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fag4dykestobin · 1 year ago

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i kind of sat down and thought about steve and robin cooking together, and then i entered a fugue state and came out of it with a little over 1.7k words written about them being domestic besties (domesties?). so um. enjoy :)

Robin has destroyed one of her mom’s pans again, so she’s been banished to Steve’s house.

Well, okay, let’s back up.

Robin, waking up and feeling especially productive, had taken it upon herself to make some scrambled eggs. Nice and simple, right? So she had grabbed the first spatula and pan she could find, and… scrambled those eggs! She even remembered the salt and pepper! Unfortunately, as Robin had remembered after she oh-so-lovingly scraped off the nonstick coating, metal utensils and nonstick pans didn’t really get along. Oops. Panicking, she had scraped her mess into the trash and called Steve to pick her up. So, really, she had banished herself, preemptively.

“How the hell did you even do this much damage?” Steve asks, holding up the pan. The look of befuddlement on his face is picture perfect; you could teach children how to identify emotions with that face. Robin would pinch his cheek if she wasn’t so embarrassed.

“I don’t know! I just tried to make some eggs!”

“Rob, there’s like, a solid cube of—”

“A cube is a 3D object, dingus.”

“This is a 3D object!”

“Not in that way! It’s not a cube! You mean a square!”

Steve throws up his hands, one of them brandishing the pan and waving it around. “Fine! There’s a solid square…” Steve gives Robin a look. She nods her head at him in acquiescence. “... Of coating rubbed off of this thing. Why were you punishing your eggs like that?”

Robin leans back on the counter she’s been sitting on, legs swinging. Her heel hits the cabinet once, and Steve’s eye twitches, but he says nothing. Because he loves her. But she tries to avoid doing it again, for his sake. “I had to get that yolk distributed! I was working fast, Evie, the burner was on and I wanted it evenly mixed—!”

“So why didn’t you mix it in a bowl before that?!” Steve looks so stressed. It's kind of funny, given how unimportant the subject matter is. Robin suppresses a grin.

“I forgot! I was groggy!”

Steve groans, setting the ruined pan down and rubbing a hand over his face. “... When we move in together,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at Robin, “I am keeping my metal utensils in a locked safe.”

The warm, fuzzy feeling that always appears when Robin is reminded of their future together, their permanence in each other’s lives, it fizzes and pops in her chest like a sparkler. It’s still such a comforting feeling, even after all these months.

It doesn’t stop her from antagonizing him a little. “Like I don’t know what combination you’ll set it to,” she scoffs. “I could just break in. To spite you.”

Steve sits with that for a moment. “You’re breaking my heart, Robbie, you know that? You break my heart.” Not a real comeback. She’s won their battle of the bits, this time around.

“Well, anyway,” Steve continues, “I am really hoping you didn’t eat those eggs after seasoning them with metal filings.”

“It wasn’t— I don’t think the coating is metal. I don’t know what it is, actually, but I don’t think it falls under metal filings.”

Steve hmms. “Well, it’s not, like, plastic, right? Or silicone? That would just melt.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Well, it can’t be metal, because it loses a fight with metal spatulas.”

Steve thinks for a second. “Is… God, I mean, I guess there are other, other uh… what’s the word? For, like, not from plants?” Robin scrunches her brow in thought. “Synthetic? Inorganic?”

Steve snaps his fingers. “Yeah, both of those work. There’s probably things that aren’t plastic or metal that can be used to cook with, but it feels weird. That there’s another category out there.”

Robin nods in agreement, and they sit in companionable silence for a moment, contemplating on the nature of cookware.

“Anyway, no, I still haven’t eaten.”

Steve curses, gets up from leaning on his kitchen island, and steps over to the cabinets where he keeps his pots and pans. “Yes, God, okay, let me feed you. Still want eggs?”

“You know it!” Robin says, and Steve gets to cooking, bustling around the kitchen with practiced motions. It’s nice to watch him cook. He gets very focused, in a way that doesn’t usually come naturally to him. Steve doesn’t usually like talking while he’s cooking, but he hums bits of songs, bobs his head to the beat.

In no time at all he has a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Robin, and she hops off the counter to sit at a stool at the kitchen island. She grabs the plate from Steve and smacks a wet kiss on his cheek, making him roll his eyes with a smile and subtly wipe her spit off.

Steve takes a seat across from her, and she notices that he doesn’t have anything. Did he already eat? “Did you already eat?” Robin asks.

Steve blinks. “Oh. No, I forgot.” He has a tendency to do that; when he cooks for someone, he can get so caught up in it that he forgets to make some for himself, and is left to scramble afterwards. “I’ll make myself some eggs after you’re done.”

An idea comes to mind. An attempt at redemption, maybe. “Let me?” Robin asks.

“And let you ruin my pans? No thanks.”

A flash of genuine hurt passes through Robin, and she lets it show on her face in the form of a pout. The comment isn’t unfounded, but… “No, please! I know what I did wrong, I’ll do better this time. I’m not sleepy anymore, either.” She just wants to take care of Steve like he takes care of her. She wants to feed him eggs, goddamnit! When was the last time anyone fed him eggs? Actually, if she thinks about that one, she’ll get sad, so she stops thinking about it.

Steve can obviously see her earnestness, and he softens. And rolls his eyes. But that’s just him being Steve, so Robin loves it. “Whatever you want, Birdie. Just don’t burn them. Oh, and use garlic powder.”

So Robin practically inhales the rest of her eggs and toast (very tasty, as always) and gets to work. Steve sits at his stool at the island, trying and failing not to watch Robin like a hawk as she bumbles around his kitchen (“That’s not enough garlic powder, Rob, put some more in there, it won’t bite!” and “Use the small pan on the top shelf— no, the other small pan. No, the other—”), but she does eventually get a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. Not as good looking as the one Steve presented her, but it smelled good, and didn’t have weird inorganic pan flecks in them. Steve gives her a sloppy kiss on her cheek this time, over-exaggerating and putting way too much saliva in it, seriously, was he a dog or something? Robin BLECH’d and rubbed at her cheek, but he looked happy at his plate of food, so. Overall success, even if sacrifices had to be made.

Robin leaned on the island on her elbows, face a foot away from Steve’s as he picked up a forkful of egg. He side-eyed her.

“Do you… want some…?”

Robin waved a hand at him. “No, dingus. Eat it! Do you like it?”

“Okay, okay!” Steve rolled his eyes and ate his forkful. Robin stared at him as he chewed, looking out for emotions such as delight and wonder, but also disgust and revulsion.

She found nothing. Steve looked normal. He ate another forkful, eyeing her.

“So?” Robin prods.

“They’re eggs?” Steve says, mouth still half full.

“Swallow!” Steve rolls his eyes and does as she asks. “Nothing else? They’re just eggs?”

Steve nods, shrugging a little. Robin feels a little let-down. The first time Steve had made her eggs, it was life-changing. He put heavy cream in them. Robin doesn’t think her parents had ever bought heavy cream in their lives.

Robin guesses that it makes sense, though. This is just how he makes eggs, duh. Still, it makes her feel kind of bad, that she couldn’t give Steve the same feeling he gave her.

Steve seems to sense her inner turmoil. “They’re— it’s good, though! You did a good job. I do like it.” He seems kind of… embarrassed, but grateful. “You didn’t have to make them for me. Thanks.”

Robin bumps his shoulder with her own, and then retreats to her seat, allowing him a bit more personal space. But not too much! She kicks at his shins, and he kicks back, a smile on his face.

Cleanup is easy as Steve washes the dishes and Robin dries. It’s the small, domestic things, like this, that make her so excited to eventually live together. It’s so easy and companionable, full of chatter about band practice and Dustin’s latest science experiment. She can’t wait to graduate.

After the dishes, though, they’re both at the kitchen island again, silently staring at the pan Robin had ruined at her house earlier.

“... It seems like a waste to throw away,” Robin complains.

“I know, right? But it’s, like, useless now.”

Robin hums. “I mean, no, it’s still like… metal. I feel like we should be melting it down.”

Steve stares at her. “In what world would it be more useful melted down?”

Robin squawks, indignant at her idea being challenged. “You know what I mean!”

“No I don’t! Do you just want a, a… what’s the word? A bar of metal.”

“Ingot.”

“Do you just want an ingot hanging out on our mantelpiece?!”

“Well, I didn’t before, but now I do!”

They look at each other for only a moment before dissolving into simultaneous giggles, shared joy crackling and leaping between them.

Steve settles down first. Still grinning, he turns to put the pan at the very top of a relatively bare cupboard. “Fine, we’ll just… keep this to be melted down later.”

Robin can’t do anything to stop the twin grin on her face, not that she would ever want to. “I love you, Evie.” The words come easy, and the delight and surprise on Steve’s face is as wonderful as always. He pulls her into a hug.

“I love you too, Rob.”

#this is my first time writing them and i think i have a good idea of them but. well. all first times doing anything can end up rough #i am largely happy with this though i just love these two. da besties #steve harrington #robin buckley #stobin #stranger things #quincy.txt #i will post this to ao3... tomorrow....... i stayed up way too late to write all of this but i was on a roll #oh and yeah i didn't alternate steve's pronouns here and that is mainly becuase i have a Timeline in mind for her gender journey #and he is not here yet. i imagine this to be in like november. a few months after starcourt but before s4 #took so much effort not to alternate the pronouns though sorry stevie i love you bbg you are always bigender don't worry #my fics

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fourleafclovxr · 2 months ago

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8: hewn

Only one teacher is allowed into the Theatre of Tales, the night before the Circus of Talents. The rest are locked in their rooms, doors spelled shut with a magic far older and more powerful than their own, for all the Dean of Good might try.

But August Sader walks unrestricted in the School; Rafal could not keep him trapped if he tried. Not that he would try. There’s an old analogy about two birds. One that has every luxury in the world, but is kept in a locked cage. Another that has nothing, except for its freedom to come and go as it pleases. The first will fly away as soon as it is able. The second will always come back home.

August is still unsure of which, exactly, Rafal sees him as. Or which he is.

Rafal must know that, in the end, they are not on the same side.

But he is kind to August, or if not kind, at least lenient with him in ways no one else is afforded. Of all his colleagues August alone is allowed the privilege of freely coming and going wherever he desires. He can go home, meet his brothers, meet their children— if they want to see him. He can visit his sister and her twins, Rafal’s twins— if she lets him. Most of the time she doesn’t. The last time he saw Rhian and Japeth was their eighth birthday, the year before Evelyn sent them off to Arbed House.

A lot of the freedoms Rafal allows him are not freedoms at all, really. August would not leave the School if he could help it. He likes it here, really, likes that he’s familiar with the winding steps and the ever-alike classrooms and the intersecting hallways, likes that he knows his way around.

More than that, this is his duty. This School; this post.

And this man, just a man, who knows full well August would never believe his mystique. The School Master is sparing with his name, but he’d given it to August freely: Rafal, or, as I was known before, Rhian. Call me Rafal. My dear brother was wrong about me. He’s dead, now.

August, who had written and animated his first draft of the Student’s History of the Woods about Rafal and Rhian, or the other way around— then promptly burned it— had only nodded. Rafal’s mask had glinted, a blur of silver in August’s vision. I look forward to working with you, my Seer, he’d said.

My Seer. Rafal has always treated him like a possession, a prize. Has always been so proud that August chose to come to him. It is something that is easy to resent.

And yet August chooses to come to him, even now. Chooses to sit and listen patiently as Rafal enchants wooden likenesses of dying princes, on the other side of the Theatre for Tales. He’s spelled them to die with choked-off screams and feeble declarations of Good, though August isn’t sure how they’re dying exactly. It would be disturbing, if they weren’t in a School quite literally raising children to kill each other in their fourth year.

August has been dreaming of these things for years. Before he knew what they were.

He’s been dreaming of Rafal for longer. He knows all this already.

One last scream, and the room drifts mercifully into silence. Rafal turns, his boots clicking neatly on the floor as he makes his way back to the Good side of the theatre, cape sweeping over the floor with more flair than ever necessary.

He comes to a stop in front of August; offers his arm, fingers brushing August’s shoulder. There is not much August can do other than take it, gripping his cane firmly as Rafal pulls him to his feet. Rafal’s hands are, as always, ice-cold.

“You never have anything to say,” Rafal says lightly, half-complaining. “Perhaps this is the year my art finally gets through to you.”

“Our dearly beloved School Master,” August says, acerbic. “An artist. Perhaps you should pursue that, instead.”

“I could say the same about you, my dearly beloved Seer,” Rafal laughs. He seems happy to have gotten a rise out of August at all.

They pause just in front of the wall. August brushes his fingers over the carvings with a gentle touch; the carved knights cough and cry as he does. It’s good workmanship. Rafal has had a hundred years to improve on it, after all. But it’s not a very pleasant experience.

He says as much. “It’s not supposed to be,” Rafal replies, “they’re Evil.” He guides August to a carving of… some monster, or another, one that roars under his touch, spitting a burst of burning sparks. August tugs his hand back reproachfully. Rafal laughs, again.

“I’ll enchant something nicer for Good,” he promises. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Our first Good Seer in generations. Our first Seer with any sort of allegiance.” His voice strays dark as he completes the thought.

“You know very well why I have an allegiance,” August says mildly. It’s his duty; to kill Rafal. There is only one way this story ends.

“We could have been such good friends,” Rafal sighs. “You and I. But then I suppose we would have no reason to be.” He hooks his arm through August’s once again. They play at closeness, the two of them. Or Rafal does, at any rate.

They move to the crystal freizes, on Good’s side of the Theatre. They must be lovely, like everything to do with Good is. The stained glass is pleasantly cool under August’s fingers; he makes out the outline of a rose in bloom.

“I’m thinking of having them bloom as the students enter,” Rafal says idly. “No monsters here.”

“You just resent that Good keeps winning,” August sighs.

“I do,” Rafal admits openly. He has nothing to hide from August. He could not, either way. “There are more carvings, lower down, if you care for them.”

August nudges at the base of the wall with his cane, curious; he kneels to feel the raised patterns. Textured feathers. There, a wing, another. Borne in flight.

“Swans,” Rafal provides. Of course. He’s more predictable than he thinks.

August moves his cane along the wall, then starts walking back towards the other side, cane knocking against the continuous loop of carvings. Twin swans hewn all around the Theatre. A reminder of a promise unfulfilled.

Rafal doesn’t usually care so much.

But, of course, this Circus is special.

“This will be the tale to end all tales,” the School Master says, almost to himself. “Won’t it, August?”

“I don’t take questions,” August says.

“This is what you’re here for, after all,” Rafal continues, as if August had never spoken at all. “What role are you going to play, I wonder? Will we have to be enemies?”

This is the second to last time they will ever meet each other. August has spent years knowing Rafal, years with the idea of him— the shadow of him— living in his head. It was never going to amount to anything more than this.

Will he fly free, out of this gilded cage? Or has he sworn himself to Rafal, and his tale, and his end? You go on, no matter the cost. Seers don’t speak of costs, they only speak of duty.

Either way, both of them are trapped.

“You know,” Rafal says. Almost wistful. “You know, if I had the chance, I would want it to be you.”

#sge #tsfgae #school for good and evil #august sader #rafal mistral #saderposting #sge november prompts #uh yeah i did in fact rotate the idea of august/rafal around in my head for like 3 years #they have a screwed up something-like-a-relationship in my head #equals as in: no one else is playing this game on the same level as them #equals as in: no one else can even begin to understand #they both know how this story ends

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