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nilchanceMisha and Jeremy eat breakfast. This is just a quick unbetaed uncomplicated thing for wordcount, and to give me a break on the next chapter of TMR.
Oranges are not the only fruit, but this would have been news to Vincent. Misha never went hungry in Vincent's house for good simple food, thick oatmeal and whole milk and buttered noodles, roasted chicken and baked potatoes with sour cream. After sixteen years of catch-as-catch-can, of feeding Sasha his leftovers from free lunches, of falling asleep hungry, Misha had been pathetically grateful. He had wanted other things, sometimes, but pad thai and sushi seemed as mythical to him as being kissed. It wasn't something Misha could have, and so he ignored it.
Then came Jeremy. Jeremy the sensualist, his silk sheets and flavored creamer and sweet cheap wines.
Misha likes the way Jeremy peels golden strips of mango with his scarred pocket knife into ice cream, even though it's not a sensible breakfast. Jeremy buys fruits he doesn't recognize at the farmers' market, brings home baskets of produce that looks to Misha like bristling alien weaponry. They look it up online, find recipes, and they make things together; even if Misha hates the finished product, he loves Jeremy's thoughtful frowns or the way he unselfconsciously sucks his fingers clean.
Misha comes to know the distinctive crack of a pomegranate being seeded for him, the crisply sweet spray of juice onto Jeremy's wrists and long fingers. He learns to let Jeremy serve him like this, even though some part of him still knots up uneasily at being served by his master, because he knows this is how Jeremy offers Misha his heart.
Oranges are not the only fruit, but this would have been news to Vincent. Misha never went hungry in Vincent's house for good simple food, thick oatmeal and whole milk and buttered noodles, roasted chicken and baked potatoes with sour cream. After sixteen years of catch-as-catch-can, of feeding Sasha his leftovers from free lunches, of falling asleep hungry, Misha had been pathetically grateful. He had wanted other things, sometimes, but pad thai and sushi seemed as mythical to him as being kissed. It wasn't something Misha could have, and so he ignored it.
Then came Jeremy. Jeremy the sensualist, his silk sheets and flavored creamer and sweet cheap wines.
Misha likes the way Jeremy peels golden strips of mango with his scarred pocket knife into ice cream, even though it's not a sensible breakfast. Jeremy buys fruits he doesn't recognize at the farmers' market, brings home baskets of produce that looks to Misha like bristling alien weaponry. They look it up online, find recipes, and they make things together; even if Misha hates the finished product, he loves Jeremy's thoughtful frowns or the way he unselfconsciously sucks his fingers clean.
Misha comes to know the distinctive crack of a pomegranate being seeded for him, the crisply sweet spray of juice onto Jeremy's wrists and long fingers. He learns to let Jeremy serve him like this, even though some part of him still knots up uneasily at being served by his master, because he knows this is how Jeremy offers Misha his heart.
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Date: 2010-11-03 06:24 pm (UTC)Thank you!