The perfect serendipity of it makes Luo Binghe choke. A dish he associates with the one person who's ever truly loved him, served to him by the man who taught him never to expect that love from anyone ever again. Even as a child, in his frantic desperation for Shen Qingqiu's approval, he would never have been shameless enough to dream of it. Wildly, he thinks again that this must be a dream, this cannot be real—but he's looked and looked for signs of dream cultivation and found nothing. Every one of his senses is telling him that he's truly here, being served this innovative, unusual congee by Shen Qingqiu, or at least someone who looks like him. (But not entirely like him—the way this man uses that face, he almost looks like a different person.)
He glances up at that face now. Shen Qingqiu looks so nervous, his fingers twitching, mouth working like there's more he wishes to say but doesn't dare. Luo Binghe wants to hear it. After so many years of recrimination and abuse, he has a boundless thirst for any kind word Shen Qingqiu has for him. The depth of his need scares him; surely Shen Qingqiu can't possibly care enough for him to meet it.
He picks up the chopsticks and takes a bite.
... It's not good. Salt is the overwhelming flavor, and the texture does nothing to rescue it. Half the rice is overcooked, but the long brown pieces are still tough and chewy. Are they twigs? And underneath the salt, the whole thing tastes of plain boiled salmon. He swallows with some difficulty. He might think it's a practical joke, meant to make a fool of him after all, except that he saw Shen Qingqiu's hopeful, apprehensive face before he tried it. Luo Binghe often cooks for people he's trying to impress, because he is confident in his skills. But Shen Qingqiu clearly can't cook, and he still—he still wanted to—
"It's terrible," Luo Binghe whispers, and wipes furiously at the corner of his eye with his sleeve.
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momijizukamori
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Date: 2023-10-10 01:54 am (UTC)He glances up at that face now. Shen Qingqiu looks so nervous, his fingers twitching, mouth working like there's more he wishes to say but doesn't dare. Luo Binghe wants to hear it. After so many years of recrimination and abuse, he has a boundless thirst for any kind word Shen Qingqiu has for him. The depth of his need scares him; surely Shen Qingqiu can't possibly care enough for him to meet it.
He picks up the chopsticks and takes a bite.
... It's not good. Salt is the overwhelming flavor, and the texture does nothing to rescue it. Half the rice is overcooked, but the long brown pieces are still tough and chewy. Are they twigs? And underneath the salt, the whole thing tastes of plain boiled salmon. He swallows with some difficulty. He might think it's a practical joke, meant to make a fool of him after all, except that he saw Shen Qingqiu's hopeful, apprehensive face before he tried it. Luo Binghe often cooks for people he's trying to impress, because he is confident in his skills. But Shen Qingqiu clearly can't cook, and he still—he still wanted to—
"It's terrible," Luo Binghe whispers, and wipes furiously at the corner of his eye with his sleeve.