Noah couldn’t resist leaning forward and burying his face in Charlie’s messy hair. “Thanks, Char…I really appreciate it.”
Charlie reached a hand back and patted the side of Noah’s head. “I know. It’s the only time you bring out that dorky nickname.”
“Whatever. Show me what you’ve got,” Noah said, tilting his head around so he could see the screen as Charlie began going through all the additions he’d made.
The plan was coming together slowly but surely, even as the days flew by. Noah had no idea how it was already Thanksgiving, but less than twenty-four hours later, Aspen was standing at his kitchen island, helping prepare a modest dinner for them both.
Well, helping might have been a strong word.
“If they wanted me to peel the potatoes before cutting them, they should have said thatearlierand maybe inbold! Some of us–”
Aspen’s voice cut off, and Noah looked up from where he was elbow deep inside the turkey to find Aspen glaring down at the cutting board. It was covered in messily chopped potatoes that were definitely not peeled.
“Some of us…?” Noah asked cautiously.
“Well… I was going to say some of us suck at cooking, and following directions, and generally being useful, but my therapist has been trying to help me see that ADHD is a disability, and I need to–” Aspen lifted their hands up to make air quotes and knocked several potatoes off the cutting board in the process. “‘Not allow internalized or externalized ableism keep me from asking for the accommodations I need.’”
Aspen deflated and gazed forlornly at the potatoes spread out on the counter. “I should have double-checked the recipe with you before starting. I thought I could just power through, but I guess not. I’m sorry I fucked this up.”
Noah finished shoving the spice bag and lemon inside the turkey and pulled his arms out. He held them up in the air like he was entering surgery as he skirted around Aspen to go to the sink.
“Asp, it’s completely fine,” he said as he scrubbed his hands and arms with the cranberry soap Aspen had bought so that his place would feel more “festive.”
“I like mashed potatoes with skins in it. If you don’t, we can just chop them off now. It’s not a problem.”
Aspen waited until Noah was done drying off before throwing their arms around his neck. “I was going to use today and tomorrow as a drug holiday–which is something that apparently exists? Doesn’t that sound backwards? Like a holiday you do drugs on? But no, it’s when you don’t take them for the weekend so your brain can rest or something.”
Noah had learned more about ADHD in the past few weeks than in his entire life. He’d also begun doing some reading on his own, wanting to be as accommodating as he could.
“I think that’s a good idea, especially since you’re just getting started.”
Aspen sighed loudly and buried their face in Noah’s turkey sweater–another “festive” gift from Aspen.
“Well, Iwasgoing to do that, but maybe I should go take them? I don’t want to mess anything else up.”
Noah grabbed Aspen around the waist and lifted them onto the countertop. Aspen didn’t even protest. They just spread their legs so Noah could press in between them in what had become one of their favorite positions–for talking, kissing,andfucking.
If only his mother could see him now. She’d only come to visit once, and it had been…a joy.
Well, this place sure is quaint. At least there’s a kitchen. You can cook for yourself and not eat all that nasty takeout. Just because you’re not trying to fit into business dresses and skirts anymore doesn’t mean you can let yourself go. And for heaven’s sake, make sure to keep this place clean. No woman is going to want you if you have a filthy house.
Perhaps she would be proud to know he cleaned the countertop after every encounter with Aspen. Very thoroughly.
“Asp. It’s okay, I promise,” he said, cupping their face in his hands. “What if I read the recipe and just give you one task at a time to do?
Aspen sighed, their breath ghosting across Noah’s mouth. “That might help, even though Rachel’s psych tested me for dyslexia as well, cause apparently there’s a really high comorbidity rate? Turns out I don’t have it, I just can’t always focus long enough to retain information.”
Aspen stared off somewhere over Noah’s shoulder as they began tapping their hand absently on Noah’s back. “He…also mentioned something called dyscalculia.”
Noah had heard of that before. It was like dyslexia but for numbers. As if unlocking a vault, memories of helping Aspen with freshman statistics–which Aspen had been retaking as a sophomore–flooded Noah’s mind.
“He thinks I might have a form of it that makes counting big numbers really challenging. It might explain why I count everything in threes and fours…and all the foot tapping and other annoying shit my brain–”
Noah kissed them, softly at first, and then more firmly as they squirmed against his chest. He ran his hands down their back, gripping the soft bits just above their joggers that he liked to grab when they were fucking.
“Oh god,” Aspen groaned, pulling Noah impossibly closer. “Could you just lay me back on the counter and have your way with me. We can order Chinese food or something, I don’t care.”
Aspen might not care, but Noah actually did. He’d been looking forward to cooking Thanksgiving dinner with them, even before he realized that part of it was just like Charlie had said. He wanted to doeverythingwith Aspen and make the most of their trial period. Part of that meant doing domestic shitlike this, as if cooking a big meal and falling into bed together was something they did every year–and would continue doing forever.
