𖦹 jean kirstein doesn't let you peel your own oranges.
the moment he smells that delightful smell of fresh citrus, he comes running from wherever and whatever he was doing to take care of it for you.
he'll come up from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and slipping his grip on the knife from you. jean stays pressed up against your back as he begins to peel off the skin from the orange. it feels like he's a puppy who can't be alone for more than five seconds.
as you enjoy this moment together, he'll hum or talk to you as your heartbeat pounds through your chest. once he's done he'll give you a peck on the cheek, pop one of the pieces into his mouth, and walk away as if nothing even happened.
you know he loves you more than anything, but a part of you can't help but think that maybe he's doing it for the slice he claims for himself.
Like any / unloved thing, I don’t know if I’m real /
when I’m not being touched.
little beast - richard siken // i want to hold your hand - the beatles // temple of horus // francis forever - mitski // portrait of a lady on fire // holding hands feel so intimate - claudia barbs // like real people do - hozier // fade into you - mazzy star // show me how - men i trust // our bodies & other fine machines - natalie wee
Rating: General
CW: None apply for this one!
Tags: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Sharing Food, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Peeling Oranges, Tooth Rotting Fluff
For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is sharing food."
💕—————💕
Eddie hated peeling his oranges. Didn’t like jabbing his thumbs into the peel. Or the juice that sprayed out. Because then he was sticky. And he didn’t do sticky as a texture—not on his skin. It was gross to him. Usually, he’d have Uncle Wayne peel his oranges for him. But, he doesn’t live in Indiana anymore, doesn’t live with Uncle Wayne.
He lives with Steve Harrington in Chicago, Illinois. In a little apartment with two windows that don’t open fully, a fridge door that has to be shut with their hips, and the air conditioner that always gave out mid-way through July. But it was theirs and it was snug and they loved being away from the past that haunted them.
The fun thing about Steve, his wonderful and beautiful Steve, is that he absolutely adores oranges. Always has one for his work lunch. Eats one with his breakfast. Has an orange ready for his study sessions and an hour before he sleeps. He’s very intricate in the way he peels his oranges. And, the thing Eddie never thought to do, he uses a little pocket knife.
That’s something Eddie likes watching. Steve will grab fruit from their fruit bowl on the counter. He’ll hold it out in front of him. And lift the pocket knife to its skin, slicing it away from his body. Sometimes, depending on the fruit, he’ll eat the slices off the blade of the knife. It made Eddie think about somebody rugged like Indiana Jones. And, he won’t deny it, Harrison Ford had been one of his first celebrity crushes. So that says something, he’s sure.
But that’s not the point. Eddie hates peeling his oranges. Steve loves doing so.
They’re sitting at their dining table the next time either of them wants an orange. Steve’s got the newspaper folded over to the crossword puzzle, a mug of steaming coffee to the left, and his pocket knife and orange dutifully staring up at him from the table. Eddie simply has a plate of toast, a mug of coffee, and his orange. His stupid, vicious, sticky orange.
He watches Steve peel his. All intricate, delicate, and juice free. Eddie slumps in his chair, orange between his palms, thumb gliding over the textured skin. He wants his so bad. But he will not put himself through the torture of having sticky fingers. Not when he has other stuff to eat and things to do this morning. Yes, absolutely, he could wash his hands afterwards. But even when he does so, it’s like the sticky feeling resonates with him, it quite literally sticks to him.
He resigns himself to having a banana instead. Though, just as he’s passing by Steve to get to their kitchen, Steve’s palm shoots out and lands in the center of Eddie’s stomach. Effectively stopping him. He hums at the contact, orange in his grip, the citrus of Steve’s own filling his nose.
Steve’s hand travels south to Eddie’s fruit. He sets it in front of him, where he’s still leaning over the crossword puzzle, and gestures to Eddie for him to sit back down. So, Eddie sits down, intrigued. Until, wonderfully, Steve begins to peel Eddie’s orange, too.
Away from himself. The skin in long stripes. Barely any juice trickling down his fingertips. He reaches across the table for Eddie’s plate of toast, rearranging them, and setting the orange in the middle. And then he just slides it back over.
All without saying a single damn word. Eddie wonders how he just always knows.
“I don’t know how you do that,” he says in awe.
“Do what?” Steve murmurs, nose to his newspaper.
“Just peeling my orange. Like it’s no problem.”
Steve, the bastard, just shrugs. Nose down, glasses perched on his nose, tongue poking out between his lips, filling out the paper. Free hand gripped to his mug. Surrounded by stripes of orange peel. But noticeably, there are no slices of oranges.
Eddie picks his own up. Twisting it around in his hands.
Now, Eddie doesn’t like the juice dripping down his fingers. But Steve doesn’t like the white pulp. So, Eddie does the only logical thing. He gets up from the table, wanders into the kitchen, and sits back down with a fork in hand. And he peels as much pulp off as he feasibly can.
And when he’s done, he reaches across the table, unwrapping Steve’s hand from his mug, and plops down the pulp free slices in his hand. Half the orange in Steve’s beautiful palm.
Steve looks up to Eddie. His eyes wide and his mouth agape.
“Thank you for helping me, baby,” Eddie whispers.
The view from across the table could be compared to every painted sunset. Steve smiles softly, his eyes crinkling with it, smile lines deepening, his nose crinkling. He sets a slice of orange on his tongue. And he wiggles in place in his seat. He’s such a dork, Eddie can’t help himself from thinking.
“You’re cute, sweetheart,” Eddie mutters, going back to his food.
I never really understood the meaning behind peeling an orange for your loved ones. But today, I peeled oranges for my grandparents for the first time ever, and I get it, you guys.
There is so much love in peeling an orange for someone!!
