thanks for thinking of a veggie, erich.

Erich

Late summer: that languid hour, those endless days. Heat settles over the distant plains, windless and still, shimmering, blurring, obscuring the horizon. Up in the mountains, a droning, buzzing heat. Insects and foliage. Wind in the trees. Sleepy afternoons, the nights still cool; thunderstorms now and again to leach the humidity away.

A little before dinnertime on one of those nights Charlotte is down at Cold Crescent, Erich packs a little picnic and rolls up a blanket. He slips a couple candles into the basket, because yes they have a picnic basket because one day Erich saw one at Ikea or something and just had to get it. He brings a few bottles of beer. He brings a whole rotisserie chicken, store-bought. He brings some bread and maybe a cucumber for Melantha, he doesn't know, it's been so long since he's eaten veggies. He brings all these things and he carries the basket in one hand, the blanket over one shoulder, and with his other hand

he holds Melantha's.

They walk into the woods while the sun still rides above the rim of the mountains. They climb a little, and then they find a nice shaded outcropping of flat rock. Erich lays out the blanket and unpacks the picnic. Erich produces the candles with a sort of shy, delighted flourish. Erich lights the candles, and then Erich sits crosslegged next to Melantha, carving meat off the bone.

This is a sort of date, too. He doesn't call it that, but if Melantha could look into his brain and read his thoughts, she'd see it written right there:

date with Melantha :]

Melantha

This is more Melantha's style of date.

Granted, Melantha has not really had a style for her dates. She didn't date as a child, obviously. There was no dating among the sisters, though there were still subtle games of courtship and consummation. Her dates have always been with men she did not want to be with, who wanted her badly, men whom she pretended to want in return. Older men, soft in the middle most of the time, worshipping her because she made them feel so young, and so vital, and so powerful. They took her to nice places and they gave her gifts and they weren't always wealthy but they always tried to impress her, pay for her somehow, to make her stay.

The thing is, though, Melantha likes the trappings of that life: the nice clothing, the champagne, the jewelry, the dinners. They were part of how she tolerated it all. They were pleasurable. But she didn't connect it to feelings of affection, either receiving or giving such feelings. She just liked them. So the ideas of those dates, the gifts, the images of them, are surprisingly untainted. They are things to make her happy, not things to earn her love. And the trick is: trying to make her happy without trying to earn something from her is, itself, a way to get into her heart.

Anyone's heart.

But this: walking together out from the tinyhouse and tinyhouse-in-progress, hiking up into the mountains a bit farther, Erich carrying a picnic basket that smells obviously of chicken... this is a good date. It is a lot, LOT better than Asking Her Out and then taking her, in her pretty skirt because she tried to dress up a little, thank you very much, to KFC to extol the glory of the Double Down. This makes her feel seen, and noticed, and pleased. This makes her feel comfortable. This makes her feel special, too, as Erich starts setting out candles and lighting them.

She smiles at him, when he looks at her again. She wonders if all he brought is a whole chicken in that basket, but she's not going to tease him about it right now. She leans over, giving him a kiss on his cheek.

Erich

There's enough shadow now that the candles cast a noticeable glow. They are both warm-skinned and golden in that soft, flickering light. Erich's eyes look bright. Melantha's eyelashes look endless, endlessly thick: black as soot when she glances down.

She looks happy, he thinks. She looks pleased and happy and like he's made her feel special. This makes him happy. He smiles at her wordlessly, sharing that feeling, as he carves thick slices from the breast. And then, when that task is done, he sets the knife down and produces dinner rolls, which are also store-bought. And finally the cucumber, which is store-bought, and washed, but neither peeled nor cut nor prepared in any meaningful way.

There are utensils, though. A peeling knife, some forks. Some plates.

Melantha

Okay, he brought rolls. Melantha doesn't dare ask for butter. But then he pulls out the cucumber which... is just. You know. A cucumber. And Melantha looks at it. And looks at him. And looks at it. And looks at him.

And quirks a brow. "What is that for?" she asks, amusement skirting the edge of her tone.

Erich

Erich, cucumber in hand and peeling knife in the other, looks mildly alarmed. Like he's caught in some act.

"It's a vegetable," he says cautiously. "For you. To eat?"

Melantha

Her lips purse, then spread in a wide grin. "Ah, I see," she says, and reaches over, taking the peeler and the cucumber from him, setting them aside. "Pass me a roll, okay?"

Erich

Erich surrenders cucumber and peeler. That look on his face resolves: he grins back. "Not interested in cucumber?" He passes her a roll.

Melantha

It is starting to dawn on her that the joke of her look, the cucumber in his hand, the wryness of her grinning, isn't just something he's pretending not to get to be playful. It looks like it's just sailed right over his head. Melantha takes the roll, and looks at him.

"I was making a joke," she tells him. "Because of the whole idea that women sometimes use cucumbers as... y'know." She shrugs. "Dildos. And you brought it out all plain and unpeeled and just, like, a cucumber in the picnic basket, so I was teasing you about your intentions with said cucumber."

Melantha bites into the roll.

Erich

"Oh.

"Oh."

And Erich gets another look on his face: all bug-eyed and blowing his cheeks out, then turning red, then glancing at Melantha with this quirking, awkward half-grin.

"No. Well, I mean, I know about that joke. Just. I wasn't thinking of it. I just figured maybe you wanted something other than meat and bread. Like a plant. And that was literally the only thing in the fridge I could take along easily. I was afraid the tomatoes would get smashed by the beer.

"Oh, right." He remembers: "I brought beer too." Pause. "I'm really bad at this date thing."

Melantha

Melantha laughs, a soft sound. "Thanks for thinking of a veggie, Erich," she says, and she says his name sometimes the way people say baby or sweetie or honey, but it's all that wrapped in her tone, and the way she leans over and -- for the second time tonight -- kisses his cheek. "It was very sweet of you."

To remember that she's not like him. That her body needs more than just meat.

"You're not bad at it," she adds. "I mean, look at this," and waves her hand. "We're having this candlelit picnic in the mountains under the moonlight. It's really, really nice, Erich."

Melantha, still close to him, nuzzles him under his jaw, a half-eaten roll held aside in her hand. She kisses him behind his jaw, and once, softly, on his neck. "This is a great date."

Erich

Veggie, she calls it, which makes him grin inexplicably. Well; it's not inexplicable at all, to him. Veggie amuses him. Veggie sounds like something out of kindergarten, elementary school. Eat your veggies, Erich.

That grin grows as she calls it a good date. A great date. "Yeah?" he replies, sounding pleased; sounding a little surprised. "Nice. I got it right. Was it the candles? I thought about like, y'know, a white tablecloth too. Or a white blanket? But I figured it'd be a pain in the ass to wash all the dirt and grass stains and stuff off later.

"Here," on that note, he reaches back into that little basket and pulls out a couple bottles of beer, offering Melantha one. "Libations."

Melantha

No one tells Erich anymore to eat his veggies. Maybe strangers, old ladies in diners, but they generally don't talk to him. They can't figure out why; they usually trust white good old boys, but something about him sets them on edge, makes their hands shake. They do not tell him to eat his greens.

Melantha and Charlotte don't, either, because he eats meat and Charlotte eats bubblegum ice cream with peppermint and whatever else she fancies in the moment. Melantha is the only one of them with a balanced and healthful diet, as human beings might recognize it.

She grins as he asks her if it was the candles. He thought about a white tablecloth. She takes the beer, and they have a bottle opener or the caps are twist-off, and so the caps go back into the picnic basket. Melantha takes a drink. "It wasn't the candles," she says, after a swallow. Then smiles. "Well. Not just the candles."

For a moment she's quiet, sitting there, looking around. "It's because you know I like being outside like this, with Gaia. So that's where we went. And tried to think of things I'd like to eat, even if you don't like them. Tried to make me happy, tried to give me what I need." She smiles at him, again. "Made me feel special, with the candles."

Erich

Something about that last bit -- making her feel special -- makes Erich grin. Makes him happy. Makes that grin burst forth and then kind of hide itself away again, shy, as he bites the insides of his lips. A little later, he smiles at her; nudges her with a sway of his shoulder.

"You are special. To me. To everybody. But maybe especially to me."

Melantha

"I'm not special to everybody," Melantha tells him, still smiling, sounding a little wry. "Special to you: that's what I mean. That's why it's a nice date."

Erich

"Well," Erich says, unalarmed by the news that Melantha was not special to everyone, "you should be."

He twists the cap off his own beer, then. It's an effortless motion, a flick of the wrist. The cap goes back in the basket, like hers. He knocks his beer back. He leans it against the crook of his knee, then, while he puts some meat on his plate. A couple slices of breast. A leg twisted off.

"Though you'd still be especially special to me," he adds, as though this were some sort of honor to be had. "'Cause I love you."

Melantha

"I don't want to be special to everyone," Melantha argues, partly because Erich isn't getting that Special To Everyone isn't much of a compliment, it doesn't mean anything, it's not about that, and so on. She leans back, weight on her wrist, which is actually sort of uncomfortable: blanket on top of rock is not the softest picnic spot, but it's okay for now.

Still especially special to him. She smiles, the corner of her mouth curling, a half expression. A soft one. "And you're in love with me," she tells him.

He has never said this to her. Not aloud and not directly like that. Has he? She doesn't think he has. But she says it. She holds her beer against her thigh and watches him and lets her eyes close and open. "You're a Fostern Full Moon of Thunder and you're Gaia's little boy and Gaia's fierce guardian and you're in love with me."

Melantha doesn't say this as an honor to her. Big strong Ahroun of rank, big special chosen of what-have-you, and he's in love with little-old-her, he deigns to bless her with being special or especially-special. She just says it like it's a fact. A fact, like all the others.

Erich

Oh, she makes him feel special, too. She makes him feel seen, and heard, and known, and understood. He can't contain his grin when she states it like a fact: you're in love with me. He's Gaia's little boy, Gaia's fierce guardian, and he's in love with her.

"I am," he says. That slow blink of hers is like a beckoning. He sets his plate aside and he leans over and his mouth is kind of greasy and he probably tastes like chicken but he kisses her anyway, a soft sweet thing. "I am in love with you."