan said softly between kisses. 'We need new soap… This one prunes our fingers.'
Kirk had laughed, and allowed Hernan to do what he had wanted that night. He had held him close to him, whispered about old times, and traced his fingers over Hernan's arm.
'While you were in the bathroom, I looked up some facts about onions.'
'Oh, and what did the internet say?'
Kirk had straddled his hips with a playful smile tugging the corners of his lips. 'It said Roman gladiators would consume and rub onions on themselves before a match.'
Kirk had slipped his fingers beneath Hernan's towel as he continued to tell him about onions. Hernan knew it was the strangest thing to be turned on by, but he couldn't think about anything else other than Kirk.
He remembered the way his lips curled into a wry grin – how those fingers curled around his shoulders, and pale legs held him in place. Hernan remembered his laughter, his pleasured sighs, and the shutter that rippled through him when he came.
He remembered that night. He remembered everything.
When the day came, no one questioned why Hernan placed an onion on Kirk's grave. No one said anything when Hernan felt his eyes burn, his cheeks damp, and laughing at syn-propanethial-S-oxide.
No one. No…
Hernan heard the kitchen timer go off. Dinner was ready.
As Kirk did that night, Hernan set the table for two. He placed a vase of lilies in the center of the table, lit two candles, and served dinner.
He sat down. Kirk's chair remained empty.
"Dear God… Thank you for the meal we're – I'm about to receive…" Hernan tried to swallow down the bitterness that threatened to rise. "Thank you for—"
With one sudden sweep, glasses shattered and the plates cracked. Flowers laid beside pieces of a broken vase, and the food was long forgotten on the floor.
However, the candles remained lit. They continued to burn as the stars still shined, and the world continued to turn – but eventually, the flame would run out of wick, and the fire would die. Stars that shined in the sky could have already died by the time its light reaches Earth, and Earth itself would one day be swallowed by the sun it revolved around.
Things die, things end, and yet time never stops to mourn. Time still went on as Hernan tried to keep up, but he found himself stumbling. He found himself tripping over that old rug Kirk liked. He found himself running his fingers through Kirk's old shirts… he kept the soap that pruned his fingers.
And even when he threw it all out – when he placed Kirk's things away – nothing stopped him from remembering. Nothing stopped him from missing Kirk. Nothing ever would.
The candles blew out.
A/N: So… I blame my friend because they were the ones who had to show me, One More Light, by Linkin Park. The line: "In the kitchen, one more chair than you need" got to me, and so I wrote this. To be fair, they did show me this a while ago, but I was in the car (where all bad ideas come to me), and the song came on… and now I'm just sad. They don't find the song sad, and maybe it's not. Maybe it's just me, but the imagery of sitting across an empty chair that was once filled... that is just devastating to me so I wrote this. Sorry if I made a happy/hopeful song sad. Also, sorry about the onions. I'm kind of laughing and crying at the same time. I remember, I had in the original draft someone asking Hernan about bringing onions to the funeral, and him being like, "I wanted to make sure I wasn't the only one crying." (but I was crying so I deleted it) XD
Nonetheless, thank you for reading if you've gotten this far, and take care!