Chapter Text
You had said that I had to stay for dessert tonight. You had set it into the oven whilst we were having diner together, so that it would have cooled down to perfection by the time we’d cleared our plates. The aroma that had wafted from the baking had immediately alerted me of the way in which you wanted the night’s events to unfold.
All things considered, I wouldn’t refer to apples as my kryptonite. I’d feel more than flimsy were my weakness to be something sweet and fruity. But somewhere down the line, you’d made sure that I would one day come to love the taste. That day had already come, years ago, and the growth of that sentiment had been quite significant since then as well.
The moment that that seed had been planted though had to be the evening of the day we’d finally met. Three years of friendship held their own weight, but meeting face to face definitely had had a different quality to it. Your father had baked an Alsatian styled apple pie. He’d said, and I remember those exact words:
“John has told me how much of an apple fan you are.”
I wasn’t really. And I hadn’t even known that Alsace was a region of France back then. And yet, it had tasted so heavenly I’d almost wept at your kitchen table; the one you guys had specifically set out for my visit. But I’d voiced my ecstasy so thoroughly that I am absolutely sure that that had been the moment your belief that it indeed was my kryptonite had solidified.
I don’t know, maybe I should have been offended that a few comments on my side about apple juice had pushed you to such an extreme conclusion. I guess that before all of that, it had never been the actual taste of apple juice that affected me so positively. It was that knowledge that my brother would purchase it for me with the idea that as a much younger child, I’d get giddy at the sight of juice boxes. They just so happened to be apple back then, and from that point forward. I guess that both him and you had overestimated my actual interest in the flavour.
That apple pie. It must have been the happiness of understanding that I was that sort of friend you talked about at home. It must have been that flying to Washington had felt more like coming home than it had any right to. It was just the buildup of the day, it wasn’t the apple flavoured dessert, but you don’t know that.
It's not like you had given me much of a choice when it came to loving apple inspired desserts. On the following month of February, I was fourteen then, I’d randomly received a package from Washington. Your note had been as dumb and as heartwarming as the previous ones, the ones I still keep in my bedside table to this day. It had read:
happy st valentines dave!
my dad still talks about how crazy you were for his stupid apple pie. he is way too proud about that! so you better piss yourself this time with how good these cookies are because i made them myself. (well, at least pretend to like them, alright?)
come back soon so my dad and i can have a cook-off or something.
i don’t know, i miss you.
They were butterscotch apple cookies. I sat down on my bed and ate all eight of them in a row; the thought of waiting until the fourteenth of the month hadn’t even crossed my mind. Not that I had been thinking that I would go ahead and eat all of them in one go, it had just sort of happened.
It had happened in the sort of way that once more, my eyes had become a bit more watery than they should have been, and my tastebuds had sung to the heavens that this was as good as it could ever get for them. I still wasn’t crazy about apples, however I had felt crazily touched by your gesture. I had spent the rest of the night clutching my stomach and regretting my impulsive eating, but mostly, I was missing you too.
No, I had started loving apples as much as you thought that I did on that summer before our junior year. You had gotten my brother to drive us to an apple orchard. It was ridiculous because you’d come to my place so prepared that year that it had felt as if you were the one who’d spent your childhood in Houston.
Regardless, you’d spent all day with me picking apples. You’d said the reason you were sacrificing your day for ‘this lame shit’ was because that excursion was my early sixteenth birthday present, and that I certainly shouldn’t expect anything else when December finally rolled around. Not true, you’d still sent me a package for my birthday.
But... The countless rows of apple trees. The way you had looked while the sun was setting. The taste of the apples we had on our way back home in the car. It had felt as if that day had been misplaced in my timeline. As if it belonged to my childhood rather than anywhere else.
I never told you, but it had been important to me. To feel as if I had spent an entire one of those childhood days with you alongside me, rather than connected by two computer screens. I never told you, but that night, you were in my bed and I was on the mattress we had set out on my bedroom floor, you kept sneaking smiles at me... And, for once, I kept sneaking them back. That’s how we had fallen asleep, and from that day on I had accepted that maybe you could have the upper hand on me if you were to offer me anything that has to do with apples.
The knowledge doesn’t escape you, but you don’t really use it to your advantage. It’s a bit as if you use it to my advantage in fact, in a secret way to uplift me when I need it.
Tonight is different. Different is a weird word to use though because you’ve tried having this conversation with me for years now. It has become a monthly thing by now however. I know you’re still not trying to take advantage of me, it just so happens that you believe that were I to be uplifted, I’d come to agree to this. Because it’s the right thing to do, or so you say.
“So, should I keep the recipe?”
It’s kind of hard to think about these outcomes though when I’m halfway through the apple cinnamon burek you made. There’s more of the pastries resting by the stove, and I know you’ll put them in a tupperware later tonight so that I can bring them back to my place.
“Uh, duh? I could live off of this, like holy shit.”
You’d already been smiling though, you could already tell. It helped that I had scooped three more spoonfuls into my mouth before taking the time to reply.
Your fork is sitting in your plate though. You’ve been doing it for years, but I’m still happy every time you get a fork for yourself, and a spoon for me instead. Because it’s an unspoken preference you’ve never questioned or pointed out. You’re not thinking about dessert, I can tell as much. You’re thinking about the conversation you’ve actually been meaning to bring up tonight.
No matter which manner you opt for, introducing the topic is always somewhat cringe worthy. Well, I always have to bite down the urge to physically wince at these sorts of conversations. I’d much rather you keep eating rather than start on this again. I know how it’s going to go, you’ll start talking about it, and I’ll slide your plate towards me while you do, and we will be getting nowhere.
“You know, we could be spending more than a single meal a day together.”
It’s one of your smoother transitions, but your nervousness is tangible.
“That’s not true.”
I don’t bite the words out with as much harshness as I could have predicted. The guilt usually hits me once I’m by myself again, but you seem a lot more earnest than usual already. Maybe desperate, but I don’t particularly like attributing that word to you, or believing that anything relating to me could have that sort of impact on you.
“Yeah well, I want you to be eating more than one meal a day. And if you’re staying here you’re a lot less likely to forget. And you’ll have someone to eat with always, that’s a lot more fun, no?”
You see through my words and know my habits just as well as if we were already sharing a place though. I get that that must not be the upside you’re looking for, but...
“I come over every night for that anyway, don’t I? Isn’t that good enough?”
I can read on your face that now my words are getting snappy. You’re not stupid. I’m being defensive in an effort to push you back because I’m running out of reasonable justifications to turn you down, and you always have a new approach lined up to try again.
“It’s not a question of being good enough, Dave. I’m just making sure that you know that the offer is still there.”
Your hands move while you speak. I try not to stare. I think you should pick up your fork instead, but even then I’d probably stare at them. It would just help if you weren’t currently being so vocally emotional. Well, maybe emotional isn’t the best word to use. It would help if you weren’t so vocally supportive.
The thing that you don’t get is that it almost always is a question of being good enough. And were your support to be a bit more subtle, maybe it would be easier to accept whilst remaining as undeserving as I am.
“You don’t have to though. I already know. Hell, the whole world knows that I know.”
My voice isn’t sounding out the way I want it to, and I can tell from the strain in your gaze that it’s because it’s coming out as tired, exhausted, finished with this whole thing.
“I just don’t want you to forget that you’ll always be welcome here.”
Your tone isn’t obviously sad. It’s sad enough for it to be heartbreakingly so however. You always throw the invitation at me as if it were a lifebuoy though. You could just tell me that you want me to stay here. You don’t have to pass it off as a rescue.
Then again, maybe you don’t want that. Maybe your sadness really is a cause of your belief that I need this and that I am keeping myself from being happy.
“Are you going to eat that?” I ask you predictably.
I already slide the plate towards me as you respond with the predictable, “Made it for you, take it.”
I don’t bother swapping the utensils and end up with your fork instead. It tastes different, but not worse.
You’ve clasped your hands together over the table, I don’t stare though, I look up to your mouth and there’s already a sigh forming there. You don’t let it form, you transform it into words. I can’t help but to envy the control you have over yourself.
“You don’t have to say yes. I just wish you would give it some thought?”
Your right eyebrow lifts. You’re trying to be provocative. It’s not going to work. We still have never been in a fight up to date, and this won’t be our first one.
“But I have. I thought about it the first time you asked me, when you moved out of the dorms. Three years ago. I don’t get why I’m getting formal monthly inquiries about that decision now.”
You’re starting to look a bit remorseful. I guess it’s better than the alternative. You don’t take it as an insult, you understand that... Well, you might understand my reasons better than I do myself. That’s probably why you keep pushing.
My expression must match yours. Remorse all around the table. So I finish your plate instead of lingering on that bitter setup.
“Look, I know it’s been a tough year...” I decide not to let you finish that thought because your tone is telling me you’re going in for the jugular.
“For me. It’s been a tough year for me.”
It really must not sound all that sincere as I say it through my last bite. How rough can it all be? I taste nothing but apple and cinnamon. I spend my nights with one of the most important figures in my life. How tough has it really been?
It must have been anyway though because you answer with; “On everyone. If it’s a tough year for you, it’s a tough year for all of us.”
“Oh, alright, so it’s my fault now?”
Your hands unfold and you lay them flat onto the table instead. You’re telling me, there’s no need to be defensive. I know that there isn’t.
“It’s not easy to watch you struggle.” There’s a small comfort in the way your voice isn’t overly cautious, but it’s destabilizing all the same.
I had never considered myself to be struggling until everyone had started pointing it out. Until you had started pointing it out.
If the labels were up to me, I’d probably say that things have been the opposite of a struggle. In the past, in contrast, it had been a struggle. A constant fight to be adequate, up with the standard; simply being good enough.
I’ve just come to accept that I haven’t made it, and that it’s alright to stop reaching for it. It would be best if you could just let it be. But there’s no easy way of telling you that. There’s no easy way of telling you that I’m dealing with these things by myself and that I don’t need you in the middle of them.
“What’s your point?”
I’m trying to nudge you towards cutting to the chase. I stack up both our plates too. Just as I push my chair backwards, you stop me.
“You don’t have to do the dishes tonight.”
You’re buying yourself some time. Every night, when I do the dishes, it’s the indicator that I’m ready to leave. You want to use that timeframe to try to convince me tonight. I’d really rather help you out with the dishes.
I still stand up anyway. I know what you’d meant, you want me to use the time before the next scheduled bus back to my neighbourhood to discuss our separated living arrangement. I’ll just use your words to see myself out early instead.
Your expression is agitated as you mirror my action. It hurts too much to stay silent.
“So what, Egbert? You don’t think I’m doing well enough by myself and you just figure I need you to be able to stand on my own two legs?”
Because I haven’t used your first name, you’ve understood that you are fighting a losing battle. The simple slip-up is an obvious sign that I’m not investing myself in this exchange. I’m halfway to your front door when you find the way to retort.
You simply say; “Would it be so bad if you needed me?”
I refuse to acknowledge anything that you do or say as desperate. It’s sounding close though, so I make the colossal effort to not turn back towards you.
“I’ll meet you after work, alright? I’ll help you cook this time.”
This past year hasn’t been a struggle. But tying up my shoelaces is a struggle. I know you’re staring at me. I know that I’m refusing to look at you. And I know that my voice had come out as pained. But I don’t know why that is. I leave my right shoe untied.
“Dave...”
“I’m sorry, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Putting my arms through my jacket’s sleeves is a little less challenging and I manage to pat the spot over my pocket to check for my bus pass without too much embarrassment. But that’s it. That’s the only instant I give you before heading out the door. Not even a goodbye.
I race down the stairs too. It’s only one level down to reach the ground, but it takes me only a few seconds to find myself in the cold night air.
I could feel worse about my exit than I do, mostly because I know that we’ll be together tomorrow and that this will mean nothing by then and that we can try to have the same argument a month from now again.
Would it be so bad if I needed you?
There is at least a dozen of answers forming in my mind at once. None of them, I can get past the first few words. I don’t know the answer. I’m not interested in the answer.
Waiting for the bus helps. But once I’m seated, I remember that I had forgotten to take the rest of your dessert home. For a few moments, I strongly consider heading back to your place. Apologize. Maybe... Seriously discuss moving in.
The doors to the bus shut and I remember that that would all be a terrible idea. Still, there’s a distant urge to cry.
I don’t. Because it’s not worth it. Because I’ll come back tomorrow and we can eat those then. Tomorrow will be easier and you won’t... Well, whatever tonight has been. Tomorrow, things won’t seem so complicated.
It’s still difficult to keep a straight face though, so I pull out my phone from my left pocket, where it leans nicely against my bus pass.
i cant wait to see you tomorrow
Yeah. That won’t convince you that I don’t want to move in with you. But you answer straight away regardless. I feel a lot better.