Work Text:
His knife is missing.
Work was kind of shitty today, the people at the store as he picked up groceries for what was meant to be tomorrow's lunch were even shittier, and the quaint little café on the corner on the way home ran out of all cakes except the weird vegan “cheesecake” that never caught even a whiff of cheese or cake in its whole existence and was always left at the end of the day because nobody except the owner liked it all that much; he was looking forward to the last bowl of leftover stew only to realize, upon opening the fridge, that he packed it for Adder to have for lunch at work, so he'll have to cook something else, and now... now his favourite knife is missing.
Knives get misplaced regularly in their kitchen – his kitchen, really, as Adder's not exactly prohibited but certainly actively discouraged from dwelling in it for longer than absolutely necessary, and mostly only spends any sort of time there to load and unload the dishwasher. Janosh has accumulated a fair amount of blades of all kinds over the years, each of them serving their own specific purpose with only two or three deemed “universal”, and of those only one earning itself the very honourable label of The Favourite.
The smallest ones can often be found in random places, having been used for anything from shortening the skewer sticks, through cleaning the snagged edge of sandal's rubber sole, all the way to cutting off pieces of scotch-tape or loose thread dangling from the shirt's hem because the scissors were too far.
The bigger ones often migrate all around the kitchen area, though don't usually find their way outside it. Those are the ones most likely to hide under the stand mixer or behind the stacked cutting boards leaned against the wall behind the sink, or left in the draining basket there for an undetermined amount of time.
The biggest ones, the group crowned by the proudly gleaming and always meticulously sharpened Favourite, those are the only ones usually never straying too far from their designated places in the sturdy hand-made knife block Adder cut, glued and sanded himself as a gift for Janosh the Christmas after his fortieth birthday - which he managed to forget entirely.
And now the place of pride yawns empty, the familiar polished wood handle of the biggest knife clearly missing. It's not a cause for panic, exactly, not yet, he's just a human being and can get distracted sometimes before cleaning it and putting it away properly. But the facts do not seem favourable right now. All the countertops are free of any blades, there's no stray cutlery in the sink, and even the thought of his biggest knife fitting into the draining basket and staying there without overbalancing the whole thing is laughable. It's not mysteriously found its way into any of the drawers, nor is it peeking out of the sea of spatulas and wooden spoons in the big glazed ceramic jar tucked into the corner of the counter space.
He can easily use a different knife, they've all proven themselves over the years and fit nice enough in his grip, and it seems more and more likely he will have to if he wants to actually start cooking any time soon, but... But. It's his favourite, and the day's already shitty enough as it is, and the knife must be somewhere around, right? He must've just put it down in some weird, improbable place, very likely distracted in the middle of cooking by something Adder said or did, not even realising he forgot to return it to its place, and when was the last time he had it in hand anyway? He can't even recall...
The dishwasher switches from the gentle humming of the slow wash cycle to the faster, more aggressive phase of rinsing, and that's when a cold grip of suspicion and dread wraps around his soul and squeezes. The dishwasher is Adder's responsibility, that's what they settled on a long time ago – Janosh does all the cooking, Adder takes care of the dishes afterwards. And he can be a bit lackadaisical, a little scatterbrained in this, not caring all that much if the print on of the mugs gets smeared and faded because it's meant to be hand-wash only, or if the cheap plastic IKEA cutting board warps from the heat in there. But he wouldn't... surely he wouldn't just carelessly chuck one of Janosh's knives in the dishwasher. And least of all The Favourite. He just wouldn't... right?
Eyes closed, he takes one deep breath, two, wrestles the panicky thoughts under control. Right. Whether the worst has or has not come to pass, there's nothing more to be done about it at this point, not until the cycle runs through and he can see for himself what is or isn't lurking in the machine's metal and plastic innards.
He's almost not hungry anymore. But he does need to smooth his frazzled nerves somehow, and what's better for that than a near-meditative process of preparing food with the most deserved reward of a delicious meal at the end?
The dishwasher turns quiet with one last shudder as he's stirring the thickening dill sauce, and he allows himself a few more minutes of sweet ignorance, but once the sauce is done, well-seasoned and no longer in danger of burning if not properly stirred, there's no good reason to put off the inevitable. With a heavy sigh, he steels himself and pulls the dishwasher open. The steam trapped inside billows out into his unsuspecting face; it takes a while to comb through all the crockery and cutlery inside, and then to look through it again, just in case.
But no, the knife is not there.
On one hand, it's such a relief he almost feels the immense weight dropping off his chest. On the other... He still remains knife-less, and more importantly, has absolutely no clue left as to where the knife could actually be hiding. The only place he's not looked yet is the bathroom, and if the knife's been secreted away in the dangerous depths of the laundry bin... he doesn't even want to think about it. Better to go back to fixing dinner.
It's still preying on his mind as he drains the potatoes, not leaving his mind even as he's peeling the hard-boiled eggs. He's too unsettled to properly enjoy the food so decides to wait up for Adder instead and starts unloading the dishwasher to keep busy and distracted in the meantime.
He's putting away the plates, the small dessert plate in his hand reminding him of something, but what? He can't recall and it's knocking on his conscience now, there's something he's forgetting and this tiny piece of crockery is trying to tell him what, it's on the tip of his tongue, if only he could...
The door clicks open, and he can hear shuffling and muted half-hearted curses as Adder comes in, kicking his shoes off and leaving them wherever they land, no doubt. It's the last thing Janosh needs today, to trip over misplaced shoe, and he's already frowning menacingly in preparation of dishing out a lecture as he emerges from the kitchen, the little dessert plate still clutched in one hand, half-raised as if to use it in place of a pointer.
The startled, bug-eyed expression on Adder's face as he notices Janosh looming in the doorway would be extremely comical if it wasn't so very guilty and suspicious. Whatever he thinks Janosh is miffed about, it's clearly something bigger than a carelessly deposited shoe. That only makes the frown deepen. The plate in his hand squeaks as his grip tightens subconsciously, and he sees Adder's gaze flit towards it as he swallows, a little twitchy. Hmm...
He makes a quick decision to stay silent for now; a nervous Adder is a defensive Adder, and letting him stew in silence is the best way to make him spill the beans. He holds off for a few moments, eyes darting from Janosh's grim face to the plate in his hand a few times, lips firmly pressed closed, but then he - as predicted – caves.
“Fuck off, I didn't even do anything,” he whines and goes to throw his arms but stops himself at the last moment; there's a thin carboard box happily sitting there propped against his chest, and how did Janosh not notice before?
“Not anything, hey?” he hums, even more curious now. “Sure there nothing to confess?”
The eyes catch on the plate again, the lower lip gets the biting treatment, and then...
“Kurwa, alright! I confess! I ate your cake!”
Whatever Janosh expected to hear, this was not it. But it's at this moment that the puzzle pieces finally slot into place and he recalls why the plate was calling to him like that. The last time he saw it, it was not empty and clean, but sitting pretty in the fridge, waiting for him to take it out today and eat the slice of cake on it.
The same cake that was now nowhere to be found because, apparently, a certain gluttonous thief decided to pilfer it for himself.
Janosh heaves an exasperated sigh and is about to turn around and heat up the dinner when Adder suprises him once more by raising the box higher and loudly proclaiming: “But I bought you more!”
“You did?” Janosh blinks, confused. Adder shrugs and nods. Janosh eyes the big box suspiciously. “Whole cake?”
Adder nods again and rolls his eyes. Clearly it's a whole cake, what use would the big box serve for one measly slice? And it's not like Janosh, of all people, would have a hard time eating the whole cake, even if he'll stretch it over several days to savour it properly.
But Janosh is still confused, the gesture very lovely but just as unusual.
“Why?” he can't help but ask.
Adder blinks at him, like his question doesn't make any sense, like he's dim for not understanding immediately. “The hell you mean, why? It's a gift!”
But you don't bring me gifts, Janosh wants to say. It's not quite true, though, is it? He's never gotten flowers, or a box of chocolates just because, and sometimes even things like birthdays and anniversaries go by with nothing to mark the occasion, but that doesn't mean there's never anything, though the gifts tend to be less passing fancies and more of a practical kind, like fixing the leaking faucet without prompting, or retightening the loose handles on all the pots and pans just because of a stray curse, or...
“You know where my knife?” he blurts out and Adder startles so hard he almost drops the box.
“Can't find it,” Janosh clarifies. Adder frowns, looks down, then sideways, coughs; then he pushes past into the kitchen where he deposits the box on the table and takes off his backpack to... fish out the missing knife, all snug in its protective sheath, the polished handle gleaming like never before.
“Got it properly sharpened for you,” he mutters and presses it against the other's chest. Janosh raises his hand automatically, catches the blade in time; catches the retreating hand, too, before it slips away completely. Something warm and butter-soft blooms in his chest, warmer than what's already there, thick and sweet like honey and aching so dearly with the new swell of fondness for this darling creature, and he can't help but smile.
“I will kiss you now,” he announces, grinning so wide his moustache dances, and does just that.