NATE
Notes are hummed one rhythm to the tapping, Nate giving song to the gesture, patient as ever for his fiancé. It’s a little disappointing, at first, the answer bland, but it shifts, the smile on his face only growing warmer as a softness he's never heard before slips into Sunjata’s voice. If he remembers anything from his addled, fevered state, it has to be that. ”That’s sweet.” Then, because he’s afraid to step too far in any direction, Sunjata’s past a bramble thicket of bad memories, much like his, Nate does what comes naturally. Talks about himself. ”I never got my own cake, but... my mum would make one from scratch every year.” It’s not as nice maybe, but it’s something easy to share, until the attuned speaks again.
Bars and burgers sounds so familiar that Nate forgets the differences between Earth and Korofi, just for a moment. And pasta? The moment Nate’s well again, the moment he’s confident he can’t step into a kitchen without setting it ablaze, the attuned in for a surprise the likes of which he doesn’t appreciate yet. Sunjata barely needs to voice his question, Nate already eager to talk, to compare their stories. ”I never drank in places that served food. So I’d get all fucked up,” a pause, so he can snort, laughter bubbling out of him, ”then I’d walk to this uh, overnight diner, and get the biggest burger they had, and a fuck ton of fries.” The parts he could remember were remembered fondly, though now his mouth watered, hunger, thirst washing over him in waves.
Trying to focus on something else, Nate laughs again. ”I never ate pasta from anywhere though. My mom made it, and my nonna, and me.” He puffs his chest out, the smug slant of his grin easy to feel, easier to hear. ”I can make any kind you can think of. I’m so... I’m so fucking good at pasta. It’s in my blood.” pressing in close, Nate plants a garden of kisses against Sunjata’s cheek, watering them with a raspberry, and a bright laugh before he pulls back, asks his question. ”What’s your favourite?”
the last ones here on earth
