Chapter 20

Draft

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So it goes like this, Lemuel gives you a shopping list, you bring back the ingredients, and he cooks it.

Vegetables, meats, the ingredients that you've bought countless times are turned into magic in Lemuel's hands. If it wasn't you that had bought them and watched how they were turned into food, you wouldn't be able to imagine such a complete makeover. You're amazed and Lemuel shakes his head at your fuss, he says, "It's more amazing than making everything just one flavor, right?"

He says you're throwing money away and you answer that you've never waste food, you eat everything to the last bite- it's Lemuel instead, you see him picking the ginger off of his plate. "That's the seasoning!" He says ironically, "Would you eat lavender?" When he got a positive answer, Lemuel became speechless.

Things like ginger, lavender, and fennel weren't ingredients and shouldn't be eaten, so it's no wonder they taste weird.

Lemuel seemed to have found a new hobby, he's passionate about making all kinds of food beyond what's required for a full meal. He makes you buy lots and lots of sugar, icing, syrup, lots and lots of butter, cream, cheese, and makes pastries out of them that started out grotesque and then began looking as good as those in the store. It might even taste better, after all, he used plenty of ingredients.

There are times when you stand in front of the icing aisle and feel needle-like pangs of guilt. There are people in war, many are hungry, and you're buying so much candy. It makes you feel like you're committing a crime. This isn't right, indulging in the lust of the tongue is also a sin, have you gone too far in the sin of gluttony?

You're not buying these for yourself, you're completing Lemuel's purchase order, and he, like the frightened people on the battlefield, needs a lot of sugar and can eat a lot of sugar. You use this to convince yourself to put those beautiful ingredients inside the shopping basket, and when the cashier says that you're finally enjoying life, the guilt lingers on your way back, like you've just heard a harsh accusation.

You'll finish the meal that Lemuel cooked, and you tell yourself that it's to avoid waste, it's a sin to splurge. But you don't touch Lemuel's desserts, not at all, and after a few times, he began not making your share. You watch Lemuel eat those fragrant pastries and were somewhat relieved, as if it once again proved that your decisions weren't wrong.

The weather is getting warmer day by day, and the temperature in the kitchen is higher than the outside. In there, Lemuel gradually changed out of his sweater, taking off his shirt, and cooking while wearing only an undershirt. The vest isn't too small, but it looks a little tight on him. His chest muscles fills the upper part of the undershirt and the strap is stuck in the trapezius muscle, it instead looks more like a bold symbol, making the texture of his upper arm more obvious. You ask him if he wants to buy bigger clothes, and he shakes his head in confusion.

When the fire is too high or the action of flipping the iron pan is too frequent, Lemuel will sweat, not the kind of sweat droplets that slides down the skin, but fine sweat that evenly covers the skin. His exposed skin looks like windowpanes fogging in winter, covered with a layer of moisture. It isn't cold, but hot. For some reason, you find it offensive staring at his sweaty skin, it seems too... private. You take away your eyes and look down, trying to place your gaze on the wrapping of clothing.

The top half of the undershirt is stretched wide, but the waist part seems just right. Beyond the chest, the waistline is constricted. Most of the blame is on the contrast of the upper part. Lemuel's waist is surprisingly slender, and you almost feel like you can hold it with a hand. Between the dark undershirt and light-colored jeans, the piece of wheat-colored skin seemed particularly eye-catching. Lemuel's pants were low-waisted, he had to find a place to put his tail.

This is the most troublesome part, he has a tail connected to the end of his tailbone and his pants can't be pulled up, his hip dips and a little groin could only be exposed. The black tail didn't continue growing to be the devil's weapon, but kept its blunt and arrow-like tip. It gave you an impression of undeveloped softness and a foreboding feeling. This thing isn't peacefully immobile it'll start swinging slowly once Lemuel is in a good mood, you can't stop yourself from staring. You see the wiggling tail and you see the gap between the shirt and pants. Those pants aren't too tight, and your hands can probably be stuffed in.

You know how it feels to the touch, your heart races for it, and you deeply regret it.

Once you couldn't help but grab that tail like a pendulum, hoping it won't wag again. It really is soft to the touch, without bone, a bit like a salamander's. You squeezed subconsciously and Lemuel jumped up and spilled the soup.

You solemnly apologized for this so many times that Lemuel became tired of hearing it. He pinched your wrist and told you that you're even. The temperature of his fingers stayed there for a long time, terribly hot, and you ran your own over your wrists, pressing your lips against it like you were testing yourself for a fever. The temperature is normal there, so it's probably just your illusion.

Lemuel's hair is slowly growing, you see him combing back his hair frequently while he eats so that it doesn't fall on the plate. You go to the store and stare at the pile of hair ties, hair clips and hairbands, for the first time you realize that there were so many things you could do with your hair. In the end, you choose a navy-blue headband at the clerk's recommendation ("For red hair!" she says, thinking that you're going to give it to a girl in an orphanage) and give it to Lemuel.

You have tied a lot of girls' hair, if Lemuel didn't know how to use hair ties, you can tie it for him. But Lemuel tied it up after only one try, leaving you with a bit of subtle regret. After all, he has a younger sister, he has probably tied her hair many times since she was a child.

You've never met the Maria, but you probably know more about her than anyone else in town. Lemuel tells you her name, her birthday, her hobbies, describing her brown eyes, her brown curly hair, and how they lived together. He said that Maria was an angel, you believe it, she was Lemuel's sister, and Lemuel liked her very much.

He talks to you about Maria, and he talks to you about Fern, his friend. You were puzzled at this for a while, after all, Lemuel's sister and friend have both died, most of the people who have lost loved ones needed many years of adjustment before they could talk about the dead again. You ask the question tactfully, "Why not talk about it? It's all in the past now," Lemuel replies. "I'm the only one who remembers."

A girl named Maria has been buried in the ground. Her husband, her children, her students, and most of the people she knew died on the same day she did. Only her brother remains alive and only her brother still remembers her. You suddenly understand why Lemuel told you that there used to be only one person who remembered Maria in the past, now there were two.

You'll remember her well.

You remember her name, her preferences, and her birthday. You bought her a cake on her birthday, and candles were in her favorite color. You bring the cake back and Lemuel will eat it, Miss Maria probably wouldn't mind her brother eating her cake, she'll probably be very happy. But you don't know if Lemuel is happy- though you guess and hope he'll be- his eyes widen and his lips tremble as you put the cake in front of him.

You begin to worry that you've done something wrong, but when you apologized, Lemuel kept shaking his head and let out a string of thanks. He's so happy, so happy that he walked up and around the room, incoherent and at a loss. It turns out that he also has times when he "doesn't know what to do", you used to think that he could be very decisive at any given time. Lemuel walked back and forth between the living room and the kitchen, looking around aimlessly like he wanted to do something to celebrate, there's nothing interesting in your house, so he opened a few more bottles of wine that were left over from yesterday.

Lemuel only drank yesterday, you don't think he should drink today, no matter how insistently he claimed that he didn't have the slightest headache. You persuade, he defends, and after going back and forth, the wine is drunk by you for some reason. You don't drink much. Compared with yesterday's Lemuel who downed several bottles tipped to the sky, you who only drank a glass of brandy is nothing. But before this, your contact with wine had been limited to only the Holy Communion. The amount of red wine that had passed through your lips could fill only as much as a bottle cap.

That's how you ended up in the couch shortly after.

You didn't suddenly fall into a coma, you just gradually felt sleepy. Your ears were scalding hot, and your head feels like a teapot on a stove, boiling water and steam gurgling out of both ears. The wine bottle in front of you turned to two and then changed back to one. Lemuel raises a hand in front of you and says, "What is this?"

You stare at it for a while and reply confidently, "Hand."

Lemuel gasped and muttered things like "Isn't it?" "What? Just a glass?" and "Are you of legal drinking age?" and you frowned, trying to discern what he was talking about not very successfully. "Excuse me," You say as clearly as possible. "I need sleep."

Lemuel laughs, and you feel a hand pat your head. "Go to sleep," He said, and you fell asleep.

You have a dream.

You dreamed of someone hugging you, that person has broad shoulders and strong arms. At first you thought it was your father, then you remembered that your father is dead and he never hugged you.

Lemuel hugs you in this dream, his hands are clasped behind your back and patting on the position of your heart. Just like what you saw with the holy dove, hugging that drunk girl. You hug him back gratefully, and you feel warm and safe, like you're floating in a warm ocean.

But then, the atmosphere became not as peaceful.

You dream of your hand finally getting into the gap in Lemuel's back, down the groin, against his skin. His jeans and underwear suddenly disappeared, in that dream, plump flesh fills your palm. The hot steam moves from your head to your lower belly, and Lemuel's skin is hotter than it. His sweaty body is against yours, and you roll up his undershirt and lick his chest. He tastes sweet.

Lemuel gasps in your ear. The breath feels too real, or maybe your lust is too eager, they yank you out of the dream. You jump up, thump, a dull pain in your forehead.

You cover your forehead, now completely awake. Just now you've hit something. Lemuel stands two steps away, his forehead is red, and he gives you a dry smile. His eyes wander, looking east and west just not into yours. Then his eyes finally stop somewhere, you followed his gaze, only to feel a buzzing sound filling your head.

Strictly speaking, Lemuel is still looking at you, just at your waist down. You don't wear a robe at home, so the tent of your trousers stands out. It shamelessly stiffens under both of your eyes, uncaring about the mood of its audience.

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PastTimer: The chap is relatively short so it should be out in two hours from now