Demyan's Fish Soup

[das_vedanya]

WHO: Alfred and Ivan
WHEN: Saturday Night on December 5th
WHERE: Alfred's Apartment
WHAT: Demyan's Fish Soup: The Russian phrase meaning "Being forced to eat against your will."
RATING: It's just... food, but God knows what will happen later. PG-13 to be safe.

Comments

[13_foundations]

"That's not true...!" Alfred protested, turning to face Ivan even as he pressed the ground beef into balls and then pressed them flat against the cutting board. "Remember the first time you ate here? I made you..." The blonde paused, dropping the meat into the frying pan next to the others and letting the sizzling fill the awkward silence. "Oh, no wait... that was burgers, wasn't it...."

In all honestly, now that he thought about it, he really did serve burgers whenever he could. Not like it really mattered, he loved the all American sandwich. Alfred shrugged dramatically and opened a pack of freezer french fries, dumping them onto the oven sheet. "Well, I like burgers. And they're American, like we planned. It was either that or hot dogs... and Mattie and I had some a yesterday after class."

[das_vedanya]

A colorful laugh followed Alfred’s words as the Russian casually leaned against the countertop. His hip brushed against Alfred’s preoccupied elbow, causing the now flushing Ivan to advert his eyes toward the window again. He could still recall the memories of their first encounter here. Alfred burned the fries, the meat was undercooked, he was nervous, but Ivan liked that uneasy laughs of his. He still liked it.

“I think I would rather have burgers… hot dogs always seemed sketchy to me.”

[13_foundations]

"They can be pretty good." He focused on pressing the meat into the frying pan with a spatula, carefully watching the color and ready to flip them when he deemed the patties ready. "But the good kinds are usually the expansive kind." The light brush of Ivan against his arm out of the corner of his eye was enthralling. He almost brushed his fingers against the curve of the pan with the wave of recollections and content that settled in so easily...

Alfred cleared his throat, placing his free hand on his hip. "So, cheese or no cheese? I've got cheddar and American."

[das_vedanya]

“No cheese,” his reply was almost like a reflex, mostly because he was still unfamiliar with the distinguishable tastes of the different American cheeses. All he could assume about every cheese native to America was that it was often a sickly orange color… very unlike творог.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how loud the sizzling of the beef was in the frying pan. He coughed awkwardly into his hand to occupy the uncomfortable silence, but it was drowned out by the roasting meat. “Should I… warm up the Piroshki?”