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Post by wynne SHANNON evans on Jan 11, 2012 18:54:37 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 2em; -moz-border-radius: 2em; background-image:url(http://i54.tinypic.com/14e9a45.jpg), width: 400px; height: 400px;] baby i'm a different breed !
THIS IS HOW I SHOW MY LOVE, I MADE IT IN MY MIND BECAUSE, BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. THIS IS HOW AN ANGEL CRIES, BLAME IT ON MY OWN SICK PRIDE, YEAH BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. SAIL !
"Okay!" Finally! Florian was giving in and Wynne had a chance to prove what a good boyfriend he was. As if he hadn't already. Yes, perhaps he was already feeling a little bit over-accomplished. He'd manage to stay faithful, he hadn't even kissed anyone else, he only beat Florian up once, really, and he was nice... ish. That was more than enough, surely! But Florian was still unhappy. That was probably because of, you know, the agony in his body, but Wynne wanted so badly to be useful and helpful. He wanted so badly to be able to take it away from the man.
But he had no idea how. Wynne opened his mouth excitedly, preparing to give some fantastic suggestion on how he might be able to help, but when he tried to force words out all that came was a little croak. He had nothing. "Uhh..." A slight frown found him, as he realized he didn't know how to help at all. Florian was in pain. So much pain he'd tried to get Wynne to fight with him to make him focus on other parts of his body, the parts that weren't already hurting. He'd taken his meds, he didn't want to nap, he probably wouldn't want a hot bath or warm soup like Wynne imagined mothers did for their children when they weren't feeling their best.
"Do you... want me to make breakfast?"
It was a small suggestion but hopefully Florian would see how hard the Irishman was trying. He didn't cook! Well, he did, but not unless he absolutely had to to keep himself alive. But Florian needed food and one of them had to cook.
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Post by Florian Emilio la Fabro on Jan 12, 2012 8:28:51 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] usually when things have gone this far people tend to disappear
No one will surprise me unless you do
The Words: NEVER ENOUGH The Outfit: IDK, CLOTHES >U
The Notes I'm sorry, this is what my head gave me )8
It probably wouldn’t be Florian. Most of the time he cooked with one and a half hands. Now, half a hand didn’t seem like much, but it made all the difference. And the mechanical difficulties wasn’t even factoring in his distraction. The pain had been wreaking havoc in his brain all morning. Not an hour ago even eating had felt beyond him. There was little point putting food in a stomach when it wouldn’t want to stay there. What a waste! Now that his body had settled down a little, his stomach had taken the chance to pipe up. Wynne’s suggestion, little and full of earnest eagerness to please, drew another grumble from the cripple’s middle.
Yes.
Breakfast was a very good idea from the Irishman.
Now it was time for the Italian to make his contribution. He had watched his partner perk up, hover around for a moment as he floundered and now, after finding his solution, Wynne was teetering on the edge of failure.
Florian provided him with an updraft of success.
“Could…could you make pancakes?”
For once the cripple’s voice sounded very small. Florian was usually softly spoken, but there was always some degree of authority, confidence, shadowing his tone. This was the request of a child, and he sounded like one. Suddenly he was back in his mother’s kitchen, all the way on the other side of the world. Instead of being sprawled over a grimy frat house table, there was polished granite under him. It wasn’t old pizza and stale coffee filling his nostrils, but the scents of the flowers in the window sill and the produce from the market below wafting to his nose. Carla was bustling around in the kitchen, skirts and aprons swooshing…and he, Florian, was asking for something he knew he had no right to request.
Well, of course, he wasn’t really back in Italy. It was all in his head, but the memory was particularly vivid.
A better memory was the first time he’d ever made pancakes in this kitchen. There was the way his heart had leapt into his throat when that sneaky had and found his hip. He’d been exhilarated by the parry/riposte nature of their banter, neither of them missing a step in the conversation. It was his first chance at a friend in years, but looking back Florian couldn’t believe his ignorance of what else there had been to come.
“I can help you with the batter,” he started, sitting up straight (with a small grunt of effort).
“…if you need it.”
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