hello! for the dialogue prompts, turkgrespa + 19 if you don't mind? i thought it was quite fitting because of your restaurant au <3
ah i see,, a person of culture! restaurant au it is ;)
Food
"I made you lunch," Antonio says, setting a plate down on top of a growing stack of papers nestled on the edge of the office desk. "I figured it was about time you ate something."
(Lunch is a humble offering of what remains of Antonio's breakfast—the dregs of fresh tomato and garlic and olive oil slathered onto freshly toasted bread. Antonio's favourite, of course.)
Sadık glances over his shoulder and up at him, and gives a smile to say 'thank you' without the words ever passing his lips. He is deep in work, his brain more numbers than letters, and so Antonio smiles back, and chooses to not disturb him for even a second too long.
Currently, Sadık is trying to get ahead of bills, ordering, payroll and savings while the restaurant is closed for the day. Herakles, by comparison, has never really had a finance head; they made an agreement before Antonio's time that any thing covered in euros would be entirely in the chef's hands, and, in the meantime, Herakles would manage staff and customer relationships. It is more his forte.
(Though, even then, Antonio has now taken on some of that responsibility.)
As Antonio leaves the office, he bumps into Herakles himself. And Herakles asks him without missing a beat, "Where's my lunch?"
The Spaniard tries not to laugh, amused solely by the other's tone. "You never placed an order," he says.
"Neither did Sadık," Herakles counters.
"He's got a point," Sadık then joins in, before swivelling around on his chair and suggesting to Herakles, "You can always have mine," to which Antonio protests quite sternly.
"That plate does not leave this room," he warns Sadık—or both of them, really, "until you eat what's on it."
The way that Sadık and Herakles glance at each other reveals to him, quite naturally, that they are currently adding this incident to a mental pile of 'reasons why Antonio is also our mother'. He tries not to roll his eyes in response (for fear of it also being used against him).
"I'll eat it, don't worry," Sadık goes on to assure him, before turning back around and facing his work. "I just need to chase this invoice, first…"
And with that, he shuts himself off. He is in an entirely different plane of existence, and Antonio and Herakles walk out into the short corridor between the dining room and kitchen. They'll check in on him in about an hour.
"So, about lunch."
Antonio glances at Herakles, does a sort of double-take, and then squints at him warily. "What about lunch?"
"Are you having any?" Herakles asks him. "It's nice of you to think of other people, even if I'm not included in that—" Antonio tuts. Strike two! "—but you also need food. No?"
"I do," he duly replies, "and I intend to. You wanna help?"
"You have something in mind?"
"Of course. I call it, 'raiding Sadık's stock and eating whatever needs using'," Antonio tells him, which earns an enthusiastic hum, followed by an eager prompt to lead the way.
To be clear, Sadık is fully aware of this arrangement. Sunday is a day where the three of them will double-check stock after Saturday's close and clean, and make sure anything that will not survive the night is used or removed so they can avoid as much waste as possible.
Often, there is not much for them to go through (the kitchen team are very thorough on a Saturday) but today, a venture into the walk-in reveals some produce that won't be missed.
Antonio proposes a soup for ease. Herakles does not object. There is still some bread from breakfast, after all, that they might as well use.
Over the next half an hour or so, they work together to prep the vegetables, make the base, and then begin cooking. For a while, the kitchen operates like a well-oiled machine, even if they are only hobbyist chefs. Then, once the vegetables are cooked, Antonio takes charge of the blending while Herakles sees to warming the plates and cutting the bread; it only takes a few minutes more.
Parsley is chopped, cream is sniffed and set aside for use, and then, once the Spaniard is satisfied and the Greek starts to sneak one too many tastes—et voilà.
They sit together at one of the tables in the restaurant, out of view of the front windows. It feels like a lunch date of sorts, and the atmosphere certainly settles as the pair of them start to eat. Food. Food has such miraculous powers. Antonio values it more than anything.
Though, even he has to admit, Herakles' company over the next few minutes is equally as dear. They talk easily, about food, about comfort food, about childhood food—and just as Antonio goes to ask Herakles why he hasn't considered having more Greek food on the menu, they are joined by a third person.
A plate is set down on the table as Sadık pulls up a chair. Antonio eyes the tostada, neglected, abandoned, untouched.
"I thought I said that this plate wasn't allowed to leave the office until you ate," Antonio reminds Sadık once he is seated, somewhat light-heartedly. "Do you hate tomatoes that much?”
Sadık gives him a wry smile. "You know I don't," he replies. "But I could smell whatever you were cooking—soup, it seems—and I, uh… Well, I wanted to join you two for lunch instead."
Antonio softens. "Do you want some soup, then?" he offers. "Your bread will be all soggy now, anyway."
"No, no… I'll survive."
Yet, "Go and get a bowl," Herakles encourages. "There is plenty there. And it will be better than…" He nods at the plate. "Whatever is left of that."
"Maybe so, but I don't want to waste something that he spent time maki—"
"It took five minutes at most. Really, let me get you a bowl."
"Toni, it's fine—"
"No. Sit," the Spaniard insists, however, rising from his own seat without hesitation. His hands falls on Sadık's shoulder. He smiles, and he says, "I'll get you a bowl, and then you'll feel like you're really having lunch with us, okay?"
He doesn't give Sadık a chance to argue, not that he's sure he would. But Antonio has learned that stubbornness and perseverance can go hand-in-hand, and that sometimes, it is okay for him to put his foot down like this.
After all, Sadık may be one of his employers, but now, he was also one of his People, and that feels far more important.
[ final wordcount, 1090 words; prompts found here! ]
The morning had been going fine until Antonio had emerged from his room.
[ read on ao3 or down below! ]
rating: teen ⠀ wordcount: 4.1k
pairing(s): turkgrespa
The morning had been going fine until Antonio had emerged from his room.
Sadık had been up early—standard for a weekday—and so far, had gone to the local market to pick up some fresh vegetables for the week, he had visited the house on the other side of the town park that sold fresh eggs, he had topped up the car, and had even had time to stop by the restaurant to drop off the box of new menus (because they had forgotten yesterday, and he had wanted to avoid a repeat).
When he returned home, he had then unpacked what little shopping he had gone to fetch, and found Herakles already in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee. They greeted each other as cordially as they usually did in the mornings—a ‘hey,’ a small smile, an offer to make breakfast for each other—and they soon agreed to cook something simple and easy together.
“You’ve had a busy morning,” Herakles observed as he started on the tomatoes.
“Unlike some people, yes,” Sadık returned with a light heart as he, in turn, found a pepper to add to the dish. “Have you had a good morning, though? Some rest?”
“Nothing better to do,” the other remarked. “Tuesdays are funny days…”
Sadık agreed. Tuesdays were unusual. Tuesdays were the quietest days for the business, the quietest days on the phone, the quietest days in the kitchen. It was nice, of course, to have a day that wasn’t so hectic (Fridays and Saturdays were quite the event!) but when it fell so soon after a Sunday, almost just as quiet, it made the rest of the week drag out even more.
(Not that Sadık should complain; business was good and getting better, and the long days and longer nights would always be worth it.)
As the pair of them continued to prepare breakfast, Heracles still chopping tomatoes and Sadık pulling out the fresh eggs he'd bought, something suddenly occurred to him. It was just past eight o'clock in the morning and they had still not heard anything from their lodger, who, as it so happened, also worked at the restaurant and was due to go in with them that morning.
It then also occurred to him that Herakles had not mentioned seeing Antonio, either, and so he asked his partner, “Do you know if Toni’s up yet?”
Perhaps not too unsurprisingly, Herakles shook his head. “Not sure,” he said. “I haven’t heard any movement.”
“Maybe I should check in on him. It was a late one, yesterday…”
“Go on, then. I’ll carry on here.”
Sadık smiled and thanked him, and headed upstairs in the direction of Antonio’s room.
(Antonio was more than just a lodger, it has to be said. He was a lodger, an employee, a close friend, and even more than that. They had all known each other for nearly two years in all, but two had become three on a part-time basis a few months ago, and they were some of the best moments that they had collectively known. Baby-steps were what they were taking. There was no rush. Hence the spare room, the private space, the boundaries. It was what kept it healthy for them all.)
On the way to the second bedroom, Sadık checked the bathroom to see if maybe he was in there, but with no sign of life, he continued on to the other’s door. He knocked first, but received no answer. He then called out to Antonio (though he did not want to be too loud, just in case), and let him know that they were starting on breakfast if he wanted to join them, and—
The bedroom door opened.
Antonio looked like shit.
“Are you feeling alright?” Sadık asked him, alarmed. Antonio had wrapped himself up in a blanket, his complexion had paled, and there were fresh bags under his eyes. Sleep clung to him—fatigue or lethargy, he couldn’t be sure. In all: he didn’t seem okay!
Yet, “I’m okay,” Antonio claimed, “just cold.”
Sadık was wary. “As in, you feel cold, or you have a cold?” he expanded, and Antonio could only offer him a shrug. He didn’t know. That, or he didn’t want to say.
Of course, if Antonio was ill, then work was off the table. He managed the Front of House and occasionally supported the bar, which meant he worked in close proximity to customers, their food, and other employees. It was a risk—a risk that none of them could take.
When Sadık explained this to Antonio, and added that he should go back to bed and warm himself up, however, the Spaniard began to protest. “I said I’d help Herakles with finance stuff,” he reminded Sadık through a sniffle.
“It’s fine,” Sadık assured him, regardless. “I’m sure he’d rather you stayed in bed, too.”
The facial that resulted was as entertaining as it was endearing. A sort of pout, marred by tiredness, had sprouted on Antonio’s face alongside a frown. He clearly wasn’t happy about the thought of missing work, which was understandable, but unavoidable. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself (Sadık was sure he even saw the other shiver, almost; was he really that cold? The heating had been on overnight, hadn’t it?)…
Just as Antonio was about to continue speaking, Sadık stopped him.
Sadık stopped him, so that he could instead pull him in for a hug, hoping that the contact would help to both reassure him that it was okay, and to warm him up a bit in the meantime. Antonio did not protest. He settled into Sadık’s arms, just as he usually would, and for a moment, it was bliss. It was cosy. It was happiness in the face of sadness caused by disappointment.
And then, Sadık realised something. Antonio had said he was cold—that he felt cold—but to Sadık, he was quite the opposite. Antonio was more like a hot water bottle than an ice pack, and after a few more seconds of holding onto him, another realisation followed:
“Antonio?”
“Mmmh…?”
Sadık pulled back—had to pry Antonio away from him, in fact—and gently pressed the back of his hand to the other’s forehead.
Just as he had feared.
“I think you have a high temperature,” he told Antonio, who only grumbled at the information. “Were you feeling— Ah, hey, come back here,” Sadık said, grabbing Antonio’s blanket before he vanished back into the room and dared shut the door on him (when he was irritated, Antonio sure as hell made sure you knew it!). The Spaniard stopped, of course, unimpressed. “Were you feeling okay last night?” he asked all the same.
“Fine,” Antonio replied. And then he paused. And then he said, “I struggled to get to sleep, but other than that…”
“I see…”
“…you really think I should go back to bed…?”
“Yeah, I do,” Sadık said. He felt sorry for Antonio, in some ways, but it was what was best for him right now. “Get yourself in bed, but try not to wrap yourself up—you’ll make yourself feel worse in the long-run. I’ll be back in bit, okay?”
There was a reluctance radiating from the other. He didn’t nod, nor did he argue. Instead, Antonio slipped away into his room and let the door close slowly, gently, and Sadık was left on his own with the guilt.
This was not an ideal situation to be in. If Antonio had a high temperature, then surely, he had a fever. The chills he felt, the shivering, the lethargy… He really was ill. The only question was, was it because he had a cold, or because he had the flu…?
Sadık hurried off back downstairs. Herakles had decided to wait on starting cooking, it seemed, which Sadık was grateful for; it meant they could talk without distraction.
“Everything okay?” Herakles asked as Sadık went to the fridge in search of a bottle (or two) of water. “Is he awake?”
“He’s ill,” Sadık amended for him. “I don’t think he’ll be out of bed any time soon.”
If Herakles was surprised, it did not show. Rather, after a brief pause, he went to one of the cupboards and pulled down what Sadık realised was the medicine box. From it came out a box of paracetamol, some cough drops, and a single packet of tissues, which Herakles then set down onto one of the wooden trays they had.
When Sadık asked him what he was doing, he said, "Might as well take everything he'll need together. Perhaps… he’d want some fruit…”
(There was something strange yet distinctly sweet about Herakles’ expression when he was in deep thought. He was clearly thinking about Antonio and what he liked, as well as what he may need, but the way his brow creased and he stared so intently at a random spot on the kitchen counter was just… well, it was just very Herakles. And very endearing.)
“How ill is he?” the other asked, pulling Sadık from his private musings.
“I’m not really sure,” he answered in earnest. “I think he has a fever, but why he has one is more of a mystery.”
Herakles hummed. “Definitely should not be working, then…”
“Yeah… He was a bit upset about that part.”
“Oh? You upset him, huh?”
“Wh— No, as in, the situation has upset him,” Sadık responded to what was, he was sure, a tease. “He feels bad. He hasn’t said so, but I’d say it’s pretty obvious.”
Herakles hummed again, the sound more drawn out. “Then we should try to make him feel better,” he concluded, before he joined Sadık at the fridge and nudged past him to gain control of the shelves. “Fruit it is,” he stated, and with that, their original breakfast plans were officially put on hold.
Antonio struggled. He struggled to lie still and keep his eyes closed and rest, just like Sadık wanted him to. That did not help his mood. He tried again to find comfort by fixing his pillow, clutching his blanket close (he had dragged the duvet off of his own bed to avoid temptation; he trusted Sadık when he had said that being too warm would not help, but he also wondered if that was why he now struggled to sleep), and thinking of things that would be pleasant to dream about.
But, what felt like an age later, he was no closer to sleeping, no closer to relief. And it only made him feel worse.
While being ill was something that he couldn’t help in this instance, he didn’t like the idea of not going to work to help the others, nor the thought that… if he had something contagious, that Sadık and Herakles could become ill, too. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they weren’t, you know, the engine house behind the restaurant! But the business relied on them being there to ensure a shift went smoothly both in the front and in the back. Without them… who knew what could happen?
It would be his fault, though. That was the hard part. If they got ill, it would be Antonio’s fault, and he didn’t want th—
There was a knock on his door again, but just as he went to get up to answer it, the door opened and Herakles stuck his head in. Antonio, dismayed by his simultneously wanted and unwanted visitor, flopped back down onto his pillow.
“Hey.” The other stepped in and around to the bed, where he sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Struggling?”
The answer should have been obvious. Antonio hoped, then, that the look he gave Herakles instead was a sufficient and detailed response. Though, rather than feeling begrudged by it, the other gave a soft, apologetic tut, and his hand found Antonio’s hair. His weakness. Because there was something magical about how he played with hair and lightly scratched at the scalp that could have actually put Antonio right to sleep without issue—something that Antonio very nearly succumbed to, until Herakles interrupted bliss with words.
“How do you feel about a change of plan?” he asked.
Antonio pried open an eye and looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean…?”
“Sofa bed.”
It was a nice thought. But didn’t Antonio need to cool down? Wouldn’t being in a bigger bed—as in, the bed downstairs that was reserved for guests—do the opposite of helping…?
Herakles went on to explain, perhaps noticing the confusion: “It’s warmer up here. If you stay downstairs, you can rest on the sofa. At least then, if you can’t sleep, you have entertainment to hand and can still rest somewhere comfortable. That, and you are closer to the kitchen.”
“But I wanna stay up here,” Antonio responded. He sniffled and buried his nose in his blanket for a moment, fearful of a sneeze, and when it didn’t come, he pulled back and said, “I don’t want anyone else to get sick…”
The fingers in his hair somehow grew more gentle, more tender. “No one else is worried about getting ill,” Herakles assured him, as sceptical as he felt. “We just want you to feel better.”
And that was, quite easily, the nicest thing he had heard all day. Stupid as he felt it was, to not worry about contagions, it really was quite… quite special, to realise that they cared about his wellbeing like that. It made him feel as though he had made a good choice when he had agreed to move in. It made him feel as though he had made a good choice when he had agreed to become a part of their personal lives.
“Come on,” Herakles went on, “Sadık has offered to stay with you. I doubt the kitchen will miss having him too much.”
“But doesn’t he need to help them with prep?” Antonio questioned, and Herakles shook his head.
“They’ll cope just fine,” he said, “and I think Sadık has made you a priority.”
Oh. Well. In… that case…
“He’s waiting downstairs. I have to go soon, but… there’s a bowl of fresh fruit downstairs with your name on it. And maybe a hug.”
Antonio smiled. It was impossible not to, at an offer as good as that.
It took a few minutes to drag himself downstairs, Herakles sticking close by just to make sure he made it (normally he would complain about the fussing, but this time…) but when he did get to the living room, he was surprised—blessed—to find it had been set up for him already. The sofa was now a bed, a tray of goodies and supplies had been placed on the end table, and the television was on, waiting for him, even though it may not have been needed. Such simple yet huge things. Such simple yet wonderful gestures.
Antonio was about to thank them both for it all—for looking after him when he felt they had no obligation to—when a hand on his shoulder made him jump. He swore, despite his tiredness, and turned his head to find a semi-apologetic Sadık had materialised out of nowhere.
"Ready to be nursed back to health?" the other asked, and Antonio bit back a laugh brought on by a rather sudden and… curious image in his mind.
"You don't have to 'nurse' me," he replied, all the while. He tried to sound assertive, but his lack of energy did not help too much. "I can look after myself. You don’t… You don’t have to miss work, too.”
Yet, Sadık remained unbothered. “Too late now. I’ve already spoken to the boss and asked for the day off, so.”
“Oh, so you consider me your boss?” Herakles remarked, on another page. “Does that mean you’re finally going to start doing what I tell you to do?”
The other scoffed. “Never.”
“Hm. So much for respecting your elders.”
“My ‘elder’? Oh, sorry, did you wanna go live in a home? Do I need to start blending down your meals for you? How’s your heari—?”
“Guys, please…”
Antonio tried not to sigh too loudly, or roll his eyes so hard that they got stuck facing the inside of his head, and he was glad when the pair of them instantly quit the bickering. If ‘bickering’ was what you even called it (because at this point, he wondered if that was simply another one of their love languages: good food, rare but cosy cuddles, and freakishly juvenile spats).
Still, he didn’t want it. Funny as the pair of them were, he was trying to be serious! So Antonio tried in turn to explain it to them as plainly as possible: “I really appreciate you doing this for me,” he said, “but you really, really don’t need—”
“Yeah, no, let me stop you there,” Sadık cut him off, however. His arm came around Antonio and he walked him, quite suddenly and briskly to the converted bed, seeing that he sat down. The move certainly caught the Spaniard off-guard, but he had no chance to address it. “Just because you are an adult does not mean you have to cope with things on your own. Doesn’t matter if it’s just a bug,” Sadık pressed, “it would be wrong of us to leave you to it.”
“He’s right,” Herakles then joined in, and Antonio felt himself mellowing in that… ‘I’m not sure I agree with them, but if they’ve already made their minds up, then I can’t fight them both’ sort of way. “Like I said, we want you to get better, so we should at least try to help you get there.”
It was a sentiment he was not entirely unfamiliar with, but a sentiment that, nevertheless, made Antonio want to strangle them both in a tight hug. Was that a weird thing to think? Ah, well…
“Just try to get some rest,” Herakles went on to say. “And make the most of Sadık being a willing slave for the day; I’m quite jealous.”
Sadık grumbled. “Haven’t you got a restaurant to go babysit?”
“…Antonio?”
“Yeah…?”
“Feel free to hit him if he annoys you.”
“Okay. So, just like any Tuesday, then,” the Spaniard jested, which received a smile from one, and a flat stare from the other.
Oh, these two were going to be the death of him one day—and such a death, he felt, would probably be worth it.
The restaurant’s lunch and dinner services had gone as well as they normally did. No complaints had needed to be sent back to the kitchen, the tip jar was looking rather healthy, and the mood amongst staff was relatively relaxed. In all: just the way Herakles liked it.
Luckily for him, one of the other chefs working that night, upon hearing of Antonio’s predicament (and thus, by extension, Herakles and Sadık’s predicament) had offered to oversee closing. And the bar manager, too, had hopped onto the train. It was a quiet shift, after all, they had insisted, and there was somewhere that Herakles would rather be, so… they would close, and he could go home sooner and check in on them.
He was grateful for that—for them. And he had not wasted a single minute thereafter, parting with a bag of leftovers and a bottle of wine in hand.
The drive back would not take long, which was something that he was extra grateful for, especially today. He had heard from Sadık in the middle of the afternoon—an update which had entailed a photo of a finally-sleeping Antonio firmly attached to Sadık’s chest (understandable) and the reassurance that he had enjoyed the fruit.
But that had been some six hours ago, and he hadn’t had a chance since then to see how either of them were doing.
The first curious thing had been when, upon arriving home and opening the front door, the house was silent. Completely silent. While it was not, perhaps, entirely out of the ordinary considering the time of day… he supposed he had maybe expected Sadık to be in the kitchen, or for the TV to be blaring as the pair of them watched some crappy shows together to kill time.
The second curious thing, then, was that the living room itself was empty. The bed was still pulled out, the sheets were dishevelled and seemingly well-lived in, and even the remnants of Antonio’s ‘care tray’ sat on the side, paracetamol box torn apart and tissues long gone. But no Antonio, nor a Sadık.
The third curious thing was that there was then no sign in the kitchen of food having been made. No lunch, no dinner. That either meant that Sadık had done a very good job of cleaning up after himself (which, admittedly, was standard Sadık behaviour), or that… he hadn’t cooked. In fact, even the bin lacked evidence of food—home-cooked or ordered—and Herakles found himself worrying for the first time in recent memory that, in his attempt to look after Antonio, Sadık had forgotten about himself…
With downstairs cleared, Herakles put away the wine and set the leftovers into the fridge. It was a good job he had taken them, in the end; Sadık was in for an earful when he found him!
Upstairs, the house was just as quiet, just as dark, just as seemingly empty. He passed by the bathroom, passed by Antonio’s room (void of life, much like the others) and arrived, at last, at the master bedroom.
And lo and behold, there they were, tucked up in bed together. To them, the world did not exist. To them, there was no sickness, no worry, no hunger, nothing. Antonio lay more in less in the centre of the bed, and Sadık, who had evidently done his part to not let the other get too hot, leaving them almost fully uncovered save for their own pyjamas, lay behind him. They were connected only by Sadık’s arm.
The scene was so sweet that there was a simmering temptation to take a photo of it…
…and a temptation that Herakles did not resist for very long.
Once he was satisfied, nevertheless, he had to make a decision: poke Sadık and give him that earful, leave them both in peace (because perhaps both of them had needed rest, and it would be rude to deprive them), or to even join them and share what was, in effect, a precious and rare moment.
The decision was a tough one to make. He struggled, at first, to know what would be best and for who—to try and prioritise, to try and establish if the risk of waking one of or both of them up was worth it—and, after a good, ooh, ten seconds…? Herakles made his choice. Off came his clothes, save for his underwear, and with that, he was ready.
The bed always felt comfier, when other people were in it. Even without duvets, even without blankets, it was comfier.
As predicted, however, the added weight to the mattress did disturb someone, but he counted his lucky stars that it was not Antonio who stirred and woke; Sadık softly groaned and lifted his head to peer over towards him, and Herakles greeted him with a silent, small smile.
“W… What time is it…?” Sadık whispered, still keen to protect Antonio’s rest.
“Late,” Herakles replied just as quietly. “Have you two eaten anything?”
“Late lunch,” Sadık informed him. It… It would do…
“Why are you up here?” Herakles went on to ask. It was somewhat confusing to him that they would bother moving from downstairs, but—
“Someone wanted a bath.”
Ah.
“Someone then wanted to sleep up here.”
“Fair.”
They both spared Antonio a glance. He was sound asleep, still, and unmoving apart from the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Herakles was glad. He lifted his gaze back to Sadık and found the other watching Antonio all the while—watching over him like he had been doing all day—and a pang of warmth struck him out of nowhere.
“Hey,” he said, prying the other’s attention away from their new addition, “he’s fine. You’ve done a good job.”
A smile fell onto Sadık’s lips, and he extended his arm and hand out to Herakles, who was happy to receive them; the gesture secured Antonio between them, just as it connected them together, too.
Nothing more was said between them from that point on. It was not needed. Sadık held Herakles and Herakles held Sadık and both of them held Antonio and it was comfortable, cosy, pleasant. Sadık held Herakles and Herakles leaned in towards Antonio to gently nuzzle against his head and Antonio reached for the body that had appeared and now, it was as comfortable as they needed it to be.
hi! could you do 8 + turkgreespa?? thanks a lot <33
this is. such a good opportunity to write some more of what is one of my favourite aus i have dared create... thank you hehe :3
Complementary
Someone is cooking in the kitchen. And that someone, for once, is not Sadık, nor is Herakles, the usual suspects. In fact, both have just returned from an impromptu visit to the local supermarket, having been sent with a list of random items. Sadık suspects it was a ploy to get them out of the house; Herakles, however, firmly believes they were in need of laundry detergent and AAA batteries and feels better for having bought them.
Regardless, when they both enter the house and close the front door, they are hit by the smell of food. Good food, at that.
Sadık is instantly intrigued. It isn't that Antonio can't cook, but rather, that he simply doesn't cook for them all that often. Sadık has only a vague and limited idea of the other's repertoire, and so, smelling something that seems like rich, spiced, tomato-y goodness is definitely promising. It's like winter has finally arrived!
They head for the kitchen, then, where they can set down the bags of shopping and start to unpack. When they enter, the smell only intensifies, and the warming aromas fill up their lungs. Sadık loves it. He loves every second of it.
“That smells so good!” he tells Antonio, who is tending to his food at the stove. He looks at them while he stirs, and he welcomes them both back with a smile.
“Did you have a successful shopping trip?”
“I’ll say,” Sadık remarks. He sets his bag down on the kitchen table and starts to slowly unpack, Herakles joining him. “I think we got everything on your not-so-little list.”
“Oh?” Antonio responds. “Even the—”
“Even the very specific box of fabric plasters you wanted,” Sadık assures him, “yes. You know, I had no idea how particular you are, güneşim.”
“Well, now you do!” Antonio practically beams, as though he takes some sort of joy in the torment he has caused them both.
(To call it ‘torment’ may seem extreme, but Sadık fears he has pulled out so much hair trying to find the right brand of soap that he may start developing a bald patch sooner in life than he expected!)
“Speaking of particular,” Herakles pipes up as the unpacking continues, “would you suggest red or white to go with dinner?”
The question is naturally directed to Antonio, who gives a definitive, “Red, for sure,” and who then returns to his cooking.
Sadık takes out the last items from his shopping bag. They are items that he has to place in various cupboards around the room, and so he goes about his business, mindful not to bump into Antonio or Herakles, for that matter, who has also begun his impromptu dance around the kitchen. It only takes about a minute for them both to finish. And, once they have, attention falls quite expectedly on the mystery pot on the stove.
Herakles, to Sadık’s surprise, is the first to take the plunge and asks the pressing question: “What’s on the menu?”
Antonio, this time, does not turn away from his cooking. “It’s a surprise,” he tells them. “There’s dessert, too, but I don’t want either of you interfering, okay?”
“Who, us?” Sadık scoffs with false offence. “As if we would!”
His reaction earns a raised brow and soft glare from the Spaniard, however—and not the sexy kind of glare, either! It makes Sadık stand down. Clearly, someone isn’t messing around!
“Are we at least allowed to sample what you’re cooking?” Herakles then queries.
Perhaps there is something about the way he asks it that sees a turn in Antonio, making him more mellow, more malleable. The Spaniard returns to his pot and lifts out the spoon, and with it, some of the sauce of the meal he is preparing. He offers it to Herakles, and, leaving Sadık quite envious, the other goes ahead and has a taste.
“Tell me what you think,” Antonio says, and Herakles simply tells him that it is good—really good.
Sadık, feeling left out, then asks, “Do I get a taste?” but just as he reaches for the spoon Antonio smacks his hand away, his scowl back on his face.
“You,” the Spaniard—more bull than man—begins, “are to stay away from this pot, you hear me? When I say I don’t want either of you interfering with the food, I am in fact referring solely to you, Mr. Head Chef!”
“Oh, come on, don’t you trust me?” Sadık returns with a sheepish grin. “I won’t do anything, cross my heart. If it smells amazing, I’m sure it tastes amazing.”
Antonio is hesitant. Perhaps that is not a sentiment misplaced; Sadık is certainly a fussy one, and being so used to having a hold of the reins in the kitchen, it is sometimes hard for him to let someone else be at the helm. He doesn’t want to think of himself as a control freak, mind you. But, admittedly… sometimes…?
In the end, however, Antonio caves. Sadık considers himself lucky. The spoon goes back in the pot, and more sauce is fished out for him, and Antonio holds out the spoon to him.
“Drink up,” he invites, and when Sadık does exactly that, touching the spoon with only his mouth and holding a hand underneath in case he spills anything, Antonio says, “Good boy. How is it?”
Sadık struggles to find the words for a moment. Not because of the, uh, praise, as you’d call it, but rather, simply because of how incredible the sauce tastes. Part of him wants to shove Antonio out of the way so that he can steal another spoonful or two; another part of him wants to instead kiss the cook and beg on his knees for a list of ingredients.
This may be a sign. This may be a sign that Antonio needs to be let loose in the kitchen even more.
He suggests as much, in fact, and says, “You know, I think you could work wonders in the restaurant,” to which Antonio scrunches up his nose. Sadık fends of a laugh (poorly) and seeks out an embrace, hugging a surprised Antonio from behind as the Spaniard returns to his stew. “Come on,” he presses, “wouldn’t you give it a go? Working with me in the kitchen?”
The other shakes his head, even if he smiles. "I think I'd like you more when you aren't my big bossy boss telling me off for not dicing the tomatoes finely enough,” he replies rather sardonically, “but thanks for thinking I’m capable, tesoro.”
Herakles, who has remained awfully quiet until now, dares a quiet laugh at the comment. He gives Sadık a pat on the shoulder by way of giving his condolences, to which Sadık merely tuts, and, in turn, Herakles announces that the wine has been poured; all of them could probably do with a drink, no?
Sadık does not disagree. But he only lets Antonio go once he’s managed to give the other a peck—a rare gesture, but one that Antonio welcomes as his cheeks start to turn as red as his sauce—and so, Sadik is left satisfied.
As the three of them toast and sip and welcome the evening ahead, he can’t help but wonder… if they were a sauce, what would their ingredients be? A dash of spice, a heavy pinch of salt, a generous slosh of alcohol for good measure…
Either way, the three of them are a winning combination, he doesn’t doubt. Complementary, like wine and fish, meat and potatoes, him and them. Without them, he would be so dull, so bland. But when all three of them are together? Well, it is, quite simply, the perfect recipe.
[ final wordcount, 1275 words; prompt list here! ]
