What Makes a Monster

♱Eighty-Eight♱

Wallie P.O.V.

Four Months Later

There's a cottage on a hilltop with a pond and swings. A vegetable garden rests around the back. There's a small dock with a boat to catch fish from the pond. It's the last house at the end of a long dirt road, perched quietly among high green grass and encircled by towering trees. Ivy and flowers twist around the wooden railings of the front porch that creaks under my weight. Noise comes from within and the scent of something burning.

"Soran," I call, pushing open the door with a chuckle. "Are you trying to cook again?"

I'm not surprised to find the culprit of our burnt dinner standing over the stove with a scowl. He pokes at the bubbling pot that is casting smoke in the kitchen. Luckily the windows are open, allowing it to slowly trickle outside. Malatis isn't so lucky though. He has determined it's safer to be in the backyard, frolicking in the grass rather than risk losing his sense of smell.

"I don't know if I'll ever get the hang of this," Soran grumbles, stepping away without me having to say a word. He pouts, his deep burgundy eyes narrowing on the enemy; the stove.

"Not like you ever had to worry much about the taste of food before. It's understandable you haven't caught on yet." I hold up the bag I got from the market that contains our dinner. It's always safest to buy a meal when Soran promises to cook.

He snatches the bag from my grasp. "I don't know if I should be angry that you trust me so little or proud that you know me so well."

"Mm, a bit of both!"

Soran rolls his eyes when setting the table. When he sits down, back pressing against the chair, he hisses.

"Something wrong?" I ask, coming over with our drinks.

"My back stings."

I raise a brow at that, leaning over to pull up his shirt. His skin is blistering red. "You're sunburnt! I told you not to stay out all day in the garden." I tug on his shirt, instructing him to take it off. He does so, hissing all the while. "You don't heal in the blink of an eye anymore."

"I know."

"So you need to be more careful and consider your condition!"

Soran nods.

"I bet you didn't wear gloves either. Do you have blisters too?!"

He tries to hide his hands under the table. I grab his wrists, holding them up to see that, yes, he has blisters. His nails are cracked, arms equally as red as his back. He was either ignoring the pain or expecting to heal himself up later.

"Soran-"

"I get it." He holds up his hands in surrender. "No need to nag."

"I don't nag."

"Yes you do." He smiles, switching the hold so that he's gripping my wrist. My cheeks heat up when he pulls me in, pressing a swift kiss to my lips. "I don't really mind though."

"H-Huh?"

"When you nag. I like it," he purrs.

I'm tempted to argue some more that I don't nag, but we both know it's a lie. I can't help it though. It's only been four months since Soran has become mortal. Teaching someone their limitations when they had gone their entire unnaturally long life without any is strenuous.

I still remember the first dinner we had; the first taste of food. The actual taste of food that he had been deprived of his whole life resulted in the wide-eyed giddiness of a child. I had never seen someone cry while eating, but I didn't interrupt him. He got sick afterwards though so we both learned our lesson from there. Another instance he grabbed a teapot from on top of the stove, burning the palm of his hand. I was a little concerned that he smiled, but I guess seeing his body react in the ways a person's should made the pain bearable.