boywhoflew | [Sanctuary: Set for May 27th]

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[Sanctuary: Set for May 27th]

If Carson was honest, it was actually somehow his most interesting and most boring birthday to date. It never would have occurred to him that he'd turn eighteen on a space station of all places, but somehow whatever curious appeal that may have held was lost when the reality of how little there was to do when exploring still felt as risky as it did. But even with the persistent sense of unease he had to admit there was a certain intrigue to having any kind of milestone somewhere off in space, if only for the fact that he was sure it would have irritated the shit out of anyone back in Clover that he'd had the opportunity at all.

The later half of the morning was spent in a groggy lethargic pile of limbs, crammed into the corner of Eric's couch and fiddling with his tablet. If he had nodded off once or twice he could easily blame it on the boredom of being stuck on a space station, and it was only the occasional rustle of movement from Eric pacing the small apartment space that kept him from accidentally falling into yet another frustrated nap of misspent time.

He'd been on the verge of dozing off in the middle of watching a series of news reports on the small screen when a clatter in the kitchen startled him upright, the movement jostling and pushing a disgruntled Elvis from where he'd taken up residence across his ankles. Stretching and squinting he shook off the lingering sluggishness and wandered towards the kitchen, his eyebrow arching as he caught the sight of Eric busy at something with his prized mixer.

"Please tell me you aren't trying to bake something out of the sustenance cubes again," he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I thought that weird sustenance pie was going to kill me."

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I've been busy in the kitchen for half an hour and, despite my best efforts, not exactly being too quiet about things. As it turns out, dishes are noisy even on a space station. I'm not honestly trying to wake Carson at all so when I hear him from almost directly behind me, I jump a little, a hand pressed to my chest as I wait for my heartbeat to come back to normal.

"Oh--" I breathe, then shake my head as I reach for more butter. I feel a weird rush of heat to my cheeks as I shake my head and then shoo him a few steps back as I focus intently on my mixing. "No, not a sustenance pie."

Truth is, I'd spent some of my precious few credits on some baking supplies a day ago and I'm determined to bake myself a birthday cake. It's stupid, I know it's stupid, but two years in a row of skipping right over my birthday is just too much. And maybe this will help me feel like something can be a least a little bit normal in this place even if it's just a cake that doesn't taste like tofu.

Glancing over at Carson again, I take in the rumpled state of his hair and the bags under his eyes. I've seen a lot more of him here than I ever did in Darrow, mostly because outside of Lee, he's the only person I know. He's been mostly nice, at least. Or as nice as Carson ever gets.

"I'm sorry for waking you," I tell him, frowning a little before locking the mixer into place and making it roar to life once more.

It was probably not nearly as intriguing as it seemed, but even bleary eyed and groggy Carson couldn't deny to the piquing curiosity. He shifted off to the side at Eric's shoo-ing gesture and leaned against the counter, his eyebrows knitting as he took in the small array of ingredients neatly arranged and measured along the countertop. "Its okay," he shrugged, raking a hand through his hair and wincing at the loud roar of the mixer.

Chewing the inside of his lip and taking a mental inventory, he waited for the mixer to stop spinning before he pressed forward. "So if you've given up on the sustenance pie, then this must be real food." He mused, briefly wondering just how many credits Eric had spent, and if it had even been a good idea in the first place. But eggs and flour and butter alone made his stomach clench up hopefully and he perked up, as even if he refused to admit it, one of the many things he missed about Darrow was legitimate food. Not to mention Eric's proper baking.

"What is it?" He asked once it was quiet enough, creeping in just close enough to sneak a peek into the mixing bowl.

As high as this countertop is, I have to push up on my toes to see inside the mixer and I start scraping off the sides, fully aware that Carson's watching all the while. Watching and probably judging. Ordinarily that might bother me, but maybe I've just sort of gotten used to him being around all the time. Carson doesn't judge all the time, I've noticed. Or maybe being on a space station where I'm basically the only other person he knows has made him relax a little.

"It's a cake," I tell him honestly, lowering the bowl a little so I can really dig into the mix, scraping off my spatula as I raise it again for another round of mixing.

I know Carson's hovering just over my shoulder and I can feel that my cheeks are already warm before I remind myself that I don't actually care if Carson judges me. It's not like anyone will be eating this except me so he can't say I'm trying to buy someone's friendship again.

So I add, "A birthday cake," as I stop the mixer again and free the bowl, checking the mix to make sure the batter is all smooth and homogeneous. "And don't you say a word about it, alright? I just decided that since I've had to miss my birthday again, for the second year in a row, I'm just gonna celebrate it myself. I don't care how sad and pathetic that sounds so don't you start."

Even if Carson didn't have a thorough knowledge of baking, he figured he was smart enough to recognize that the batter in Eric's mixing bowl wasn't any step towards pie. With a sort of dull intrigue he continued to idly chew his lip and watch, a faint opportunistic hope already building at the prospect of real food, even if it wasn't anything substantial. Part of him was tempted to chastise the older boy for the clear waste of credits, a lecture itching at the back of his mind, but there was something stupidly hypnotic about watching the batter mix.

The correlation between prospective cake and the date didn't register until Eric added in the keynote of birthday cake, and his eyebrows shot up as he turned his attention from the mixer to the boy himself. He had it on the tip of his tongue to protest that there was no way that Eric could have known that it was even his birthday, as oddly flattered as he was to have somehow earned a cake in the first place. But the wind rushed out of his sails when the older boy continued, his tone crisp and defensive.

Gaping for a moment it took him a second for it to fully register, and even before he could remind himself that it didn't even matter, his incredulity won out.

"Seriously?" He protested, torn between exasperated and disbelieving. "We've been here almost a month, and you decided to finally celebrate your birthday now?" He considered pointing out that to his own knowledge that he had celebrated his birthday, at a gay nightclub of all places, but decided to keep his attention turned to the current heart of the matter. "Why would you make yourself a cake on my birthday?"

I'm expecting Carson to roll his eyes and call me stupidly sentimental or pathetic or needy or something like that, but I'm not expecting him to actually get upset.

But his words catch me mid-mixing and I quickly shut it off, lowering the bowl as I face him, scowl in place. "How do you know when my birthday is?" I can't quite keep the accusation out of my, except he's not even really listening, still going and what he says makes my own protests stop short.

"Wait, it's your birthday?" I ask him, eyes wide. "Today?"

I mean, the odds of this alone have to be staggering, but there's something doubly surprising at Carson even admitting to a birthday.

"You invited me to your birthday party," Carson cut in with a sputter, his confusion burgeoning on outright irritation. The only thing that saved him from transcending past frustrated and straight into pissed off was the pure look of surprise on Eric's face, and for a second he was tempted to stop and just appreciate the satisfaction of the other boy's shock.

"Today," he verified, stressing the emphasis of it so that it was just shy of mocking. Crossing his arms he raised an eyebrow expectantly. "At least if the calendar here is accurate by Earth standards, then yes, definitely today." It wasn't as if he'd had any plans for it as it was. Even if they had been back in Darrow it probably wouldn't have warranted much more than a store bought cake slice and the satisfaction of finally being a legal adult. But somehow the fact that Eric had picked his birthday of all days to celebrate his own was both oddly stinging and downright stupefying.

And if he was honest, he really wanted some of that cake.

Casting a bland look back at the wet mix of batter he smothered down any disappointment before it could take root and fester. "Do I at least get a piece?" He wheedled petulantly. "It'd only be fair seeing as its actually my birthday."

Even though we've talked about it some, I still keep forgetting that I was pulled a few weeks before Carson. He remembers things from Darrow that I don't including, apparently, my birthday party.

Somehow knowing that some where else, in some other reality, I actually did get to celebrate my birthday, almost hurts worse. I can't believe I'm actually thinking it, but some part of me would give anything to go back there, back to Darrow of all places. If just for one, specific day. I want to ask him how I'd celebrated, if he'd had a good time, who had come, if everyone had a good time.

But it feels a lot less important in the face of realizing today is actually his birthday.

"Oh my goodness," I breathe, shaking my head as I turn back to my mixer. "I'm sorry, I didn't-- I had no idea! But of course. I mean, it's not like I can eat an entire birthday cake all on my own anyway. I was thinking an easy little chiffon cake, but I can do something else if you'd rather. I bought candles, even. I know it's silly, but, well. I figure any cake is a birthday cake if you stick some candles in it."

There was something about winding Eric up that was always both entertaining and self satisfying, but for once the satisfaction of catching him off guard was less satisfying than it was just kind of sad. They had spent more time together on the station than they ever had back in Darrow, and while there was still so much about what made the other boy tick that he just didn't get, it was still all to easy to imagine the older boy scraping together a small birthday cake for himself, lighting the candles and blowing them out. The fact he probably would have done the same even had Carson not been there was, if nothing else, just sort of depressing.

Chewing his cheek and rubbing at the little patch of stubble he had missed on the underside of his jaw, Carson considered the offer for a moment before shrugging. "Cake is cake," he decided, and he had reached the point where flavor scarcely mattered. They had been so careful with their precious few credits that real food had turned into a luxury, and his stomach still clenched up in anticipation at the idea of something other than the free sustenance cubes from the vending machine.

Maybe one small cake wasn't much in the grand scheme of things, but it was real, and it was his birthday. Hell, at this point, it was their birthday.

He watched Eric dig back into the mix as he thought and as wasteful as it felt, he couldn't resist giving into temptation. "You know," he mused. "Pasta is cheap anywhere you go. I bet I could get some stuff for spaghetti or ziti pretty cheap. I mean. What's the point of having birthday cake if there's no real dinner before hand?"

Carson looks thoughtful for a second, like maybe he's reconsidering saying anything at all or maybe he's really upset about me even sharing a birthday cake with him at all. Though, given what I know of Carson, I'd imagine getting a birthday cake at all is probably different. I can't imagine he'd be too picky.

Then again, it's not like I've become some sort of Carson expert in the past few months. I'm just about the exact opposite of one, I'd say.

But then he's offering to make dinner and, for a second, all I can do is stare at him in surprise.

"That-- That sounds like a great idea, actually," I reply, laughing a little under a weird swell of relief as I start scooping at my mix again. "The cake'll be a couple hours yet what with the baking part and the frosting and decorating so we have plenty of time for that. Ooh, do you think we could find something to drink, too? Wine probably costs too much, but I don't know. Juice or something?"

Somehow, it was always oddly gratifying to catch Eric off guard. Carson could tell from the split second of frozen surprise on the other boy's face that he hadn't been expecting that, and it itched at the back of his mind to wonder if it was really that surprising. There were times he almost wanted to ask just what kind of person Eric thought that he was, but even before the idea could form he would stamp it down. It didn't matter what the other boy thought of him. Just like it had never mattered what anyone in Clover or Darrow had thought.

He was probably just spending too much time with Eric if he was going to start down that road.

Shrugging one shoulder he flashed half of a grin, the prospective of real food and cake already outweighing the anxiety of spending what little money he had. "Probably?" He guessed, already forming a mental grocery list and trying to decide what would be necessary and what was just a luxury. "I'll check and see if there's anything on sale. Maybe there's juice or soda or something. Is there anything left over from what you bought for the cake we can use?"

He wasn't any sort of cooking expert, but he had the general idea that butter was probably always handy.

"Goodness, of course!" I tell him easily, nodding over at the small refrigerator that came with the apartment unit. "We have more than enough butter in there and leftover strawberries. Plus, the flour and sugar. Not sure any of that will be good for tonight. Ooh! Unless you wanna see if they carry french bread. If you pick up that and some garlic we can make garlic bread to go with dinner."

I was hungry even before I started on the cake, but talking about dinner is making my stomach grumble all over again.

"I wonder if coupons exist in a place like this," I wonder out loud as I grab my cake pan and start dumping in the mix. "I'll have to look into that later because those terrible sustenance cubes are just not gonna cut it for me. I realize food here is a luxury and I'm probably being ridiculous, but I have needs.

Garlic bread sounded like heaven and Carson couldn't resist flashing a small lop sided grin Eric's way. "I bet that wouldn't be too expensive," he agreed, and even with their mutual appetites he supposed if he found a large enough loaf that there might even be leftovers. The idea of not only having a decent dinner but also being able to stretch it into a halfway decent breakfast held a lot of appeal.

Particularly if there was cake involved.

"We're going to have to suck it up and find jobs," he pointed out with a shrug. Sustenance cubs and one set of proper clothing might have technically been enough to get by, but call him privileged for it but it didn't mean he'd be happy about it. While some menial job somewhere on the station would most likely want to brain himself or others with a blunt object, there was no denial that they were running out of credits fast. "But it can wait a day, I guess. If we're going to do this birthday thing, we should at least do it right."

He's not wrong, of course. Our credits are starting to run dangerously low and, unlike back in Darrow, they don't replenish. We'd both found that out the hard way. It's not like I'm against working, not at all. But I know there likely isn't a chance I'll be able to just waltz into any ol' place and land another baking gig. And, even if I did, it wouldn't be like what I had at Semele's. It never could be.

I guess some part of me, as stupid as it is, isn't quite ready to let go. And that's not something I ever would've imagined happening, honestly.

But Carson's right. We do need to get something or risk eating nothing but tasteless, horrible cubes for the rest of our lives.

"Birthday first," I agree, relieved to have that as a distraction for the moment. And yes, maybe it's also technically procrastination, but at least Carson's going along with it. "You need to make a list or do you think you can remember what to get? Elvis and I will stay here to man the baking. I promise it'll be the best darn cake you've had at least in the past year."

"I think I can handle remembering what I need for a spaghetti dinner," Carson snorted, rolling his eyes before taking one last quick peek at the mixing cake batter. He was a little more concerned about whether or not he'd find what he'd need, but from the few times he had braved down into the market portion of the station the fares had seemed familiar enough. There had been a few fruits or vegetables (or what he hoped had been fruits and vegetables) that had been alien and somewhat alarming, but the ingredient list was simple enough that he felt it would be only a minor challenge.

Even without going down there he was already half braced to wince when he saw the prices, but at this point there wasn't anything they could do short of pan handling or getting work.

"I'm going to grab my shoes and run down there. Wish me luck and keep the cat out of the baking, thanks." He was already starting to find cat hair on his clothes and the last thing he needed was to find it in his food. "Any last requests before I go? Keep in mind, if it's extravagant I'll expect you to pay me back."

"Elvis is being perfectly well-behaved, thank you very much," I reply even if we both know it's not entirely true. He is being slightly better than normal; I've only had to kick him off the counter twice so far, but he's hardly an angel when I'm busy in the kitchen. "And goodness, what sort of extravagant things are you expecting me to ask for? I mean, if you wana get me a belated birthday present, I won't say no."

After scooping the rest of the cake mix into the pan with a spatula, I wipe off the edge with a finger and take a taste. It's not bad so far if I do say so myself and I wave the spatulata at him. "Go on. You'll probably spend half your time just trying to find everything and if we're doin' this, we should at least try to eat a normal time. I'll keep my phone close if you need to call."

I hesitate then, just a second and then hold out the spatula. "You wanna taste test before you go?"

Edited 2016-06-23 18:25 (UTC)

Carson arched a brow dubiously at Eric's defense of Elvis and he had half a mind to launch into the string of complaints he had been accruing since taking up the empty space of the other boy's couch. The biting and random foot attacks weren't even on the top of the list, and if it hadn't been for the occasional forgivable trespass of waking up to a cat sprawled across his legs he may have demanded compensation for the frequent assaults on his person by the beast. As it was there were more important things at hand, such as real food, and he made the generous decision to let it slide.

"God, what are you, sixty?" He scoffed, pushing away from the counter with a roll of his eyes. "Established dinner times. Your dedication to propriety is adorably wholesome." With a sigh he raked a hand through his hair and prepared to wander back out to find his shoes, but stopped short with a blink when Eric offered the spatula to him. He was tempted to warn about the dangers of raw eggs and salmonella, but really, he was hungry for something other than the bland cubes from the vending machines.

"Yeah, okay." He decided, swiping his finger along the edge and gathering up some of the batter before popping his finger into his mouth. It took a ridiculous amount of self control to not hum when actual flavor hit his tongue. "Okay, yeah, woah." He agreed a moment later. "Definitely going to be worth it."

"It's better for the metabolism to eat at least four hours before going to bed," I tell him, narrowing my eyes a little at his tone. After weeks spent in such close proximity to Carson, though, it's easy to not take offense any more. It's just Carson being Carson.

He hesitates though, eying the spatula I'm holding out to him before he swipes a finger along the edge to gather up some of the batter. I'm definitely not looking at his mouth when he then pops that finger between his lips, but I can feel heat at the back of my neck all the same. I swear it's because he actually looks pleased at the taste though. No other reason.

"I know what I'm doin' when it comes to this sorta thing," I remind him with a small smile before quickly turning away and back to the mix at hand. "Now go on. The longer I stare at this stuff, the hungrier I get and I'm refusing to eat anymore cubes today."

He rolled his eyes without hesitation. Eric could try to mock him all he wanted about being too old for his age, but at the end of the day, he knew that of the two of them it was definitely the southern boy who played into the stereotype of the out dated southern gentleman. Maybe at first it had annoyed him, but if anything now it had grown to be more amusing than anything, and Carson exercised a rare show of restraint by biting his tongue instead of making a wisecrack back.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm going. You know, there's no excuse to get bossy when I'm the one who offered to cover dinner. You might want to consider that while I'm shopping or I might change my mind and hoard all that delicious pasta to myself." He scoffed and gave the boy a flippant parting wave before turning and leaving the kitchen and only moments later he had his shoes on and his communicator tucked into his pocket.

"I'll be right back!" he yelled from the door, and with a sigh he ducked out and into the hallway, lingering sweetness of cake batter still on his tongue.

"Oh my goodness, just go," I laugh, rolling my eyes even as he starts gathering his things and pulling on his shoes. For the life of me, Ill never understand why absolutely everything has to be an argument with Carson, but at least this one isn't really mean. It's playful, I guess. A playful friend fight.

Still not thinking about his mouth.

Carson shouts as he reaches the door and I give him a wave with my spatula before returning to the task at hand. I honestly have no idea how long it'll take him to get everything. The market area is still a little weird to navigate, even for me, with so many kinds of foods than I've ever, ever seen. I could get lost in one aisle for hours, I think, just trying to make heads or tails of all the unfamiliar boxes. Then again, maybe it'll be easier for Carson who at least has an easier time focusing in general.

It definitely feels like no time at all before he back, the front door swishing open to welcome him inside. It's perfect timing even as I'm putting just the finishing touches on the decorative frosting. This is always the hardest part of cakes for me, but I'm doing the best I can. I've gone with blue instead of the red I'd been planning and the message in the middle says, 'Happy Birthday Carson!' in what I hope isn't too loopy of a script. I think it looks nice anyway and it was none too easy trying to apply to this sort of cake.

Glancing over my shoulder as he steps into the kitchen, I grin at him. "So what'd you get? We probably want this to chill for an hour or two so we should have plenty of time to start cooking."

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[Sanctuary: Set for May 27th]

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