The Pact (Scömìche)(completed)

20 The singer and the song

Will harmony be restored between Scott and Mitch?

I shouldn't have done this. I don't even know what I was thinking. I'm not ready. What if he's polite and distant? What if he hates the food, and hates me? What if, after all this time, we can't fix this?

Worries chased round and round until Scott's head was about to burst. He paced the kitchen, minutely adjusting the place settings at one end of the long table. He took away the glass containing the roses, then put it back again. There was a casual beauty in the overblown blooms and their haphazard arrangement, and he pushed them into the centre of the table. Perfect, he decided. Like he was trying, but not too hard.

Scott tried to distract himself with work, but after staring at the same email for five minutes he gave up and went out to the deck. There he watched the sun descend slowly while the sky shifted colour, and birds chirped, and a soft breeze caressed his face. He let his muscles relax, his shoulders drop, and almost believed he could drift off into a light doze.

The doorbell rang, and his heart stopped for a startled moment, before pounding away. Scott swallowed and breathed slowly. He checked his hair in the hallway mirror, then opened the door. His breath caught again at the sight of Mitch's polished perfection.

He wore an oversized dark blue leather jacket over another baggy white shirt, close fitting dark rousers and low heeled black boots. He carried a bottle of wine and a small bag that Scott guessed cost more than any of the other items, if Mitch's old tastes were anything to go by. From his smile to his shiny boots, he radiated confidence.

"Hi, come on in," Scott said, opening the door wide and gesturing inside. He couldn't shake hands and he couldn't risk a hug, but he hoped he was welcoming enough. "You didn't need to bring anything, but thank you. Can I take your jacket?"

"Hello Scott. I couldn't come empty handed," Mitch handed over the bottle of wine. "I got a nice Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, since you like red."

Mitch unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off his narrow shoulders. Scott stood behind him close enough to smell his scent, an intriguing mix of masculine woods and deep rose. He hung the jacket, then led the way into the kitchen.

"Can I get you a drink? We're having white wine with dinner, or if you don't want to start with that, water or juice or you know, pretty much all the usual things." He put the wine on the counter.

"Anything is good."

Despite Mitch's smile Scott felt a prickle of anxiety. He wanted a steer, this was new territory and the old rules no longer applied.

"Okay, well how about a glass of Chardonnay and you can watch while I start dinner. It's shrimp pasta."

"That sounds wonderful." Mitch sat at the island, hands clasped. "I didn't know you could cook."

"I wouldn't say cook, exactly. Avi taught me a couple of dishes. He said I couldn't get by on take-out all my life and that everybody should be able to feed themselves." He poured one glass of wine and one of water for himself.

"I'm sure that's right, for most people. Personally, I prefer to eat rather than cook, and it's working out so far."

Mitch sipped his wine while Scott assembled his ingredients and tools. He felt suddenly self-conscious, but then Mitch had more or less said he was no chef.

"You must have learned to cook pasta in Milan." Scott stirred the sauce and tasted it.

Mitch waved a hand. "The pasta there is delicious but not always gluten free, so I'm not much of an expert. I did learn to make risotto, as long as it's the proper rice."