REPLIES TO REVIEWS:

aisarete - I'm actually surprised that no one had thought of doing this kind of thing sooner!

MissusPatches - Hahaha, thank you for the kind words! o^_^o I've already planned the entire story out in my head so that it makes as much sense as possible, and I'm glad that I am actually meeting my objectives. :P This isn't my first time doing a multi-chapter story, but I do hope that it will be the first time I COMPLETE one! XD

mynameisweird - lolz you can only imagine how disappointed I was with the lack of slash in this fandom X( WHICH IS WHY I'M MAKING MY OWN 8D

empurple - Tsk, tsk, darling, you should know me by now. ;) Of COURSE I can make slash with anything. Aaaaand here's the next chapter you need in order to say something interesting :-"

Also, thank you to those who put this on their story alert list! :D

Sorry for the delay in this chapter's arrival. It was supposed to be posted like a week ago or something, but my editors have been really busy with real life and of course, I can't pressure them into doing this. On top of that, I had to attend a four-day sleep-in journalism seminar (DORM LIFE IS SO FUNNNN 8D) and I just came back this afternoon. I'll be leaving tomorrow for another four days, so I figured HEY, why not post this now? XD In reality, I've already written six chapters, but yeah. Editor problem.

SO. Here's the thing: I NEED A BETA-READER. If anyone's interested, you may PM me, but take note that I'll need to screen you first before agreeing. I'll have to read through some of your works, so if you have never written anything...Well. XD Anyway, the reason why I need to do that is because I never want to release something that sounds crappy or something, so I need someone who is both knowledgeable and unafraid in pointing out my errors.

Erm, that is all, and...do enjoy~

Chapter 2

I was quite young when my mother died—about 5 or so. Ah, but don't expect me to start throwing a self-pity party. Take note, I was really young, which means I don't remember her much.

What I can remember of her, though, mostly takes place in the kitchen. Our house has always been small, but it's always been enough for our family. Still, my 4-year-old self would always feel oppressed when he'd be in the living room, surrounded by Dad and his burly friends who were always there, playing poker and drinking. (Never smoking, though. Dad forbids smoking inside the house, even until now. Even if he is the only one on which those rules apply to now.)

And since my 4-year-old self would always feel oppressed, he'd find solace in the only place he knew he could get it: in the kitchen, with Mommy.

"Oh, what's wrong, Remy?"

"Dad's playing cards with his friends again…I don't know how to play cards, so I can't join…."

"Well, you shouldn't because you're still a kid. Tell you what, why don't we do something more fun than sitting around, playing with cards?"

"What, what?"

"How about you help Mommy cook?"

"Okay!"

Hazy memories from almost twenty years ago. They make me feel old, but that's the most vivid memory I have of my mother. I can't really remember what she looked like at that moment, but whatever her physical appearance was, I only know it through the many photographs we keep of her around the house.

She was really pretty, and that's basically what everyone says about her. She had soft features and a petite build, which, my uncles say, is totally my dad's type. She was a brunette, which, again quoting my uncles, was a plus. Something people say about my family in terms of physical appearance is this: I look like Dad, except I have Mom's body type. Emile, on the other hand, looks like our mom, but has Dad's build. Our brown eyes, though, Emile's and mine, come from our mother. Which is why Dad sometimes gazes really intently into them.

I…don't really want to ask about it, frankly.

"We're home!" Emile announced as he and Remy walked in through the front door of their small bungalow.

"Did you lock up the shop?" Django called out from inside the kitchen-dining room, as the brothers toed off their utility boots and placed them on the shoe rack that stood by the door.

"Yes, Dad!" Remy answered, followed by a muttered "Like I always do." (Between the two brothers, it was Remy who always held the keys, since Emile had the tendency to misplace things.)

"Alright then, come here! Grub's on the table!"

Upon entering, they spotted their father sitting at one side of the square table, reading that morning's newspaper. Above him, the single florescent light bulb appeared to be flickering lightly because of a moth that was circling it. And on the table, there sat…

"Dad, are those takeaways?" Remy questioned, voicing merely a fraction of his disbelief.

Django, already used to his son's peculiar particularity in food, didn't bother getting mad anymore. Still, that didn't stop him from getting mildly irritated. "Shut up, sit down, and just eat the damn stuff." He turned to the next page. "And I don't know how you manage to do it. I don't know how you manage to still complain about our food, even after years of eating this stuff."

Let's just say that after Mom died, Dad kind of…let himself go. Himself, and the rest of the family—not that he's ever neglected me and Emile, of course. It's just that, after her death, he sort of closed himself off to the world outside the family.

His friends never come here anymore, and if they do, the meeting usually only lasts a few minutes—an hour at most—because of how awkward the conversation goes (I've heard one, and yes, it had been painfully awkward).

Dad became a workaholic as the head of the family business and started taking his role as our clan's sort of padre di famiglia very seriously. He knows where everyone is and what everyone is doing at any given time, and I will admit to you this: it's actually a very scary thought.

For the first year or so after Mom's death, I can remember him trying his hand at cooking for me and Emile, and…well, Dad has never really been much of a cook. I recall nights when I seriously didn't know what the hell I was eating. Those were the nights before I'd go absent from school because of food poisoning or something or other, and Emile would have to bring my homework for me. (He would look at me weirdly during those times, wondering why I kept on saying Dad's cooking was what made me sick when he seemed to be completely fine. That was before he actually understood that my stomach was much weaker than his.)

I liked those days when I'd have to go absent, though, since I got to stay at home and watch TV. And guess what I'd watch:

Cooking shows.

Which is probably why my childhood was filled with wishful thinking about good food. And, in effect, making good food.

Remy sighed as he and Emile took their seats, each at either side of their father. "Dad, come on, I'm telling you: I can cook. We don't need to keep on ordering take-outs. Besides, if I cook for us, it'll be cheaper and healthier!"

Django looked up at the word 'cheaper'. "Listen here, this is more of a matter of convenience, alright? I mean, you don't have the time to cook! You're always working or running errands." He flipped to the next page and finished, "Besides, we can't afford you cooking all those fancy dishes, time-wise, nor financially. All those ingredients and equipment…"

Remy gave him a skeptical look. "I can cook simple dishes, Dad. In fact, that's all I can cook."

Django put down his newspaper as his eyebrows knitted together and he locked gazes with his son. "Well—"

"Hey, Dad," Emile butted in, displaying his adeptness at knowing when his younger brother and his father were about to fight for a second time that day. "You should've swiped some chopsticks when you bought this! Nothing like Chinese food to end a day of hard work, eh, bro?"

For a long moment, the other two did nothing but glare intensely into each others' eyes, until Remy broke the contact and muttered "Sure…"

The rest of the meal that evening was eaten in tense, uncomfortable silence, the kind that always resulted after fights. The atmosphere lightened only when Django stood up and took his dirty plate to the sink. Wordlessly, he left the room and it was apparent where he had gone when the white noise of the TV in the living room filled the air.

It was only at that moment that Emile turned to Remy. "Bro, I'm not sure if it's very healthy to fight this often with Dad…"

Remy huffed in return, quietly retorting, "Well, it's not my fault he's such a single-minded guy! If he thought more openly about things, I'm sure we'd get along more, but…but…you know!" He groaned when he couldn't find the words.

The other nodded knowingly in return. "Or…I dunno. Maybe you should try looking at things his way more too, you know? I mean, let's face it…You're way different from me or our cousins or even any of our relatives—and I'm not only talking about that stomach thing—so…maybe Dad just doesn't really know how to deal with you…?" By the time he finished his little speech, Emile's eyes were focused on the light bulb and the moth flying around it, stroking his chin in seemingly deep thought.

In turn, Remy couldn't help but blink owlishly at him.

Simply put, Emile is a sweet idiot—Dad's drunken words, not mine.

He would never hurt a fly if he can help it, and he doesn't like seeing people fight. (Nope, his peacemaking doesn't stop with just me and Dad.) That's the 'sweet' part.

The 'idiot' part, unfortunately, is as apparent as it is…well, true.

During that night that Dad and I were at a bar without Emile, who had opted to stay home and sleep because of how tired he was from a full day of hauling overheated cars off the road and into the garage, he had admitted that he wanted to let the both of us run the shop—Emile as the brawn and me as the brains. He said the business would fall apart if I didn't play my part in that little performance.

And yes, I'd have to agree with Dad. I'm nowhere as strong as Emile, and…he isn't anywhere as smart as me. (Oh God, that sounded so vain.)

There are moments like these, however, when I find myself reanalyzing that assessment of my brother. Sure, he might've always flunked Math back in school, but who doesn't? (I didn't.) Academically, he isn't the brightest crayon in the box, but there are times that I can't help but think that when it comes to wisdom, Emile is someone I can actually look up to as a big brother.

"You know what, Emile?"

"Hm?"

"That's actually pretty sound advice. Thank you."

Emile gave a toothy little grin in return. "No prob, little bro."

Review pleaaaaaase? ;3; I'm not afraid of constructive crit, if that's what you're worried about...