Original Fiction -- "Can't See the Sense in Crying"
Response to my Sensory Overload Challenge:
Title: "Can't See the Sense in Crying"
Sight: blue
Sound: sharp
Smell: musk
Touch: rough
Taste: coriander
Note (to those who didn't get here from the_originals: This is a piece of fiction depicting homosexual relationships. No like-y, no read-y. It is rated PG for smoochies, but nothing more.
Thanks to superboner and kashmir_ki_kali for beta-ing, and kashmir_ki_kali for making sure I spelled all the food correctly.
Sebastian had always associated coriander with sadness, though he knew it made very little sense. True, his mother always used to make chole with its coriander-spiced sauce whenever she was upset or worried, and that had been a lot of the time after Sebastian’s father had died. Sebastian’s mother cooked based on her moods: Italian when she was tired, a complex seafood paella when she was angry, falafel and sweet baklava when she was happy, and Indian when she was not. The last few years of her life were filled with naan and samosas, lovingly made to hide her tears, though Sebastian, who was only in his late teens by the end, knew she cried at night, when she had nothing to focus on but the cold emptiness of the bed and the sound of rain hitting the roof. It had been raining the day he died, and Sebastian knew that while coriander was his sadness, hers was the sharp sound of rain on the kitchen skylight, which was what she had to hear over when the police called her to say he husband was never coming home. It had taken her six months before she was willing to get into a car, and six more before she would drive. She never drove when it rained.
Sebastian loved the rain anyway, knowing it was the drunk driver and not the rain who was to blame for his father’s death. But coming home from college weekend after weekend to a house that smelled strongly of coriander and fennel and curry mixes had forever burned the association into his mind. He’d inherited his love of international food from his mother, but also the emotional associations.
So, when his mother died, hit by a car as she crossed the street in a light spring drizzle, the man had saved his doctoral dissertation and rolled up his sleeves, mixing chickpeas and spices to make chole, chewing on coriander leaves to keep the tears at bay. He’d studded the naan with fennel, just like she had, and then had stayed up all night making dozens of samosas in perfect little triangular pouches. At dawn he took the last batch out of the oven, and froze the rest, swearing he’d never cry again.
***
“I still don’t understand this thing you have about Indian food,” Max had said to him, the day after yet another boyfriend had left, swearing that Sebastian loved his work more than his lovers. “James leaves you nothing but a note addressed to ‘Dr. Blake, because you’ve forgotten how to answer to your first name,’ and you stay up all night making samosas and poori for your whole research team.”
“There are only four of you,” Sebastian pointed out, scooping more lamb biryani into his mouth. “And I was only up until 2.”
“Did you go to sleep when you’d finished?” Max asked. “Exactly!” he cried when Sebastian nodded. “Any other man would have gotten stone drunk or something, and you cook Indian food for five.”
“And chew coriander leaves,” Shelly added as she walked by. “I’ve known this guy since he was in college - youngest senior I’d ever seen, by the way - and he’s always had this love-hate relationship with Indian food. I guess skipping all those grades messed with his mind,” she joked before going back to her desk, which was covered in history books and artifacts, some of which Sebastian’s team had dug up and others that they had on loan to study. “It’s almost as strange as when he mutters to him self in Sumerian.”
“Remind me to tease her the next time she alphabetizes the ‘fridge, will you?” Sebastian asked Max, loud enough that Shelly could hear. She muttered something rude in Latin and Sebastian laughed. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, but he was too tired to care about maintaining the ‘no, I’m fine’ illusion.
***
When Sebastian opened the door to his apartment, he wasn’t sure whether he was more surprised by the fact that Max was standing there in front of his door on a weekend, or the fact that his arms were full of shopping bags, so that only his worn blue jeans and ash blonde hair were visible. He quickly relieved the other man of half his burden and pointed him in the direction of the kitchen. Catching the musky scent of the other man’s aftershave as he walked past, Sebastian waited for him to enter the kitchen before taking a deep breath, closing the door, and following him. “Dare I ask why you’ve decided to restock my ‘fridge?” he asked, watching as Max began putting things away as if he owned the place.
“I’ve decided to break you of whatever issue it is that you have about Indian food,” he said matter-of-factly, making a pile of all the spices he’d purchased next to Sebastian’s already full spice rack. “We’re making dinner.”
“And you didn’t think that I had all of this stuff?” he asked, gathering the discarded bags and throwing them away.
“It never hurts to be careful,” Max pointed out, and Sebastian had to agree with his logic. “Plus, I know you, and I know I can convince you to make extra and feed us poor research slaves tomorrow, too, like you do every time you make Indian food.”
Sebastian laughed but didn’t disagree, knowing it was the truth. “So, what’s on the menu, chef?” he asked. “Nothing too complex, I hope, since we both know I’ll be doing all the cooking.”
Max smiled beatifically. “I can help, you know, if you tell me what to do. I was thinking samosas, your famous lamb biryani, poori, raita, naan with fennel” he listed off, counting on his fingers. “And that chole thing you make. You only make it when you’re really upset, so I think it needs this exorcism the most.”
“My Indian food isn’t haunted,” Sebastian argued, though in a way he guessed it was - haunted by the ghosts of dead family and dead relationships, failed exams and failed job interviews. “Fine, fine, let me get the cookbook.”
***
Hours later, Sebastian was washing dishes while Max put away the leftovers, all packaged and ready to be given out the next day in care packages to his neighbors and research team. “Do you feel better, now?” he asked Max. “Are my ghosts all gone?”
“Almost,” the blonde said, head and torso block from view since he was behind the open ‘fridge door.
Sebastian smiled and turned back to the dishes, enjoying the companionable silence broken only by the whirring of the ‘fridge and the little splashes that are part and parcel of washing dishes by hand. He was surprised out of his reverie when Max silently touched him on the shoulder. Sebastian turned to him and Max kissed him.
Sebastian was so surprised that his body responded before his brain could, and he opened his mouth to Max’s questing tongue. He was surprised, however, to be overwhelmed by the taste of coriander, which brought him back to his senses. He broke the kiss with a gasp and stared at Max, who was grinning with a distinct sense of accomplishment. “Hopefully now you’ll associate coriander with good things rather than bad.”
“But...why?” Sebastian asked, fighting to gather his brain together enough that he could make coherent sentences. “Why that way?”
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” Max admitted, “without the coriander, of course. But first there was James, and then I didn’t want to do anything, even though you looked ok.” He reached up and touched the rough stubble on Sebastian’s cheek, and he leaned into the touch after a moment’s hesitation. “I didn’t know what the problem was, and still don’t, really, but I hope I can help you fix it. And I don’t just mean about Indian food.”
“A long time ago, I told myself I’d never cry, because there was no sense it,” Sebastian said, breaking away from Max so he could dry his soapy hands on a towel. “Somewhere along the way Indian food got tangled up in the way I express grief.” He turned away from Max, running a hand through his dark hair and then over his face. “I could never remember having Indian food when I was happy, when I was anything other than alone and sad, so I didn’t.”
“We can fix that,” Max said, wrapping his arms around Sebastian from behind and pulling him close. “You won’t be alone anymore, if you let me be with you.”
Sebastian turned in Max’s arms and buried his fingers in the other man’s hair. He kissed him deeply, tongues dancing, and all throughout the taste of coriander, which Sebastian knew he’d never associate with death and sadness again. “I definitely can’t see the sense in crying,” he said, kissing Max again, “when there’s someone to share with.”
Title: "Can't See the Sense in Crying"
Sight: blue
Sound: sharp
Smell: musk
Touch: rough
Taste: coriander
Note (to those who didn't get here from the_originals: This is a piece of fiction depicting homosexual relationships. No like-y, no read-y. It is rated PG for smoochies, but nothing more.
Thanks to superboner and kashmir_ki_kali for beta-ing, and kashmir_ki_kali for making sure I spelled all the food correctly.
Sebastian had always associated coriander with sadness, though he knew it made very little sense. True, his mother always used to make chole with its coriander-spiced sauce whenever she was upset or worried, and that had been a lot of the time after Sebastian’s father had died. Sebastian’s mother cooked based on her moods: Italian when she was tired, a complex seafood paella when she was angry, falafel and sweet baklava when she was happy, and Indian when she was not. The last few years of her life were filled with naan and samosas, lovingly made to hide her tears, though Sebastian, who was only in his late teens by the end, knew she cried at night, when she had nothing to focus on but the cold emptiness of the bed and the sound of rain hitting the roof. It had been raining the day he died, and Sebastian knew that while coriander was his sadness, hers was the sharp sound of rain on the kitchen skylight, which was what she had to hear over when the police called her to say he husband was never coming home. It had taken her six months before she was willing to get into a car, and six more before she would drive. She never drove when it rained.
Sebastian loved the rain anyway, knowing it was the drunk driver and not the rain who was to blame for his father’s death. But coming home from college weekend after weekend to a house that smelled strongly of coriander and fennel and curry mixes had forever burned the association into his mind. He’d inherited his love of international food from his mother, but also the emotional associations.
So, when his mother died, hit by a car as she crossed the street in a light spring drizzle, the man had saved his doctoral dissertation and rolled up his sleeves, mixing chickpeas and spices to make chole, chewing on coriander leaves to keep the tears at bay. He’d studded the naan with fennel, just like she had, and then had stayed up all night making dozens of samosas in perfect little triangular pouches. At dawn he took the last batch out of the oven, and froze the rest, swearing he’d never cry again.
***
“I still don’t understand this thing you have about Indian food,” Max had said to him, the day after yet another boyfriend had left, swearing that Sebastian loved his work more than his lovers. “James leaves you nothing but a note addressed to ‘Dr. Blake, because you’ve forgotten how to answer to your first name,’ and you stay up all night making samosas and poori for your whole research team.”
“There are only four of you,” Sebastian pointed out, scooping more lamb biryani into his mouth. “And I was only up until 2.”
“Did you go to sleep when you’d finished?” Max asked. “Exactly!” he cried when Sebastian nodded. “Any other man would have gotten stone drunk or something, and you cook Indian food for five.”
“And chew coriander leaves,” Shelly added as she walked by. “I’ve known this guy since he was in college - youngest senior I’d ever seen, by the way - and he’s always had this love-hate relationship with Indian food. I guess skipping all those grades messed with his mind,” she joked before going back to her desk, which was covered in history books and artifacts, some of which Sebastian’s team had dug up and others that they had on loan to study. “It’s almost as strange as when he mutters to him self in Sumerian.”
“Remind me to tease her the next time she alphabetizes the ‘fridge, will you?” Sebastian asked Max, loud enough that Shelly could hear. She muttered something rude in Latin and Sebastian laughed. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, but he was too tired to care about maintaining the ‘no, I’m fine’ illusion.
***
When Sebastian opened the door to his apartment, he wasn’t sure whether he was more surprised by the fact that Max was standing there in front of his door on a weekend, or the fact that his arms were full of shopping bags, so that only his worn blue jeans and ash blonde hair were visible. He quickly relieved the other man of half his burden and pointed him in the direction of the kitchen. Catching the musky scent of the other man’s aftershave as he walked past, Sebastian waited for him to enter the kitchen before taking a deep breath, closing the door, and following him. “Dare I ask why you’ve decided to restock my ‘fridge?” he asked, watching as Max began putting things away as if he owned the place.
“I’ve decided to break you of whatever issue it is that you have about Indian food,” he said matter-of-factly, making a pile of all the spices he’d purchased next to Sebastian’s already full spice rack. “We’re making dinner.”
“And you didn’t think that I had all of this stuff?” he asked, gathering the discarded bags and throwing them away.
“It never hurts to be careful,” Max pointed out, and Sebastian had to agree with his logic. “Plus, I know you, and I know I can convince you to make extra and feed us poor research slaves tomorrow, too, like you do every time you make Indian food.”
Sebastian laughed but didn’t disagree, knowing it was the truth. “So, what’s on the menu, chef?” he asked. “Nothing too complex, I hope, since we both know I’ll be doing all the cooking.”
Max smiled beatifically. “I can help, you know, if you tell me what to do. I was thinking samosas, your famous lamb biryani, poori, raita, naan with fennel” he listed off, counting on his fingers. “And that chole thing you make. You only make it when you’re really upset, so I think it needs this exorcism the most.”
“My Indian food isn’t haunted,” Sebastian argued, though in a way he guessed it was - haunted by the ghosts of dead family and dead relationships, failed exams and failed job interviews. “Fine, fine, let me get the cookbook.”
***
Hours later, Sebastian was washing dishes while Max put away the leftovers, all packaged and ready to be given out the next day in care packages to his neighbors and research team. “Do you feel better, now?” he asked Max. “Are my ghosts all gone?”
“Almost,” the blonde said, head and torso block from view since he was behind the open ‘fridge door.
Sebastian smiled and turned back to the dishes, enjoying the companionable silence broken only by the whirring of the ‘fridge and the little splashes that are part and parcel of washing dishes by hand. He was surprised out of his reverie when Max silently touched him on the shoulder. Sebastian turned to him and Max kissed him.
Sebastian was so surprised that his body responded before his brain could, and he opened his mouth to Max’s questing tongue. He was surprised, however, to be overwhelmed by the taste of coriander, which brought him back to his senses. He broke the kiss with a gasp and stared at Max, who was grinning with a distinct sense of accomplishment. “Hopefully now you’ll associate coriander with good things rather than bad.”
“But...why?” Sebastian asked, fighting to gather his brain together enough that he could make coherent sentences. “Why that way?”
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” Max admitted, “without the coriander, of course. But first there was James, and then I didn’t want to do anything, even though you looked ok.” He reached up and touched the rough stubble on Sebastian’s cheek, and he leaned into the touch after a moment’s hesitation. “I didn’t know what the problem was, and still don’t, really, but I hope I can help you fix it. And I don’t just mean about Indian food.”
“A long time ago, I told myself I’d never cry, because there was no sense it,” Sebastian said, breaking away from Max so he could dry his soapy hands on a towel. “Somewhere along the way Indian food got tangled up in the way I express grief.” He turned away from Max, running a hand through his dark hair and then over his face. “I could never remember having Indian food when I was happy, when I was anything other than alone and sad, so I didn’t.”
“We can fix that,” Max said, wrapping his arms around Sebastian from behind and pulling him close. “You won’t be alone anymore, if you let me be with you.”
Sebastian turned in Max’s arms and buried his fingers in the other man’s hair. He kissed him deeply, tongues dancing, and all throughout the taste of coriander, which Sebastian knew he’d never associate with death and sadness again. “I definitely can’t see the sense in crying,” he said, kissing Max again, “when there’s someone to share with.”