Chapter 2
Shane apparently misinterprets the energy in the room.
He drops his arms, his smile turning a bit dopey.
Yeah, no. No worries.
I actually—" he wrings his hands together nervously, his shoulders bunching up to his ears.
He lets out a huff of laughter, dipping his head down and toeing at the carpet.
"There's something I wanted to ask you, too." He looks up at Alexei from beneath his lashes, and Alexei's heart skips a beat.
He's so utterly helpless in the wake of Shane's bashful way of living.
"Maybe we— I mean, I made dinner.
I thought we could talk.
After, um, after dinner?" Shane gestures awkwardly toward the kitchen, and that's when Alexei finally takes note of the smell permeating throughout the apartment.
Something's baking, something citrusy and spiced.
We don't do this,
he wants to shout.
He wants to grab Shane by his shoulders, shake him out of whatever bubble he thinks they're living in. Shane must see the hesitation in his eyes because he stutters.
"Unless you already ate!
Which is totally fine.
I should have thought to ask.
I didn't—"
Alexei takes pity on him, resting his palm on his tense shoulder.
"Whitfield, relax, I have not eaten."
Shane lets out a deep breath, a way to calm himself.
Alexei knows this.
He hates that he knows this.
He hates that he's learning more, stepping out of the foyer to follow Shane down the hall and into the kitchen.
Here is his table where, bless him, he has laid out placemats.
Because of course he has.
That's the kind of man Shane is.
A man who hates messes.
Who— Alexei's eyes slide to the counter— keeps tins labeled with all their contents: coffee, tea, flour, etc. Alexei suspects the labeler sits on its own pedestal in the top drawer, keys well-loved, easily accessible.
Shane, knows that everything has its place, its compartment, categorized and uncomplicated.
He knows there is no place for him to fit in this apartment, suspects that's why he's never been here in the first place.
There is no perfect little shelf for Shane to put him on, to hide him away until company is gone, and he can pull him out to do as he pleases.
There is no place here for Alexei.
"It's almost done," Shane says softly, reaching out to squeeze his fingers before rounding the kitchen island.
Alexei watches with rapt fascination as he checks something steaming atop the stove, stirs rice in his rice cooker, then pulls the chicken out of the oven.
Wordlessly, he dishes out their meals: chicken, steamed broccoli, and rice.
It's so simple, so very domestic.
Alexei can picture it vividly: stepping into his home, walking into the kitchen to find some bland, but well-balanced, meal waiting for him.
He would bitch about it, then gobble it down happily.
Probably ask for seconds.
He has never been loved enough to have been fed purposefully, with intention.
Here's X amount of grams of protein,
he pictures Shane saying around a mouthful of grilled fish.
Here's the fiber you need for the day.
Alexei wants to be told these things, to be loved this way, wants it so much it makes him sick.
"Alexei?"
Shane's set the table, standing awkwardly at his chair.
Alexei shakes his head, ridding himself of his stupid fantasy.
He smiles, knowing it's tight, knowing it doesn't reach his eyes, but he tries.
He sits in his own chair, across from Shane, and tries very hard not to get used to the vision of Shane staring across the dinner table at him, utensils hovering over a meal he's prepared for them both.
"This is... very nice," Alexei tries, carving into the chicken and refusing to make direct eye contact.
"Oh, thanks." Shane's blushing, the color rising to his cheeks so easily.
Alexei loves it, loves how easy it is to get a rise out of Shane.
Frustration, embarrassment, arousal, all carrying with them their accompanying microexpressions that leave Alexei weak in the knees.
He's so terribly weak for Caleb Whitfield.
"This is my consolation?
For you beating me tonight?" He's trying to tease, to lighten the stale atmosphere that he knows he's responsible for.
But Shane doesn't bite.
He shakes his head, then makes everything worse by saying:
No, I— no. I just wanted to do something.
Nice." He swallows his food, not meeting Alexei's eyes.
He tries again, speaking to his cooked chicken.
"I wanted us to do something nice."
Alexei can't look at this too closely.
If he does, his resolve will crumble, and he'll be begging Shane to drag him back to the bedroom in no time.
He pivots.
"Oh?
Beating me was not nice enough?
Now you must feed me bland Whitfield diet?
What is they say, ah— 'kick the dead horse?'"
He can immediately tell he's overcompensated.
Shane flinches, fork falling to his plate with a loud "clang."
"You don't like it?
I'm sorry, I thought—" he's looking at his food a bit maniacally, probably trying to find the punchline between the grains of rice.
"I just wanted—"
Alexei's heart lurches, guilt clogging his throat.
He immediately takes pity, reaching out his hand to grasp Shane's.
He brings their hands to the center of the table and tilts his head, catching Shane's panicked eyes.
"Hey, hey.
I am sorry.
That was mean.
Is good meal, yes?
I am teasing you.
Just teasing you." It wasn't teasing.
It was cruel.
He knows it was cruel.