Take my heart

Chapter XVI

 "Sugar."

"Yes, honey?" Caesar asks, though he's already moving toward the cupboard where Connor keeps the granulated sugar. It's right above Connor's head, so he stops behind him to open the cabinet door, and the boy takes the chance to elbow him on the chest for the stupid joke.

As he's reaching up, moving a cereal box out of the way, Connor turns his head toward him, and he feels him tense up for a split second. Caesar looks back at him, sugar in hand, and raises a questioning eyebrow. Connor gapes at him for a moment, long enough for Caesar to realize they're standing so close it's like he's fitted himself against the other's body, one of his legs between Connor's and his free hand on his waist.

He steps back without acknowledging the situation, because really, that's not all that unusual. Connor does the same, takes the sugar from him and focuses back on making the beignets. With a hum, Caesar leans on the breakfast aisle and watches.

Beignets are a weirdly specific recipe to be one of the few things Connor can cook. One of his step-sisters taught him how to make them when they were fifteen, because he wanted to impress a girl from his ceramic workshop that was obsessed with french cuisine. Caesar is not sure beignets are the most french thing, but they were the first Connor managed, followed by a soup and something equally boring. He got the girl, eventually, so props to him. Still, Caesar is probably the one that benefited the most from the whole affair.

"We're not eating these before having something that can actually count as dinner," Connor speaks up a several minutes later, as he starts frying the first little balls. "Pick something now or I'll shove a salad down your throat."

"Adorable," Caesar quips. "Instant noodles."

"Lame."

He puts some water to boil anyway, and Caesar smirks to himself. The noodles are done before the last batch of beignets, so he brings them to the couch, along with a juice jug and a couple glasses, then goes back to the kitchen and waits for Connor on the threshold. The boy doesn't pay attention to him, busy trying not to burn the food.

There's something on Connor's gray jacket, a little bit of fluff or a loose thread. Caesar fixates on it for a moment, then follows—without realizing—the slope of his shoulder and the shift of his back under the fabric as Connor moves his arm to take the last beignets out. His eye catches on the spot of flour on Connor's forearm, slips down to the black and gold watch on his wrist, comes to a final stop on his only half expert motions as he dusts the beignets with powdered sugar.

"You could have started eating if you're so hungry," Connor startles him out of his daze, turning around with a plate in his hands. He seems to have mistaken the reason why Caesar was staring, even if Caesar himself can't tell the actual reason apart.

"I don't mind waiting," he says, and leads the way back to the living room.

By the end of dinner, his fingers are greasy and his pants are dirty with powdered sugar, but being gross doesn't shrink the balloon of satisfaction in his chest. Connor can stomach only three beignets, so Caesar eagerly takes nine of the rest. The three left will only have a few minutes more to live, but they're going down soon.

It's uncertain who suggests it, in a gesture or a nudge or a sound, but they find themselves on a balcony of the building's second floor, overlooking the garden that Connor's stepfather looks after when he's in town. Connor props his elbows on the railing and stares off into the distance, the orange and purple lights of a city they know by heart. Caesar leans next to him against the railing, facing the inside of the house, and picks a playlist in his phone. His friend huffs his approval at the first song.