A First Date

[churbooseanon]

Summary: York promised North a real date. Bringing take out didn’t count. But cooking for your new boyfriend, surely that does. What’s the worst that could happen? A sequel to Raise Your Glass.

 

A First Date

    Perhaps this would be easier, York mused, if their Fridays didn’t already have a routine. Once they were as predictable as clockwork, or whatever the saying was. Once he was done with work he would go home, get himself cleaned up. eat something, and head out to the bar. They drank, they spoke about things that York knew were better off forgotten, and then they returned to their respective corners as if the night had never happened.

    Until last Friday, that was. Until York acted on things he hadn’t consciously recognized as feelings. His subconscious had demanded, and with booze still on his lips and a strange hunger in his gut, he’d changed everything about his relationship with his best friend. Didn’t even take the time to apologize or explain it hadn’t been supposed to happen or done anything else like that. Instead he had dragged North back to the familiar apartment he visited on Wednesdays for movies, spread North out on his best friend’s bed, and let his body fall into something he had never thought to want.

    This, he supposed, was how he could make up for that. Not that he really knew what he was doing anymore. How many years had it been since he’d had to plan a real first date? Because the whole bringing flowers and take out the day after hadn’t really counted, not in York’s book. There were things you were supposed to do when you liked someone. Ways you treated them and steps you took. Which included all of this. Included the dining room table with candles on it, ready to be lit. There were lovely plates on the table, way better than the ones that York actually owned. Connie had laughed when York had come down to ask to borrow good plates. Her teasing had been good natured, based on the idea that he was finally getting out into the world. But between that and the lovely tablecloth and placemats he’d borrowed from Butch, the table was absolutely stunning. There was no doubt in his mind that he had set the perfect table.

    If only the rest of the date was going nearly so smoothly.

    “Please stop smoking,” York whimpers as he frantically stirred the pot of sauce. Was it possible to burn sauce? Because dammit it feels like he’s burning the sauce. What would that look like? Because he thinks it looks like smoke and too much bubbling and…

    York yelped in panic as the large pot of pasta in its water started to bubble over and there was beeping on his stove timer because apparently the garlic bread was ready to take out. There were things screaming at him and he hadn’t started the salad at all, and why was there new smoke? Why was it coming from the oven? Was it possible that the bread was burning? York abandoned his stirring to instead go to the oven and open it. Immediately thick smoke started to pour out of it and then the smoke detector was screaming as well. How could this happen? He was trying so hard to make things perfect, and everything was falling apart.

    Of course it this was the absolute worst possible moment for there to be a knock at his apartment door, which meant it was the moment that it did. York groaned at that sound as he reached into the stove with his hot-hands and fished the blackened loaf of bread. He thought it wasn’t completely ruined, but it was just another example of how messed up this whole night was going to be. How doomed his best efforts had become. It was official, the whole thing was ruined. His chance to impress his new boyfriend and show North how serious he was about this for someone just starting to look at their sexuality in a new light, had been lost.

    Still there was knocking, the timer for the pasta was up, and York had to at least try to salvage something. But if he left North waiting…

    “Come in!” he shouted as loud as he could, hoping it would be heard. It wasn’t like North lacked keys to the apartment or something. Probably the only reason North had knocked was because he thought it was expected of him.

    “York?” a voice called a minute later as York moved to drain his pasta. “York, where are you?”

    “Kitchen,” York returned as he moved to stir the sauce again, but he was pretty sure that was a lost cause at this point. “I… mind if we order a pizza?”

    He looked up when he heard footsteps and found his boyfriend standing in the kitchen door, leaning against the frame. There was a soft look on the taller man’s face, one that warmed York inside and out despite his frustration and sorrow.

    “I thought that was what we were doing anyway,” North answered softly. “You’ve still got a burner on.”

    York looked down at the oven and cursed. The fire was still on where he had the pasta going. Quickly he reached out to turn it off and moved the sauce to a cool spot before turning the other burner, and the oven off as well. Then, tired, he turned to look at North. The man was still smiling. Here was York, freaking out about how he’s failed, and there was North, smiling.

    “Relax,” North spoke, moving closer and reaching out to stroke York’s cheek.

    “I wanted to impress you,” York protested.

    “You being you is all I need,” North countered softly, pulling York into his arms. “Though, I suppose I should admit that you going so far when we both know you’re a disaster in the kitchen is more than impressive.”

    Strange, York didn’t know he could bask in the warmth of North’s smile like this. Yet here he was, held in his new boyfriend’s arms, and even with everything falling apart around him, he didn’t think he’d ever been happier.

    “Standard pizza?”

    “Yeah,” York smiles up at North, loving the fondness in his eyes. “Except it isn’t standard because dammit I had to talk to Butch and I want to use the damn table setting I did.”

    That drove a chuckle from the other man’s lips. “Works for me.”

    Maybe tonight was salvageable after all.