Chapter 14 Andrew #2
Sure enough, Nicki’s posture relaxes once he takes his first drink and with every drink after, he awakens more until his eyes are fully open, and he’s standing at Andrew’s back peering into the skillet as Andrew turns over any bits of eggs that look too wet.
Alec would probably tell him he was overcooking it, but Andrew’s sensory issues mean eggs must be fully cooked, sometimes overcooked, or he will get the ick and be unable to eat.
“What is it?”
“Food,” Andrew replies.
“Fucking smart ass,” Nicki laughs, leaning over Andrew’s shoulder to peak at the stove. Andrew isn’t exactly a small guy, but Nicki makes him feel it, his extra four inches of height and considerable bulk dwarfing Andrew from behind.
“It’s huevos en tortillas,” Andrew offers. “Not to be confused with chilaquiles.”
“I don’t know what either one of those are.”
“Chilaquiles are tortillas simmered in some kind of salsa. It should be simple, it sounds simple, but I fuck it up every time. My brother Alec though—his are out of this world. These are easier because it’s literally just fried tortilla with egg, pretty hard to fuck up.
Charlie’s done it so not impossible but—” Andrew trails off, shrugging.
“Where did you learn to make it?” Nicki asks, sipping his coffee.
He hasn’t moved away from Andrew’s back, which is surprisingly not as annoying as it might be with any of his brothers.
Usually he hates feeling watched because his fear of judgement, even when he knows it’s unfounded, triggers panic in him.
There’s nothing judgmental about Nicki’s behavior right now, just a sleepy curiosity that is unexpectedly nice.
“From Alec. Neither of my parents can really cook. My mom, bless her heart, is so incredibly talented at so much but a disaster in the kitchen. She’s who Charlie takes after.
My dad is almost as bad, not because of any inherent disaster tendencies but because his mom—my abuela—wouldn’t teach him when he was growing up.
When she came here, she wanted to assimilate, to make sure her son didn’t face the same setbacks and discriminations she had.
She got it in her head that American men didn’t cook.
It’s why she wouldn’t teach our dad, or even me or Charlie or Jason, Spanish.
She wanted our English to be perfect, so that no one would have any reason to discriminate against us. ”
Flipping off the burner, Andrew takes two plates from the cupboard, having made more than enough to share.
“In some ways, Alec had very different parents and grandparents—or one grandparent since my grandpa passed when I was little—than me and my brothers got. Our parents were more established in their careers when they had Alec, so they were able to spend more time with him than they could when me and Charlie were little, and at that point mi abuela’s health was declining, too.
She missed her home country and language, and the only person still at home often was Alec, since me and Charlie and Jason were all away at college.
Alec got to know a version of our abuela I never did.
A version I’m not sure anyone else did.”
Staring at the steaming plates of migras, it occurs to Andrew just how much he shared.
Especially without being prompted. It’s been a long time since he let himself think these thoughts, since he acknowledged the slight envy he feels that Alec had more present parents, that he got to experience a richer connection to their Mexican heritage and a side of his abuela he was never granted.
The kind he has to try and claw together with Spanish lessons on his phone and second hand recipes from his little brother.
The fact that Alec had a different experience with the same family isn’t something Andrew likes to dwell on.
He hates feeling jealous of his little brother or resentful of his parents.
His parents worked so hard to build a comfortable life and future for them, it wasn’t their fault that they often shifted burdens onto Andrew’s plate.
And it sure as shit isn’t Alec’s fault he got more involved, emotionally in touch parents and an abuela.
He’s a great kid—man, really—and he deserves it.
“Well, your nanny seems to have done a decent job with you while all the adults who should’ve been there for you were busy.”
“Nanny,” Andrew scoffs, passing a plate and fork to Nicki. “There was no nanny.”
He snags a new can of jalapenos he bought for Nicki’s place—La Costeno, the only decent brand—and pops the lid open, pouring a bit of the juice over his eggs and tortillas.
He can’t stand the texture of pickled jalapenos but he likes the flavor.
Once he’s finished, he slides the can across the kitchen island in front of Nicki, not surprised when he copies Andrew and covers his food in jalapeno juice.
“If there was no nanny,” Nicki starts, scooping up an obscenely large bite of food then shoving it into his mouth. Thankfully, he chews and swallows before finishing. “Who raised you?”
“I mean, my parents and abuela were around sometimes, but once I was old enough to be left home alone or in charge—I was. I was the one who kept Charlie and Jason and Theo and Alec out of trouble, kept them on track, made sure they did their homework, kept the chore list on the fridge and a running grocery list so we never ran out of everyone’s favorite foods. ”
“Who did that for you?”
“Huh?”
“Who did that for you?” Nicki repeats, inhaling his food at record speed. If Andrew thought Jason could eat fast, it’s nothing compared to Nicki.
He makes a mental note to cook bigger portions next time.
“I did. Charlie tried sometimes, and he was great with Alec, but—” Andrew breaks off with a shrug.
“S’bullshit,” Nicki says around his last bite.
“It’s family.”
“Like I said.” Nicki gulps the last of his coffee next. “Family is bullshit. Expectations and obligations and stress.”
“Not all families are like that, Nicki, and I’m sorry for whoever it was that made you think family and love was transactional.”
Nicki grunts, moving to the coffee pot. Andrew strongly suspects he hit a nerve, every one of his carefully honed body language reading skills telling him to take a step back.
To give Nicki room to breathe. But beyond that is what he knows of Nicki—a silver spoon in his mouth with no one there to hold it.
Given everything yet denied the kind of love and emotional stability that money can’t buy.
What Nicki needs more than space is to be reminded that sometimes people do things because they care.
Maybe this started out as nothing more than a deal, maybe the boyfriend thing is fake, but all of his feelings aren’t.
He’s come to care about Nicki, to appreciate the man behind the hockey mask and the carefully crafted media persona.
Nicki is his friend, and Andrew isn’t going to leave because things are hard.
“Let me make you another coffee.”
“I can make my own fucking coffee.”
“Sure you can, and I can make it for you.” There’s a flicker of surprise, his shoulders sagging.
Andrew takes the opening and steps between Nicki and the machine and easily makes him another cup.
By the time he’s turning around, steaming mug in hand, Nicki is leaning against the counter and staring morosely at the sea.
When Andrew passes him the coffee, he doesn’t expect or need a thank you, but he gets one anyway.
“So you do know those two words.”
“You’d be surprised how well polished my manners are, princess.”
“Just choose not to use them,” Andrew teases, resting against the kitchen island beside Nicki and staring out the window.
“They’re fake, just like my parents. Everything they ever did was transactional. Hell, having me was transactional. My mother got a house in the South of France after she had me, she was rarely around except for notable occasions where her missing might look bad on my father.”
“That sounds lonely.”
Nicki shrugs, bringing the coffee to his lips. “It is what it is. I think most people are like that.”
“Now that is some bullshit,” Andrew says, leaning into Nicki’s shoulder.
Nicki arches an eyebrow. “Language, princess.”
“Fuck off, you’ve heard me curse. I’m serious, though.
I mean some people are pretty shitty but most people, when they’re given the right support—food, housing, a sense of community—they do the right thing.
The worst of us comes out when people are denied the access to the things that would make a society flourish. ”
“My parents didn’t want for anything and they’re still fucked.”
“Well, maybe they were wanting in the things money can’t buy, or maybe they’re just shitty people. But I still think most people are good.”
“Too much thinking so early,” Nicki grunts.
Without consciously deciding to do it, Andrew reaches out and smooths his fingertips over the back of Nicki’s head just like he had at the brewery.
Almost immediately, Andrew’s body relaxes at the contact, just like he had during the dinner with Nicki’s teammates.
At the time, Andrew didn’t even realize he was stimming on Nicki’s buzz cut, but touching it had grounded Andrew through the overstimulating evening.
Even now, when things are calm, he seeks it out again, eager to feel that soft, almost velvety sensation where Nicki’s undercut has clearly been freshly buzzed recently.
“Fuck,” Nicki groans.
“Sorry,” Andrew apologizes, yanking his hand back.
“Princess, you can touch me whenever you want.” Nicki grabs Andrew’s hand, placing it back against his skull. “Particularly like this.”
“It’s softer than I expected,” Andrew muses.
Nicki hums, eyes closing when Andrew rubs his fingers back and forth over the base of his skull.
“Are you nervous for the game tonight?”
“Rule one of dating a hockey player, never ask if we’re nervous.”