2020-03-03 - Mexican Cantina

Dante requested Cristobal cook for him, and so the latino man has brought an entire Mexican cantina to Gray Harbor.

The apartment is filled with the smells of Cris' homeland, bright spiced meat having been cooked on a small barbecue grill in the backyard and pots going on the stove while he steams some tamales and makes beans. He's been at it a while, trying to clean the mess as he goes, but the counters are still full of his continual effort. A cutting board here, a dust of flour there. Alexa is playing a different kind of music than he usually plays through the speaker, French Electro Pop giving a chill night club vibe as apposed to the energetic hispanic guitar that should go along with the meal.

At the moment he's standing at the peninsula of the kitchen counter, pressing dough into flat uneven rounds dressed in jeans and his usual white tank top, his gold crucifix hanging inside the the collar and his new tattoo fully on display and undulating with tendons as he grinds his knuckles down into the ball that will become a tortilla.

The other change to the apartment is a small altar is beginning to take form in one corner of the living room near his open-air closet system, a pale Virgin Mary Statue on a colorful cloth, a milagro cross hanging above her head and a few unlit candles at her feet. When it became far too warm in the small space, he propped open the door and left it that way for Dante to just let himself in when he arrives.

Dante was really not expecting food to that intensity. He was expecting maybe a few tacos or a favourite soup. He can smell the food from the moment he steps out of the car. "Darling, tell me you've a whole family coming over. You didn't do all this just for me?" he says as he steps in, holding a paper bag with a bottle of wine, a foil-covered baking dish and with a reusable bag looped over his arm. He's in a baby blue cashmere sweater and skinny dark was jeans. His hair is naturally curled and he's wearing his glasses.

Cristobal is looking lost in thought as he presses out the dough using his fingers around the edges like he's making tiny pizzas. He glances up at Dante's voice rather than the approach of feet as the other man enters, one of the few times he likely could have been caught unawares. A smile ticks at the corner of his mouth, "Food is a family affair, and apparently, so are the recipes. I hope you like leftovers, otherwise I'm going to be feeding a lot fo strippers. C'mon, wash your hands. You're helping."

"I made an apple crisp. I don't know how well it will go or if we'll be hungry, but it's the only family recipe I can pull off with any competency." Dante sets it on the counter, sheds his coat and the rest of his bags, then goes to wash his hands. When he comes back, he pecks Cris on the cheek. "So, are you saying that we'd need a small army to execute this properly? A Catholic brood?"

Cristobal accepts the kiss to the cheek, but he counters it by swiveling his face around to catch one square on the mouth as well. "If we have a brood together, it'd have to be Catholic, because that's some immaculate conception right there." A ball of dough is summarily deposited into Dante's hand. "Thanks for bringing dessert, I forgot about making some flan." He makes a little hand gesture for Dante to take over at the floured cutting board as he goes to stir some sauteeing vegetables. "We're having street tacos and tamales with fresh salsa and black beans. So if I made all this and you tell me you're not hungry, I might be making fajitas out of your ass next."

"Ah, I know better than to ask you to cook and not come hungry, dear. That would be far too rude, and I'm far too English to be that rude." Dante accepts the full kiss and then eyes the cutting board. He looks a little perplexed, but pokes at the dough experimentally. He looks like he's worried about getting his hands dirty, which is rather beside the point.

Cristobal leans over to eye what Dante is doing to that poor dough. "You need to make it flat, babe." He instructs, mild amusement in his voice. "So what prompted this urge for a taste of Mexico, cuz I could've given you that without us ever needing to leave the bedroom." There is a swat to Dante's backside with his spatula.

"Come now, that's not the least bit sanitary." Dante's sharky-grin is muted by the glasses, soft sweater and glasses, but it's still there. "I'm utterly bored with everything this town has to offer food-wise. I wanted something different. So I thought I'd ask my spicy boyfriend if he'd give a bland Englishman a little excitement." He attempts to squish the dough down but he's still being too gentle.

"Why, where has your ass been that I don't know about?" Cris jokes about the spatula and then has to toss it back into the pan because he's absolutely horrified at the dainty way Dante is treating his dough. He comes up behind him all Ghost style like they're going to make some pottery, hands over his to demonstrate. "You are anything but bland. Can't really speak for your diet though. Gray Harbor is decidedly lacking in ethnic foods though."

"It's lacking in anything outside of the deep fried category, really. And that's absolutely horrid for my washboard abs. When I'm not on a date, I'm barely touching carbs." Dante smiles a bit sheepishly. "Been trying to...bulk up a little. Slow-going." He takes dough instruction. He has strong hands from the piano, but he seems reluctant to really dive in.

"I can help you. Go to the gym together." Cristobal asks, arms still wrapped around Dante, but he seems to sense that the man's not really into the whole working for his dinner thing. "You too much of a delicate flower to make tortillas? Or you just in a mood to be pampered. Go ahead. Sit down if you want, I can finish up. Just used to this being a team sport."

"Ah, it's not that. I'm just not a very good cook. Everything smells wonderful and I'm worried about spoiling it. Like this?" Dante attempts to flatten the dough a bit more aggressively. It ends up sort of oblong. "Oh dear. Well that's not good." He attempts to straighten it out, but the dough tears. "Bollocks." Then he turns his head, brows lifting. "Would we actually get much work done if we went to the gym together? Or would we just ogle one another?"

Cris moves around to the side now, to continue instructing him. "Well, then it's time you learn. Yeah, that's right. We're not going for perfect but at least...intact." He gives a little guff of laughter. "Just roll it back up and try again. If you can pile meat into the center and fold it up, that's all that matters. It's just a good tasting vessel for the rest of the food." He turns to take the tamales off the heat, venting the steam and piling the husk wrapped food onto a plate. "Consider every set of reps I make you do as foreplay and the shower afterwards as your reward."

"Would you like it?" Dante asks with that particular lilt he can get on the end of those words. "If I buffed up a little more, like in that Dream?" He's got a little grin on his face as he watches Cris. But then he returns his attention to the tortilla and tries again. This time it comes out at least more oval than oblong.

Cris kisses Dante on the shoulder for the job well done, and before he can manage to mangle it, steals it out from underneath his hand and flings it onto a flat top that's already heated. "You mean could I stand my boyfriend getting even hotter? Oh no. The horror." He says deadpan, with a gaze given back over his shoulder. "Might make me more possessive though, if strangers start coming up just to pet you when we're out in public. I have zero qualms about knocking a bitch out."

Dante chuckles and jostles Cris, then experiments by tearing off another piece of dough and attempting to shape it. It goes a bit better, but is a tad thick. It tears again. He reworks it. Again, more oblong than round, but serviceable. Wouldn't pass the Mexican grandmother test, but few things do. "You probably wouldn't be able to tell that much, the way my suits are cut. It'd be most visible when I'm in m'birthday suit."

Cristobal rumbles noise in his throat, "You know what I like seeing more than being of the limited audience that gets to see you in the buff? Your hair, like this." Even if Cris leaves behind a bit of flour in the curls when he palms the other man's head and gives Dante's head a wobble with his grip. "Like you put on this mask for everyone else, but I get to see you relaxed."

The flour gives the impression of silver that Dante dyes away at the first hint. Dante closes his eyes and leans back into the hand. "The suits do make me relaxed. They make me feel in-control. I like feeling..." his lips twitch a little, "...a bit constricted. It reminds me to stand straight, to be aware of my body. But it can be tiring. And...I do recognize I can't be that way all the time. And we had one of our first true non-fuckbuddy interactions when I was sick as a dog, so you'd already seen me with the mask down. Seems silly to force myself to keep it up."

"I'd rather you be comfortable. So if that means a suit and coifed hair, it's a suit and coifed hair. I was just saying..." The way Cris lets that sentence drift away, it's like saying 'nevermind' without really verbalizing it. "So is that all it was? You wanting something different to eat, or is something wrong and you're seeking some reminder of that day I nearly force fed you chicken soup?"

"It depends on the day, which makes me more comfortable. This called for a little less..precision, somehow." Dante abandons the tortilla making for the moment, then turns around to face Cris. "I wanted something different, and I wanted you to share your food with me. I know it's important. Your traditions are important to you." He reaches out and catches Cris' forearms. It's then he catches sight of the new tattoo. It takes him a moment to realize what it is. His fingers trace over it, then he looks up. He looks quite surprised, but there's a softness in his eyes as well, like he's...touched? In another situation, at another time, he might make a quip. Instead, he just warmly clasps the other man's wrist.

"They are. Though it's harder to remain connected here. Maybe that's why I went a bit overboard with dinner." As Dante grabs his wrist and for the first time truly notices his new patch of ink, Cris has the audacity to look a little sheepish when the the man traces over the words. "Didn't really have time to show you the other night. You were tired and I was happy just to see you again."

"I'm completely oblivious. I'm sorry I didn't notice earlier." Dante studies it for a moment longer, then looks up at Cris. "I'm...not sure what to say." His lips flicker a bit awkwardly, but he's still holding the other man's wrist. "If I'd have known you were going to do that, I would have written it a bit more neatly."

"It wasn't my...original intent. But I got back to Seattle and kept thinking about the words, and how it's something I can see you saying to me, reminding me. And if I need it in that moment, I might need it again." Cristobal tries to shrug his shoulders and dismiss it simply, though he doesn't seem the type to give permanency to something on his body with a tattoo if he didn't draw from deeper meaning from it.

"I'm...flattered, Cris. Really. To my knowledge, no one has ever gotten my words tattooed on them." Though Dante does have fans, and it's possible that someone else beat him to it. He lets go of his wrist, and kisses him gently on the cheek. "There's bravery in tattoos. I don't just mean the pain. In the permanence of it."

Cris gives a huff of laughter, "Don't go getting too excited. It's not like I put your name in a heart on my sleeve. I do that, and it means we're destined for disaster. Names and likeness are a no-go. But I figured a quote would be safe, right?" He accepts the kiss, though that does little to quell his current discomfort of dealing with capital F, Feelings.

Dante is not looking the most comfortable himself, either. But he doesn't want to make Cris feel awkward and he really is flattered. He rubs his shoulders and smiles, then rocks back. "I should probably get back on the tortilla line or we're never going to eat, hmm?"

"We probably have enough, just toss 'em on the griddle." Cris turns to the fridge, popping it open to pull out the dish of salsa he prepared earlier. "Seattle..." He starts talking and then halts, "Well, everything back in El Paso is done now. The house finally sold, the divorce papers are done. I ended up giving her everything. My pension, all of it."

"You say that like you're talking to a man who knows the basics of griddling," says Dante, but he makes an attempt, in the spirit of the evening. He goes quiet when Cris speaks. He purses his lips. "It's...a very difficult thing, isn't it? Messy and heart-wrenching, no matter what." A pause, then, "How do you feel?"

"Empty." Cris admits after a moment of silent contemplation. "Just empty. It was over a long time ago, even before we split, after our daughter died I think whatever 'we' were went with her into the ground but we stayed together a little while longer. But she couldn't forgive what I became."

Which reminds Dante. He goes for one of his carrier bags and withdraws his own copy of the Velveteen Rabbit - this one well-worn and looking quite old. He opens it up and pulls out the photograph, then hands it over gently to Cris. "I've heard...that most marriages have a hard time suriving the death of a child. No matter the state of the marriage before that."

Cristobal looks down to the photo and the book it's produced from for a long moment before taking it back into his fingers, touching the worn edge. "Sofia Renee. She had just turned five." Not before the picture was taken, mind, the girl in the photo is a few years younger. "Cancer. Not really something you can blame each other for, but that never stops you, does it?" The picture is handed back between a pinch of forefinger and thumb. "Do me a favor and put this on my altar, will you?" Because he just can't seem to bear to, at the moment.

Dante takes the picture back gently, then does as he's asked. He sets the photo down gingerly, in a visible place on the altar. Then he walks back, and without saying anything, just pulls Cris into a hug. It's not a prelude to anything. It's meant to comfort, wordlessly and without any sort of judgment. He cups the back of his neck with one hand and presses a kiss to the side of his jaw.

Cristobal gives a grunt at that comforting affection, like he might just shove it away, but in the end his arm just tightens around Dante's back and squeezes him tighter into it. "You should take a page out of Amy's book and leave me too." The first seems genuine, the second part not so much as he swats Dante on his hindquarters. "But not before you help me eat some of this food."

"I'm not a leaver. I'm the left," says Dante with a grin, but there's a little bit of sadness in his eyes. "I've sabotaged things once or twice by being an asshole, but I've never initiated a break-up in the standard way." He clears his throat, looks away a bit awkwardly and then claps his hands together. "Right. What should I do here?"

"There's a first time for everything." Cristobal says darkly before he hands Dante a plate, "You pile a bunch of shit onto the tortilla and then shove it in your face. The tamales, you take off the husk first. There's salsa and sour cream, and..." Another shrug. "Just experiment, see what you like. We should be used to that, right?" He cracks a wry grin, even if it's a bit forced.

"Are we in a self-pitying competition, here? Who is more likely to leave whom?" Dante cracks a grin, but it's a wee bit hesitant. "I haven't any plans to go anywhere. How's that?" He starts to make a plate, pausing to hipcheck gently. "And thank you for telling me about the husk because I would have absolutely tried to eat it as is."

"If you think I'm going anywhere, you haven't looked in the mirror lately. You're my prize catch." Teasing comes easier than the serious side of the topic, and Cristobal moves around to sit at the other side of the counter, dragging over the fixings and starting to help Dante prepare his food, whether or not he's going to ask for the help.

Considering their first significant non-sex interaction involved Cris taking control of Dante's food, he's not surprised, nor does he fight it. "Oh I don't know. Ms. Sparrow is a lovely young woman. And that Joseph fellow seems to have a rugged charm. In fact, this is quite an attractive town, per capita. Dante definitely tries to put too much on his tortillas, which is a rookie mistake.

"The imperative word being young." Cris points out as he drags some meat back out of Dante's tortilla with his fork before the man even attempts to take that fold to his mouth. "And Joseph...it's not that kind of relationship." His eyes flick up as if unsure whether or not this is kosher to talk about. "So if you don't think you're special in this equation you're mistaken."

"I was a bit surprised to find out how old she is. But I'm not one to judge. When I was in my twenties, I was chasing people in their thirties and early forties. So I understand the allure." Dante isn't quite sure why his food is being edited, but he trusts Cris, so he doesn't resist. "Sparrow does seem quite taken with you. From the limited time we've been around one another." He doesn't push on the topic of Joseph, though. Maybe all he needs to know is 'not that kind of relationship."

"I have this..unexplainable adoration for her. Maybe because she's the first woman I've really been with since my wife. Keeping her at an arm's length is proving more difficult than I thought. Remind me to show you her paintings after dinner." Cris winces slightly, then turns to his own food to occupy his mouth. "Still different though." He assures, mouth full impolitely. "There's an inequality I don't feel with you."

"Do you want to? Keep her at arm's length? She seems quite good at, well, removing barriers." Dante picks up the smallest of the tortillas and tries an experimental bite. A little drops out, a little goes down his chin. It's a good thing he's not wearing a suit because it would look even more incongruous. He laughs and wipes a little salsa from his chin. "Bloody delicious. Messy, but delicious."

"I don't want another wife, Dante. I can't give her a family. She's young. She's going to want those things, and it's better for her and I both if she's not looking to me for some promise of the future. And I'm not interested in polyamory, so if it comes down to a choice, it won't be her." Cris picks at his own tamale with his fingers, peeling away the steamed casing, cracking that grin again. "I think you just summed up Mexican food, babe."

"You might be surprised. A lot of young people these days aren't looking for families." But Dante doesn't push things further than that. He's busy in any case, trying to clean up the mess he's making as he tries to eat the food. He shakes his head at himself and licks his fingers. "Well, at least I know this is a feature of the cuisine and not the hapless Brit failing at eating something he's not used to."

Cristobal is happy for the conversation to turn away from his relationships and back to the cuisine. "It's about the connection of food to ourselves. Spiritual in a way. From the making of it with a community, to eating it with our fingers. They're something pure about it. And I'm glad you wanted to share it with me." He says as he takes away Dante's hand from his plate, turning the man's wrist to free a bit of juice of the fajita meat from his skin with an intimate press of his lips.

"You connect to your food in a way that we Brits don't really. Hard to connect on such a tactile level to meat pies and boiled dinners," says Dante with a soft smile. The smile gets a bit more naughty at the touch of lips to his wrist to get the juice off it. "Do you think I'd look good with a tattoo?" he says apropos of nothing, except in that it connects to wrists and Cris himself has so many of them.

"We use food as a celebration and in celebration. In a community where poverty is rampant, it's probably easy to see why. And remind me if you ever take me to England, to pack something that actually sounds appetizing." Cristobal smirks to Dante, not relinquishing the hold on his hand, but turning it into a tangle of fingers. "I think on you, a tattoo should be just as hidden as your abs are when in a suit, and nothing maybe on the chest. A back piece. Smaller, on your shoulder, or your bicep. But I kind of like you as this blank canvas."

"Clean lines. That is rather my aesthetic." That and showy colours, but always in blocks - rarely patterns, unless it's understated for a soft contrast. Very graphic. "I don't know if I connect enough to a single image or set of words to want it on my body forever. How do you even go about making a decision like that?" His tone is gentle and warm, and Dante happily links fingers, squeezing gently and rubbing with his thumb. "If you can stand the weather here," he drawls, "You could stand it in England."

"For me it's always been easy. When you know, you just know. Plus it's said that they're addicting. You get one, you're bound to get another. Maybe by the time I die, I'll be head to toe ink. And I like the pain." Cris' grin turns all together toothy, "Pretty sure I'd be kicked out of the UK on the first day, or you'd have to muzzle me."

Dante barks a bit of laughter. "Darling, the country isn't made out of fops like me, you know that, yes? There's people made of far tougher stuff." The hand that isn't being held trickles along Cris' jaw. "Would you let me dress you one day? Not that I don't love the rumpled mechanic look with pants that barely stay on," because of course he does. He's here. "But I could see you, hmmm," he ponders, "For something posh. A bright blue tuxedo jacket. Something in a shade to match your eyes. With the lapels trimmed in velvet in the same colour. And a bow tie. Not many men can pull those off, but you could."

"A bowtie." Cris responds with a note of incredulity in his voice. He straightens out his spine and cranes his head a bit. "Always thought my neck was too thick to pull off any sort of accessory. Closest I've come is a bolo." Quiet for a beat of contemplation. "Yeah, I'd let you dress me. So long as you're the one measuring my in-seam."

"It's all about the lines," says Dante. And then his grin goes wicked again when Cris talks about inseams. "I'd fight the tailor for the privilege." A beat, "...a Taylor fighting a tailor." He brow-waggles at his own bad dad joke, then leans in to nibble at the corner of his jaw.

There's a low chuckle from the latino, both in appreciation for that lame joke and the feel of Dante's mouth on his jaw. "I'm guessing this means you're done eating for the time being. At least when it comes to dinner." Not that they haven't both stuffed themselves, but they've hardly made a dent in the abundance of food that still leaves the counter laden.

"If you need to pop any of this into the fridge so it doesn't go off, best do it now," says Dante. But as he says that, he leans in and wraps his arms around Cris. One of his hands finds it into the back pocket of his jeans to give a little squeeze. "We do have that bloody apple crisp, but it'll keep."

"That sounds entirely too distracting." And by 'that' he means disentangling himself from Dante's embrace to bother doing anything about the food right now. His arms are likewise looping around the dandy, "Are you near sighted or far sighted?" Comes the apparently non sequitur question from Cristobal.

"Nearsighted, but if I'm like my father, I'll need progressives one day. My eyesight is not terribly bad. I used to be able to get around without glasses or contacts. But..." Dante thuds his forehead gently against the side of Cris' head. "...not so much any longer." While with the two of them, there's always a note of prelude, he does seem to just be enjoying the tactile closeness for its own sake.

"Mm." Cristobal intones in that slight rumble he has when he hears the conversation, but whatever thoughts are rolling around in his head aren't terribly affected by them. "So that means you can see me just fine if we..." He leans away slightly, peeling the glasses off from around Dante's ears and down the bridge of his nose to set them lightly down on the nearby counter.

"Mhmm, yes. You're quite sharp, thank you. The rest of the room is a little fuzzy round the edges, but I don't much care what's further than a few feet in front of me at the moment." He rubs a hand up Cris' lower back, to press between his shoulderblades, then drift down again. "Do you prefer me without or do you just think they're about to get in the way?"

"Oh I like them plenty. They go hand in hand with the effect your curly hair has on me. So I'm guessing it's the latter." Cristobal grins wickedly as his hands to Dante's hips, staring to walk him backwards to the bare slice of wall between the bathroom and the corner that turns into the living area.

The glasses mute the effect of the shark smile. The hair to a lesser extent. So it's good timing that Cris removes Dante's glasses just in time for that smile to be in full force. He's happy to be guided presumably bedwards. "You're guessing? How noncommittal. Unlike you," he teases.