hippie_ninja | IC INBOX

He grins and pointedly holds it away from Drake's reach.

"I didn't know cooking was an option," he admits. Every meal he's had for the past eight years has been stew. It doesn't really occur to him anymore that people know how to make anything more unique.

"I've definitely offered," Drake counters, though he doesn't sound put out about it at all. "I only knew the basics back home, but winding up in Hadriel where food was so hard to come by in the first place? Really had to get creative and up our game."

Granted, most of his time there he couldn't taste anything so it was even more difficult... but he managed. His grin softens at the memory of something before he looks back at Jesus.

"You ever try cooking for a date during your apocalypse? I remember the sense of triumph the night I managed to put together something that reminded him of Chinese takeout... in an alien warzone."

"I should explain what 'cooking' means where I'm from. We don't have seasonings, and we all eat stew because we all have to feed communities." It's nothing to complain about but here is Drake offering a real home cooked meal.

"How did you find seasonings in a war zone?"

"That makes sense for what you've described. Our situation was just... really fucking weird. The alien part was as much of an issue as the war part, cuz we were hiding out on all these inhospitable worlds because of the war and that meant our food came from the aliens. Who fed off emotion so they didn't really understand actual food."

Yes, he's aware this sounds completely insane. Try living it for years, it never got less crazy.

"Most of the time there was enough even if it was awful. But there were plenty of times that we were cut off from them entirely. And my situation was..." he trails off, not sure if he should talk about that, and winds up shrugging. "I know what it's like to be starving to death. And how overwhelming it is being here where there's so much again."

It's one of those things, those unasked for bits of comfort, to hear that. It's such an awful thing to have in common; he would never want someone to know what it feels like to starve. No one should know what it's like to wonder which of your neighbors starved to death in the night (and that's setting aside the fact that he was often the one who then had to put those neighbors down after they'd turned).

"It's a lot," he says, his voice a little thicker than he expected. He swallows. "I'm glad for it. But it's a lot sometimes."

"I did readjust. And we're never gonna take it for granted, which is a good thing. But there's still times where I'll, like, be excited to have something I haven't tasted in forever, and instead of just being nostalgic... first I'll remember why it's been so long."

He pauses, then seems to make a decision and swaps his box to the other hand and reaches to take Jesus' and give it a little squeeze.

"If that ever happens for you, just know I get it."

He looks at his takeout container (easier, just now, than to look at Drake but he makes himself do that, too). "It happens sometimes."

He threads his fingers with Drake's, and isn't sure he is allowed, but he needs it for these few seconds. "Do you ever have trouble sleeping here?"

Don't worry, Jesus. He's extremely cuddly, just doesn't usually initiate contact uninvited. Never anything intimate... but this felt alright, and when Jesus confirms it's welcome by holding on he might notice Drake's posture visibly relaxing.

"Yeah. That's not new for me but the reasons have changed a little." He doesn't want to get into that right out on the street, but they're nearly back to the sub housing. While he still can, Drake strokes his thumb over Jesus' knuckles affectionately. "You can tell me why, if you want. Let's just get inside."

"I wish I knew," he says as they step inside. He says it lightly; they don't have to go into it, especially when he has no insight into it. He only brought it up in the small hope that Drake did, and that Drake had overcome it. "I never had trouble sleeping before I came here. It's just louder here. Busier here. I'm still getting used to it."

"Falling asleep, you mean? Not staying asleep?" That, he does actually have advice about. His frustrating issue is the nightmares. And sometimes the loneliness. "Just the noise would be an easy fix, but if it's more like you can't wind down that's different."

"I can fall asleep. But I wake up four or five times a night. Sometimes I can figure out what woke me up." The traffic outside, the neighbors. "When I can't, though, I can't go back to sleep."

"...you're on high alert," Drake says, expression thoughtful as Jesus leads him to the right apartment. The down housing is just as shit as he remembers, unsurprisingly, but he's lived in worse before. "Do you feel tired even when you do make it through a night?"

"It's complicated. But I haven't felt like I've had a decent night's sleep in weeks. At least there's coffee everywhere, right?"

Except coffee doesn't really help, and he's pretty sure Drake knows that.

"Too bad being more alert doesn't make you any less tired," is his response, his wry tone immediately proving Jesus right. He was undercover vice and major crimes -- running on caffeine and adrenaline was a frequent and miserable occurrence.

He leads him inside, after he gives him a sympathetic grimace. "You have any tips?"

"Maybe. I've got more questions, starting with why you said it's complicated."

Inside, Drake sets his bag and takeout box on the table in the common area and tips his head towards where he knows the bathroom is -- all these apartments are the same. Shitty and the same.

"You mind if I get this off before we eat?" He gestures at the line on his throat, the paint now cracked besides where he picked at it earlier to make it obvious it was fake. "It's starting to itch a little."

"Yeah, go ahead. There's a clean rag in there." He's fastidious about things being clean, about having linens and towels as fresh as he can.

He'll take those few minutes Drake is cleaning up to think about his answer.

It doesn't take Drake very long to wash off the stripe of paint and make sure there are no black flecks left in the sink. He emerges from the bathroom with a freshly scrubbed neck and clean hands, coming up to where Jesus chose to sit.

He didn't explicitly ask why the other man wanted takeout instead of dine-in for a change but isn't reading into it. It's probably nothing more than that their conversation's been a little personal for native-occupied spaces. Not that he'd mind helping with quota like he'd offered, but... they're not done talking.

"This seat taken?"

"I guess I can make room for you," and yes okay maybe he is flirting a little. They aren't done talking, though.

Nothing wrong with flirting just for the sake of it, either. Drake grins and claims the seat, nodding towards their takeout boxes -- might as well eat while it's still hot.

"Where were we?" he asks as he opens his container, even though he knows exactly what the last question he asked was. He's just giving Jesus an out to either answer his last question or move on from it if it's not something he's ready to talk about.

"Why it's complicated," he says, which is a big topic. "Where I'm from, most people are dead. But when we die we reanimate into things that eat the living. The dead outnumber the living, and they don't sleep... They're drawn to noise. I can't always make myself relax here where it's so loud all the time."

So he wants to talk about it, then? As long as it's Jesus' decision Drake is happy to listen, but as the other man answers he goes still, sitting back and giving Jesus his full attention, expression serious and concerned.

"Your world had a zombie apocalypse?" What are the odds of that? Probably decent, considering the infinite number of universes places like this deal with... and it sounds like they're all romeros, or maybe even something worse if they're actually reanimated. But still.

Fucking zombies. Not a fun coincidence.

"The context helps. I'll have to think about it, 'cuz everything that comes to mind right now is just a band aid. And maybe that's enough, like you just need time to adjust to this not being home? But I don't wanna make it worse in the long run."

He doesn't recognize that word, but walkers are called lots of things in his world.

"The dead don't stay dead in your world either?"

"...not exactly. It's kind of a cultural shorthand, for us."

Drake pauses, trying to figure out how to explain the difference between zombies in the media and zombies in reality back home to someone who doesn't have the media context.

"What you're describing is called a zombie in my world, and technically speaking they're fictional. As far as I know, nothing can reanimate. Dead is dead, for us. But there is also a highly contagious disease going around that kind of mimics it in the living. If you don't manage the symptoms... similar deal." Another beat, and Drake glances away. His voice is softer when he speaks again. "I used to have it."

"There's a cure for yours?" Just the idea of it makes him weak with a hundred feelings. "How common was it? How did it spread?"

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