Chapter 10 - Food, Glorious Food!

I didn’t get time to cook for my Stylite until that weekend because I actually did have to spend a few days studying for my finals in my other classes. It kinda sucked because I was really looking forward to treating him to a real meal for a change. However, it was probably good that the delay gave Brian a few more days to adjust to the idea. As it was, he was ridiculously anxious about the prospect - who knew a simple thing like cooking would freak him out so much? - but I wasn’t going to back down, so he was just going to have to deal.

I had still made time to at least stop in every afternoon, just to say ‘hi’ and bring my man his daily coffees. I tried a cappuccino and an almond milk latte, both of which he seemed to enjoy sniffing, but he still hadn’t tried a sip. That would come with time, though, I promised myself. I mean, I couldn’t have a boyfriend that didn’t share my love of coffee, could I?

By the time I finally finished my last final - History of The Impressionist Era - on Friday morning, I was more than ready to do this thing. I know I’d said I was going to make him dinner and it was only just barely lunchtime, but I didn’t think he'd mind such a minor technical discrepancy. If anything, it might seem a little less stressful if we were only working on a simple lunch instead of a full dinner. I figured I could do a fancy, multi-course dinner spread at a later time, after I’d broken him in to the concept. So I stopped at the market on the way and ended up at the Triangle Building with two heavy bags full of lunchtime groceries supplies.

“Who’s your favorite human, Bill?” I asked as William Shakespaw ambled down the stairs to greet me when I let myself into the main lobby. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

I popped open the top of one of those little cans of nasty-smelling wet cat food and I swear the silly feline practically wet himself with glee. I have no idea how anyone - even a cat - could bear to eat something that smelled so vile. Bill seemed ecstatic about it, though, so who am I to judge, right? I was just happy to know that I’d officially won him over, and winning over the cat would undoubtedly go a long way towards winning over the cat’s human. That was just a given, you know?

I left Bill slurping up his salmon cat mush and made my way upstairs with my grocery bag full of goodies, excited to show my Eggy just what I could do in a kitchen.

I knocked at the door to Brian’s living quarters and was pleasantly surprised when, after only a couple of seconds, the door was answered by my bearded beauty. Unfortunately, the timid smile that was peeking out from under all that hair fell as soon as he saw the shopping bags in my hands. It might have been comical if I didn’t feel so bad for him.

“I thought you were threatening me with dinner,” he looked at his watch and then back up at me, “which isn’t technically supposed to start for several hours. What’s all this?”

“Traditionally, the meal you eat in the middle of the day is called lunch. Unless it’s a weekend and then you can call it brunch. I don’t think you’re ready for brunch, though, so I decided to go with a simple, easy, comfort-food-type lunch,” I explained as I shouldered past him into his room and started to unpack my bags while Brian just stood there gaping at me.

“But . . . But . . . Uh . . .”

“Is it okay if I unload everything here?” I asked as I pointed to the countertop nearest the fridge.

I could practically see the cogs in his brain turning as he thought over all the possible contamination risks that came with my groceries but, instead of complaining, he bravely shoved his hands deep into his pockets and just nodded his head. “Yeah . . . sure.”

I quickly began unloading my loot, which consisted of four cans of cream of tomato soup, the sharpest cheddar that I could find, freshly baked challah bread, and full-fat butter - it’s the only kind I’ll use, which isn’t the healthiest, I know, but it’s SO good - and two rich, dark chocolate brownies for dessert.

I could see Brian hovering out of the corner of my eye. “You wanna wipe this all down, don’t you?” I asked, knowing exactly what the problem was.

He exhaled sharply and I could see the war going on in his brain; I wanted nothing more than to make that all go away for him, but I wasn’t giving up on my lunch plans, so I hoped there would be some kind of compromise.

“Yeah . . . I do.” He mumbled his reply.

“Here’s the deal,” I began, handing Brian the antibacterial wipes that were waiting by the sink. “You can do your thing . . . if you let me do mine.”

He took the wipes from my hand. “What do you mean?”

“Wipe down whatever you want, but you don’t get to interfere when I’m cooking.” I thought that sounded slightly harsh, so I continued. “You can sit right there,” I pointed to the bar stool, “and if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable - you just tell me, ‘kay?”

I watched as he thought this over. I knew I was asking a lot from Brian, but I was determined to make this lunch work. Happily for us both, he seemed to be agreeable to the compromise I was offering. He nodded his head and began wiping down the canned goods and plastic packaging of the food I’d bought, before giving the countertop itself a thorough wipe down as well. He then took out a saucepan and washed it out in the sink - doing the same with the chopping board and cutlery I would be using.

“Okay, I think that should be good enough,” I grinned. “Now sit your ass down and get ready for the lunch of your life.”

He snorted quietly. “You’re a confident little shit, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” I nodded, because I was - always had been, always would be.

I could feel his eyes on me as I washed my hands at the sink, making sure to wash between my fingers and under my nails as thoroughly as I could. I even went as far as rubbing the soap a little ways up my arm. “Can I dry my hands on this?”  I asked, pointing my head towards a tea towel I saw hanging neatly over the oven handle.

He jumped up. “Here, use this one,” he said, as he handed me a fresh one from the cupboard.

I dried my hands and began preparing the lunch.

“Four cans of soup?” He asked, watching as I opened and poured the contents of all four cans into a pan and placed it on one of the burners, letting it begin to simmer slowly. “There’s just the two of us, right? You didn’t invite guests or anything, did you?”

“No. I plan to keep you all to myself - at least for now,” I laughed and winked at him, because sometimes I just couldn’t stop myself from being a big flirt. “And I know four cans seems like a lot, but this is literally one of my favourite things to eat. I could probably finish all four on my own.” I probably shouldn’t sound so proud about that, but whatever, this meal is delicious. “How many sandwiches would you like?”

Brian’s eyebrows raised comically at this question. “One will be fine,” he laughed. “I’m not a pig,” he teased.

I so badly wanted to throw the tea towel I’d just used at him, but stopped myself. That would no doubt gross him out and I was trying my best to be considerate of his issues. Instead, I just gave him another of my best bratty looks and went back to my cooking.

“Oh, damn, I seriously love the smell of freshly baked bread.” I moaned happily as I inhaled the aroma of the delicious smelling challah bread I planned to use for the sandwiches. “I swear, if they made a cologne that smelled like this, I’d totally wear it. Eau de Bread. What do you think?”

That made Brian laugh - like, a lot. “You’re so fucking weird.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I knew I was weird; this wasn’t new information to me. I leaned across the table and waved the still wrapped loaf of bread in front of Brian’s face.

“Lean forward a little.”

He did as I asked, albeit a little reluctantly, but when he was close enough I ran the loaf under his nose, making sure that in the process nothing touched him.

“Now, tell me that’s not the nicest thing you've ever smelled?”

He inhaled again and made a quiet little appreciative noise in the back of his throat that was one of the sexiest sounds I had heard from him.

“Well?” I asked . . . because if I didn’t say something right then I would focus on that sound he’d just made and getting a hard on during lunch probably wasn’t very good manners, right?

“Mmm, yeah, it smells really good,” he admitted.

I grinned triumphantly and gave the loaf one last quick sniff before I sliced off a couple slices and began buttering them. For some reason this was never the cleanest of tasks for me and I somehow always managed to get butter all over my fingers. The urge to lick the butter off was intense and for a brief moment I wondered if his urges felt like this? Like there was some weird magnetic pull making him have to do the things he did? This was definitely something I would have to ask him - just not today. Next I gave the pan a quick stir, making sure the soup was cooking slowly without ever reaching the boiling point.

“Right, the soup will be ready soon, so I’m just going to pop the sandwiches into a frying pan. You have one, right?” He went to stand up but I gestured with my hand indicating he could stay seated. “I’ll get it. Just tell me where is it.”

“The cupboard to your right,” he replied quietly.

I took the pan out and washed it thoroughly, hearing him finally exhale the breath he’d obviously been holding in while waiting anxiously to see what I would do. I smiled over at him, giving him one of my biggest grins. Knowing that I’d probably relieved some of his anxiety made me feel good. I know Daphne said I shouldn’t feed his rituals, but one thing at a time, right? Then I added the sandwiches to the pan and let them sizzle away for a bit so they’d get nice and toasty brown and melty inside.

“Mmm,” Brian hummed happily as the combined aroma of tomato soup and grilling sandwiches filled the room, “it smells pretty good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I told you it would be great. I promise, you’re going to love this,” I insisted as I continued to stir the pot of tomato soup. “When I was a kid, this was one of my favorite meals ever. I used to beg my mother to make it for me any time the weather got cold or rainy - which is why I thought about it this morning, I suppose, since it’s ridiculously cold out there today. There’s nothing better than a cup of soup and a gooey cheese sandwich to fight the chills, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Brian replied, looking uncomfortable, and for some reason I just knew that this time the lack of comfort wasn’t caused by his fear of my contaminating his kitchen but from something coming from inside him.

“Well, what did your mother make you instead? If there’s something else you’d prefer - cuz we all have our own comfort foods, right? - I could make that next time.”

“There’s going to be a next time?” he asked, the anxiety resurfacing again for a moment. “I think it would have been easier if you’d just broken in, stolen shit and vandalized the place, like a normal burglar.”

“Too bad for you, cuz I’m the much more dangerous type of burglar - I’m out to steal your heart,” I announced in my most over-the-top, sappy, brattiest voice ever.

And then we both broke out laughing at how campy that had sounded. I didn’t care, though. I figured my hermit needed as much laughter in his life as I could supply. Even if that laughter involved me making an idiot out of myself.

“But, seriously, I do love to cook and there’s no reason you shouldn’t benefit from my amazing culinary skills. Especially since you insist you can’t cook. So, just tell me what you like to eat and I’ll make it for you.” When my man just shrugged without actually voicing any preference, though, I knew something was up. “You don’t have any favorites? Or you really don’t want me here cooking?”

Brian didn’t answer right away, though. He seemed to be struggling with HOW to answer me. Like, there were words inside him that wanted to come out, but that he was trying to smother. I shook my head and turned around so I was concentrating on flipping the grilled cheese sandwiches instead of staring at him. If he didn’t want to say, or maybe just needed some time to figure out how he wanted to say it, I could give him a few seconds to pull himself together. Instead, I devoted myself to adding a dash of Worcestershire sauce to the soup and cutting some cubes of the cheddar cheese to add to the pot as well, because you really could never have too much sharp cheddar, could you? And it seemed to work. Without me staring him down, Eggy seemed better able to work through whatever his demons were in order to find his words.

Just as I was adding the cheese to the soup, he finally spoke up. “I don’t really have one of those - comfort foods - because I didn’t have a mom to make them for me.”

That caught me off guard. “You didn’t have a mom?” I asked, fighting off the impulse to spin around and confront him on this very important detail.

“Of course I had a mom. She just didn’t make me any special food or anything. At least, not that I remember. She died when I was just a kid. If she ever cooked for me before then, I don’t remember.”

Wow! Just, wow. So that would definitely explain a fucking lot about my Eggy’s issues, right? No mother to care for him? Talk about traumatic. How was I supposed to respond to something like that, though? I didn’t want to make him feel pathetic or anything, but I still needed to acknowledge what he’d said. I wished that Daphne was there right then because she would totally know the right thing to say here. But since I was on my own, I decided to go with detached empathy and hope it was good enough while still not suffocating him.

“That sucks. So, what happened to your mom?” I asked, without looking at him directly.

“Both my parents and my older sister were killed in a car wreck. I was the only one in the car that survived, actually. The car hit some ice and went over an embankment into the river. They didn’t make it,” he explained, his words halting and syncopated as he struggled to verbalize something that was obviously horrifying in a way that didn’t betray too much emotion. “I don’t actually remember the accident. I was asleep. I have no idea how I was the only one that survived. But, anyway, that’s why I didn’t have a mom to cook for me, at least not that I can remember. And my asshole grandfather - who was forced to take me in because I didn’t have anyone else - didn’t cook. So, no, I don’t have any comfort food favorites.”

Can I just say I HATED the emotionless, empty, disconnected way he relayed that sad story? He lost his whole family when he was just a fucking kid? That’s, like, some serious Hallmark Channel shit right there. But yet he told it as though it had happened to someone else.

“How old were you?” I asked.

“Six.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Damn. I’d really like to offer to hug you, but I know that’s not going to happen so, is there anything I CAN do right now?” I offered, feeling totally at a loss for what to do or say in a situation like this.

“You’ve already invaded my home and are apparently forcing me to eat your fucking tomato soup, what more do you plan to do? Adopt me?” He was such a snarky little boy, wasn’t he - good thing I like sarcastic, snarky men. “It’s no biggie. I survived. In spite of everything that bastard Donal tried to throw at me.

“You’re fucking strong, you know that?” Despite the fact that I hadn’t known this man for very long, I already knew he’d brush off what I was saying, but I still felt like it was something he needed to hear, whether he liked it or not.

And right on cue, I watched him twist uncomfortably in his seat at my words. Eggy was fucking adorable sometimes, you know? I didn’t want to make it harder for him, though, so I just smiled at him as I served our meal.

“Here you go,” I said, pouring out two bowlsful of the piping hot soup and putting the sandwiches on plates. “Bon Appetit,” I announced as I started to look around to figure out where to serve the food now that I’d finished cooking it.

Brian cleared his throat again, a sound I was really starting to love. “I, uh . . . I was thinking . . . If this is supposed to be a real ‘date’ . . . then we should probably eat this somewhere other than the coffee table.”

“You can stop right there with the air quotes, mister,” I laughed. “This IS a real date.” Then I looked around the room once more. “What do you propose we do? We can’t eat here at the counter since you only have the one bar stool, and you’re saying the coffee table is a no no, so . . . ?”

“Follow me,” my Eggy replied mysteriously, standing up and pulling out a tray from a different cupboard.

I let him take control of the food and watched as he gingerly carried the small wooden tray filled with our lunch out the door and down the hall. I followed him, wondering where the hell he was taking me. We passed his grandfather’s study and a few other closed doors - each, assumedly, leading into rooms I had yet to explore - until we reached our destination, which was an elaborate double-doored entryway into the room at the very end of the hall. Brian opened the door using his elbow and stood back so that I could see where we were.

The room he’d led me to was fairly large, definitely bigger than I had expected, and it looked like an old corporate boardroom or something, complete with a massively large table filling the center of the space. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling and decorated with antique artwork and photos of stern-looking men scowling at the cameras. An equally dark, wood floor was partially covered with a thick, expensive-looking oriental carpet. If it weren’t for the bank of large windows lining both walls - this room occupying the apex of one of the points of the building’s triangular foundations - it would have been dark and foreboding. As it was, the room just seemed to exude an ideal of impenetrable wealth. It was very imposing; a room suitable for high powered board meetings and intense merger discussions between barons of industry and the like.

But sure, I supposed it could also work as an informal dining room, if you were having a cozy lunch with your wanna-be boyfriend . . .

“Is this okay?” Brian asked, sounding a little unsure of himself.

“Sure. It’s very . . . very . . . very formal,” I settled on a word I hoped wasn’t too judgmental. “Perfect for our first formal date, right?”

“I know it’s a bit stuffy, but at least here we have an actual table,” he reasoned, setting the tray down on the near end of the big wooden conference table.

While Brian was wiping down the table - did he have those little packets of wipes EVERYWHERE? - and setting out the plates, making sure that they were lined up precisely and all the silverware was in the correct place and . . . well, you get the picture, right? . . . I pretended to examine the portraits hanging on the walls, so as to give my man time to get through all his little rituals. Most were of old men and not very interesting, although I was slightly impressed to see that I recognized a few of the names engraved on the frames. It would have been pretty remarkable if these men really had all spent time in this board room. Titans of industry indeed. They all looked like they had broomsticks shoved up their asses, though, if you asked me.

The only one of the pictures that was at all interesting was a small portrait of a younger man, seated face on to the camera, wearing a cute little bow tie and his hair slicked to the side as he smirked out of his dark wood frame. For some old dude who’d lived about a hundred years ago, he was hot. He gave off a bit of a ‘Ye Olde Twink’ vibe, if you asked me. Not that I was into twinks, you know, being one myself and all, but I could see the attraction. It was the name on the brass nameplate affixed to the bottom edge of the frame that really got my attention, though - William J. Carnegie. That was a name anyone who’d grown up in The Pitts would immediately recognize. It made me wonder how this boy was related to the more famous Carnegie men, since I’d never heard of sweet young William.

While I had been busy ogling the young hottie on the wall, Brian had continued on with his cleaning unabated. However, when there were no other pictures to look at I decided it was time to move this lunch along. I turned back to survey the status on our lunch arrangements and was glad to see that my Eggy seemed to be winding things up. Once the mandatory wipe down had been completed, we took our seats at the large boardroom, cum dining, table. Brian took the seat at the head of the table, and I took a seat on his right.

“Dig in before it gets cold,” I urged, picking up my spoon and swirling it around in my steaming bowl of soup.

I could see the hesitation in his eyes as he looked down at the food in front of him. I sighed and set down my spoon again. It looked like I was going to have to dish out some tough love along with the soup today.

“Hey, Egbert. Look at me,” I demanded, waiting until he reluctantly looked up from the suspect bowl, his hand clenched so tightly around the handle of the spoon that I could see his knuckles going white. “You watched me cook it, right?” He nodded begrudgingly. “I washed my hands and you cleaned everything else from the cans to the pans, right?” Another nod. “So . . . there’s no way anything bad could be in there. And even if there had been, the heat from cooking the food should kill any germs off. Which means you’ll be just fine eating it.” He looked back down at the bowl and just scrunched up his mouth in a way that made me think of a kid contemplating the unpleasant prospect of his brussels sprouts - something that I would have normally laughed at if it hadn’t meant that I’d be offending my Stylite. “At least try it. Please? I swear to fuck that you’re going to love it. It’s, like, manna from the gods good. I promise.”

I saw him swallow, take in a deep breath, and squint his eyes almost all the way closed as he finally lifted his spoon. I was leaning forward, as if I could will him to do it just by directing all the energy in my body towards him. I held my breath too, waiting to see what he would decide. In my head I was chanting, ‘come on. You can do it. Come on. You can do it . . .’ And when he finally dipped the spoon into the still-steaming soup, I think I kinda squeaked in anticipation even. Luckily it wasn’t loud enough to distract him, and my boy spooned up a nice, healthy spoonful of the tomatoey goodness, then quickly opened his mouth and shoved the implement in, as if hoping that by doing it all in a rush that way, he’d get through it without chickening out.

Of course, that first bite of creamy, hot soup was more than enough to win him over and I saw his eyes pop open in delight as he swallowed.

“So? What do you think? Good, huh?”

“It’s . . . not bad.”

“Not bad? Not BAD? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Yeah.” He took another mouthful of the soup and then another. “It’s edible.”

“You’re a tough man to please, Egbert,” I shook my head at him and then went back to my own food, breaking a handful of saltine crackers over my bowl to add a little texture to the soup.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked as he continued to ladle in the delicious warm yumminess.

“You could say that it’s wonderful. Ambrosial. The best thing you’ve ever had in your mouth. Your most favorite meal ever,” I offered as suggestions, although by that point I was just giving him shit because I could see by the green gleam of his eyes he was teasing me too. “Oh, but don’t forget the sandwich. You have to eat them both together to get the full effect. They come as a pair. The soup and the cheese together . . . it’s to die for. Trust me.” He looked at his sandwich but didn’t reach for it and I wanted to scream, because, really? We were going to have to go through this with every individual piece of food, every time? Sheesh. “Go on, already, Eggy. The sandwich too. Hurry up before it’s cold.”

He seemed to look around for a minute as if confused before asking, “where’s the rest of the utensils?”

“Utensils? For a sandwich?”

It took me a minute but then I got it - he didn’t want to touch the sandwich with his fingers. I was gonna have to take control here, it seemed. So took hold of my own grilled cheese, used my fingers to break off a bite from the edge where I’d cut the bread into a triangle, and popped it into my mouth. Demonstration complete.

“Easy-peasy, right?” I asked after I’d swallowed the bite I had taken, refraining from licking my greasy fingers afterwards. “You can do it, Eggy. Just try, okay?”

It was like the soup all over again. He spent a good minute or two contemplating that damned sandwich, his agitation showing in the way his knee began to nervously bounce in place. It was like he wanted to try it so badly that his frustration with himself was beginning to upset him. Then he somehow managed to screw up his courage, holding his breath as he reached out with tentative fingers, and just barely touched the crusts of the sandwich bread long enough to hold it steady while he tore off a piece. Then he quickly shoved the bite in his mouth before he could change his mind. I watched this whole process with amusement and somehow managed not to say anything. Frankly, though, I was more interested in the result than the process itself, and I was gratified when he finally started chewing the bite he’d taken, breaking into a bit of a smile at the taste.

“Don’t tell me . . . it’s ‘not bad’, right?” I kidded him as I took another bite for myself. “Fuck that - it’s delicious and you know it!”

“It’s alright,” he responded, but I saw the way he eagerly broke off another piece of the cheesy goodness to savor.

“You can also do this,” I prompted, picking up the remainder of my second triangle of sandwich and dunking the point into the soup before slurping up the now-soggy sandwich/soup combo. “I know it’s an advanced technique - the dunking - but I think you’re up to it. Go on. It’s even better tasting together.”

I think, at that point, my Egbert was just so committed to the entire lunch program - germs and all - that he had given up fighting me, because he actually did what I’d showed him and dunked his sandwich. He didn’t even freak out when a tiny drop of soup dripped onto his chin. He just whipped out one of his wipes, cleaned off the dribble and carried on like a fucking pro. Was it silly that I was so incredibly proud of my boy just for eating a sandwich and some damned soup? I didn’t care. I was just so impressed that he was willing to try for me. Yeah, I could SO do this whole hermit boyfriend thing.

After we had finished eating and had both wiped our plates clean - figuratively speaking of course - I sat there feeling ridiculously full and so incredibly pleased with my man. To some, this might have been seen as a relatively small accomplishment, but to me, it was huge. As I was sitting there, lost in thought, I noticed Brian reach for his hand wipes, but hesitating briefly. It was like I could almost hear the argument that was running through his brain; ‘I’ve done so well, but now look at what I’m doing. It’s like one step forward, a million steps back.’

“Hey,” I said, hopefully distracting him from those ruminant thoughts. “Give me one of those, will you?” I nodded towards the wipes. “My hands always feel so greasy and gross after I eat a cheese sandwich, you know?”

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “It’s okay to want to wash your hands after you eat. In fact, it’s perfectly normal.”

That seemed to make my Brian happy. For once, one of his little rituals actually made sense to someone other than him. So there we sat, both wiping the grease from our hands with stupid smiles on our faces. Now, wasn’t that about as sickly sweet as you could possibly hope for on a first date?