Page 36 of Gunpowder

“Tristan,” Blair whispered. He distantly remembered Wren’s words the first night they went out together, “He asked for paper and markers and hasn’t bothered me since.”

Blair shook off the weird tingle the drawing stirred in his chest and set to collecting the best ingredients he could scrape up. It ended up being a couple packs of ramen, some teriyaki chicken that didn’t seem to have been in the fridge very long, and a few bottles of seasonings that still had the plastic seal around the lid. He pulled a pan down from the hooks above the stove and whistled. It was a nice straight-sided skillet with a heavy bottom. Hell, no more than Wren apparently cooked, he might just take it home with him. It certainly wasn’t getting any use there.

By the time he was done, it was a decent looking dish. He served it up on two plates and returned to the living room. Wren’s headset seemed to do its job of canceling outside noise well, since he didn’t move a muscle from his computer no matter how many times Blair called his name. Blair finally went over and popped one ear of the headset against the side of Wren’s head.

“Come here and eat.”

Wren apparently couldn’t be bothered to get up, wheeling his computer chair to the coffee table with his feet until he could reach the plate sitting there. At least he left the damn headset on the desk.

“This doesn’t look horrible,” Wren said, looking at the home cooked meal like he had never seen one in person.

Blair didn’t point out that they were eating by the overflow of already low light from the kitchen and the food didn’t look like much more than a pile of mysterious, darkly colored chunks and squiggly shadows of noodles. He sat cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table and picked up his own plate. “I’m not a bad cook, thank you very much. I help cook at the bar sometimes, too.”

Wren looked up from stabbing a piece of chicken to raise an eyebrow. “Well, thank goodness you’ve earned the favor of some gangsters and a bunch of piss-drunk patrons that are probably too far blitzed to know a chicken wing from a strip steak by the time you throw something on their plate.”

“You’re horrible, you know that?”

“Go home then.” There was no bite to his words, just an empty retort that made Blair roll his eyes.

“Not ’til I make sure you eat,” Blair said around a mouthful of noodles.

He couldn’t see much of Wren’s face, but he thought he almost saw a smile.

As much of a pain in the ass as he was, his second time having dinner with Wren wasn’t so bad. Once he started eating he didn’t stop until he had slowly but steadily cleaned the plate. He was obviously starving, but Blair guessed his pride wouldn’t let him scarf it down like his stomach wanted him to. Blair finished the last of his own food with a sigh. All Wren had done was needle and insult him from day one and now he was making the bastard dinner. He sat his empty plate on the weirdly modern looking glass coffee table after he found a gap between the numerous textbooks laying open on it and started maneuvering his way to his feet. Okay, so no more sitting on floors, he decided as his leg protested the strain of pushing his weight off the ground.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Blair asked.

Wren appeared in front of him, pulling him the rest of the way to his feet, his hands hovering at Blair’s sides until he saw that his leg wasn’t going to give out. “First door on the right.”

They were standing so close that Blair was overtaken with the urge to kiss him, but after last time, Blair didn’t trust himself. He didn’t know why it scared him so much to feel so out of control whenever Wren touched him, but he retreated down the short hallway to the bathroom rather than find out.

It was easy enough to find, though it took some fumbling for the lightswitch before he could see anything. His mouth fell open as a row of vanity lights and a larger overhead came on at the same time. Three people could get ready in front of the mirror with ease, and he could have fit a small child in the damn sink, nevermind the walk-in shower that was separate from the massive tub.

After one empty drawer and another that held only the essentials for shaving, Blair found the one he was looking for. He took the few utensils it held and returned to the living room. The other door off the hallway caught his interest but he had no business snooping around Wren’s bedroom. He stamped down his curiosity and focused on his original task for going to the bathroom in the first place.

“Hey, wait a minute,” he said when he found Wren back at the desk, about to pull his headphones back on. The plates were gone from the coffee table.

“Why?”

“Leave that off for a minute. Tilt your head back.”

Wren stared at him over his shoulder for a moment before reluctantly leaning back. He flinched when Blair gathered his hair and pulled it over the headrest, the black strands blending in against the leather. “I’m not gonna hurt you or anything, geez,” Blair said, laying the brush on the desk and starting with the comb. “Your hair is just a mess. Even more than usual.”

“My hair isn’t usually a mess.”

Blair chuckled at the defensive tone, working the teeth of the comb through a tangle. “It depends on how long it’s been since you put it up. It starts falling out of your ponytail after awhile.”

Wren fell silent at that. Blair didn’t know why, but he didn’t question it. He didn’t need Wren turning to give him any smart remarks and making Blair pull his hair. He worked his way from the ends up to the crown of Wren’s head. His hair was clean, just disheveled like he had washed it and then forgotten about it. Humming to himself, Blair ran his fingers through it a few more times than he absolutely had to.

He sat the comb down and picked up the brush. It had been a long time since he had done this. Years, it must have been, when Hope would put herself in tears trying to get a brush through her curls, before coming to Blair with frizzy hair and wet cheeks.

Wren was quiet as Blair reached around to brush his bangs into place. He didn’t say anything at all, even when the brush was no longer hitting any snags and Blair was just pulling it through his hair to let the soft locks fall over his fingers. Blair finally sat the brush down and stepped back.

“Alright, I’ll go home now. You can go back to your… whatever that is,” Blair said, gesturing to the medical gibberish on the screen. He waited for the click of Wren’s tongue or a dismissal, but he was only met with more silence. Blair moved to the side of the chair to look at him. “Hey. Wren.”

Wren’s chest rose and fell evenly under his black shirt, and his eyes were closed. Blair sighed as if the sight didn’t bring a pang of fondness to his chest.

“I guess I’ll just let you sleep here,” Blair said, mostly to himself. He didn’t want to risk waking Wren by moving him, so he pressed a quick kiss to Wren’s bangs and whispered, “Sleep tight, asshole.”

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