It was an old recipe, handed down on the female side of the family for generations. That is, until Kit was born. Being the only child and the only son, it took his mother years to decide that maybe, maybe even the boychild could be worthy. This boychild, at any rate.
So she sat him down one day when he came home from school and told him. Told him about the spices and what he had to say to make it work, told him he wasn't to give it to anyone until he knew for sure that she was it, she was the one he wanted to spend his life with.
Kit was twelve at the time, so he didn't pay a whole lot of attention, but he remembered the recipe, because he knew what his mother looked like when it was important.
And now, now--he's sitting here, in this tiny college kitchen/lounge, and there's a skinny boy on the couch, crying so hard his thin shoulders are shaking. And there's a girl next to him, stroking his back and looking at Kit every now and then with this helpless, tired look in her eyes.
Kit swallows against the lump in his stomach, because he knows now, knows what his mother meant when she said "Until you're sure", and it's both of them. Both of them. He wants to go call her and yell at her, because it's supposed to be just a girl, he's not supposed to fall in love with two people at once, and everything hurts, just a little.
Except, no, he knows what he has to do.
He tells Aria to wait, to keep talking to Rick, and he walks back to his room, gets the vegetables he bought yesterday instead of the poptarts he went to the store for, and he gets the spice mix he brought from home.
And then he makes the soup, talking quietly all the while, both to the soup and to Aria and Rick, who finally stops crying once the soup starts simmering, and then he pours them both a portion in mismatched mugs. There's none left for him, but there isn't supposed to be any.
Watching them eat makes him a little warm, Rick's mouth and Aria's fingers curled around the mug, and he wants, wants so fiercely it almost scares him. He never feels like this, he's always the one to walk away, but he's so sure now that he won't be able to this time.
And it's okay, it's alright, he decides, because if all he gets to do with this feeling is make them soup, well. He could keep doing it forever.
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It was an old recipe, handed down on the female side of the family for generations. That is, until Kit was born. Being the only child and the only son, it took his mother years to decide that maybe, maybe even the boychild could be worthy. This boychild, at any rate.
So she sat him down one day when he came home from school and told him. Told him about the spices and what he had to say to make it work, told him he wasn't to give it to anyone until he knew for sure that she was it, she was the one he wanted to spend his life with.
Kit was twelve at the time, so he didn't pay a whole lot of attention, but he remembered the recipe, because he knew what his mother looked like when it was important.
And now, now--he's sitting here, in this tiny college kitchen/lounge, and there's a skinny boy on the couch, crying so hard his thin shoulders are shaking. And there's a girl next to him, stroking his back and looking at Kit every now and then with this helpless, tired look in her eyes.
Kit swallows against the lump in his stomach, because he knows now, knows what his mother meant when she said "Until you're sure", and it's both of them. Both of them. He wants to go call her and yell at her, because it's supposed to be just a girl, he's not supposed to fall in love with two people at once, and everything hurts, just a little.
Except, no, he knows what he has to do.
He tells Aria to wait, to keep talking to Rick, and he walks back to his room, gets the vegetables he bought yesterday instead of the poptarts he went to the store for, and he gets the spice mix he brought from home.
And then he makes the soup, talking quietly all the while, both to the soup and to Aria and Rick, who finally stops crying once the soup starts simmering, and then he pours them both a portion in mismatched mugs. There's none left for him, but there isn't supposed to be any.
Watching them eat makes him a little warm, Rick's mouth and Aria's fingers curled around the mug, and he wants, wants so fiercely it almost scares him. He never feels like this, he's always the one to walk away, but he's so sure now that he won't be able to this time.
And it's okay, it's alright, he decides, because if all he gets to do with this feeling is make them soup, well. He could keep doing it forever.