Elliot was at his house again. Griping and complaining and being his usual self. This was probably his longest stay yet. Something kept him here, Jericho could see it. Every day at sunset he'd look out the window in the living room, and he'd seem to make a conscious decision, again, to stay.

When Jericho really thought about it, it was about a week and half now. It certainly didn't feel like it. Cocooned in his cabin with the snow barricading the outside world, he lost track of time pretty easily anyway.

Kyd huffed, mixing some vegetables around in a pot.

"You're incorrigible." He muttered. Jericho couldn't help but hear it as a compliment, said so fondly, and with that small smile he kept trying to hide from Jericho.

Kyd- Elliot- he had a wonderful smile. Small and soft and authentic. He desperately wanted to paint it, one day, but he was terrified that putting it to canvas would make it lose its meaning.

And it meant a lot to Jericho, seeing him smile at the smallest things.

"You'd starve if I weren't here." Elliot continued, shaking his head, making the small bun at the back of his neck bobble. Elliot felt more than comfortable enough here now to not wear his dumb mask. It looked silly on him, and Jericho liked looking at his hair. It reminded him of india ink spreading down a canvas.

No, he signed, moving over a small tomato to Elliot's designated work space for him to chop. Would eat tea. Yak grits.

Elliot guffawed, poking him in the side with the wooden spoon in his hand. "You can't eat tea, you heathen. It's no wonder you're so tiny."

Elliot liked to talk. He never said it, but Jericho picked up on it. No one listened, so he didn't do it much in the city. But here it was always so quiet, and he liked to talk, and Jericho loved to listen.

Elliot wouldn't admit it, or talk about it, but he got sensory overload very, very easily. He couldn't turn his hearing off most nights in the city, and he always looked so pained when he showed up in the dead of night.

It was always whiplash, how much better he looked by morning. Just one night without the noise or the frustration or the pressure.

Jericho felt somewhat like a child, leaning on the counter to peek at what Elliot was doing, handing him things he thought Elliot might need (he usually did not). Elliot was a really skilled cook, bolting from one thing to the next, placing small spices into a pot and watching them simmer. Jericho didn't know what most of those spices were named, the elderly woman from the village kind of just gave them to him one day.

Elliot always looked so happy cooking for Jericho. He looked relaxed and absolutely eager to do something he knew he was skilled at. He was more comfortable in Jericho's cramped kitchen than Jericho was. All it took was a small sign Jericho needed to eat and he was already leading them back into the house, excitedly going on about a Korean dish he'd read about that Jericho could find the ingredients for in the town.

Elliot liked to cook and Jericho liked to watch him while he did.

That wasn't a good word for it. Watching Elliot cook implied Jericho was paying attention to the things he was doing and learning from them. He just really liked staring at Elliot.

He wanted to paint him, all of him, one day. Keep him in his mind forever. He liked how long and graceful looking Elliot's fingers were when they handled vegetables. He liked the little overbitten smile he got when things started cooking correctly. He liked how Elliot would hum out little tunes Jericho recognized from his own songs while he waited for things to warm or cool.

Jericho liked Elliot- a lot. A worrying amount. He liked Elliot in the way he thought that maybe falling in love was supposed to feel like.

"Hey." Elliot poked him again with his wooden spoon. "Stop hogging my kitchen space while you space out. Go get me more chicken eggs from the pantry."

Jericho ignored the 'my kitchen space' part of it. Quail. He fingerspelled. They are q-u-a-

Kyd covered his hands with one of his own, pinched expressions on his face.

"Shh, I know what they are, I'm trying to pretend they're normal eggs, okay?"

Jericho snorted a laugh at him, getting the eggs. Elliot even let him crack them into the soup before wincing when parts of the shell fell in.

Jericho had spaced out again long enough for Elliot to start spooning them servings of the soup into his small wooden bowls.

Jericho...really liked this whole scene. It felt like a painting. All warm colors and contrast and centering around the main point of focus, the kind, misunderstood boy in his kitchen cooking him dinner because he was worried Jericho wouldn't eat otherwise.

"Y'know, I never used to be so worried about my diet until you came around." He commented, carrying the bowls onto the table Jericho had set low on the ground in the living room. Jericho ignored the fact that technically, it was Elliot that had come around. "It feels nice to cook again. To have somewhat of an actual eating schedule."

Favorite thing to cook? Jericho signed, trying not to immediately dig into the soup and consequently burn himself.

"I mostly like Asian foods, Vietnamese and Korean usually. It's healthier for you. It's…" He shrugged, looking off the side. "It's what I know. It's what my mother taught me to make."

Jericho reached over and squeezed Elliot's hand momentarily. Thank you, he signed afterward. For being here.

Elliot shrugged and scoffed, looking away. Jericho thought maybe it was just him daydreaming, but he swore he saw a collection of pink on the tips of Elliot's ears. "Yeah, well, I can't let you just eat tea all winter. As far as I know I'm like your only friend. You're my responsibility now."

Jericho smiled at him, sipping at his soup from his spoon.

It was one of the best meals Jericho had had in a long time.