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munacy · 2 years ago

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Trials and Tribulations of Sorts

@wolfstarmicrofic

For the prompt: dubious

Cross-posted to ao3 with minor edits: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44490901

Remus Lupin is running an experiment.

That is the word he’s settled on, because this thing, this thing he’s doing has changed shape a few times now. But it’s gone on long enough, and he finds himself desperate for an explanation.

It had started like this:

Remus had moved into Sirius’ flat straight after Hogwarts. It had not taken as much cajoling as one might expect. He agreed with Sirius that it was practical, and, beyond that, he relished the idea of always being near his best friend. Not that he would ever admit that. Not very manly.

Constantly being in each other’s company was fine. Actually, no, it was not fine, it was lovely. They tried wines together (James made fun of them endlessly for it). They told each other scary stories after dark (Remus’ were terrifying, Sirius’ were goofy). Sirius would come home from work exhausted and ranting, and Remus would commiserate with him over whatever new and awful thing That Bitch Geraldine had done. Remus would study old Arithmancy tomes late into the night for his fellowship, and Sirius would keep him quiet company until he inevitably fell asleep slumped over Remus’ desk and Remus would tentatively stroke his hair.

They made each other tea and coffee in the morning, and Remus would sit on one end of the sofa with a novel, and Sirius would sprawl out on the other end, holding a crossword, and sometimes the very tip of Sirius’ socked foot would be touching Remus’ thigh, and that would make Remus’ heart start to beat like a hummingbird’s wings and cause him all manner of confusion, but that, too, was lovely.

That was not the issue. The issue was that they didn’t know how to cook.

Cleaning was fine, after a rocky start. Mrs. Potter gave them a battered copy of Basic Household Spells and thereafter they lived in a state of comfortably cluttered cleanliness.

Cooking, however, was far more advanced, and in many ways, magical cooking was trickier and more dangerous than the Muggle way. Sirius, being a lazy aristocrat, gave it up as a bad job. Remus gave a few halfhearted attempts, but found that his lack of aptitude for potions was well-translated to cooking, much to his (and his stomach’s) misfortune. They survived largely on takeout until Remus put his foot down.

I can learn how to cook, he thought to himself, It’s unbecoming for a man to be so helpless.

So he made an omelet. A horrible, horrible omelet. It was clear upon first bite that the flavor was completely wrong, parts of the egg were runny and parts of it were somehow burnt, and there was more than a little shell crunching between his teeth. It was the worst omelet anyone had ever eaten in history.

“Wow, delicious, Moons!”

Remus turned to glare at him, assuming Sirius was taking the piss. But no, Sirius was wolfing the omelet down, eggshell and all, and giving him a heartbreaking smile.

What the fuck? Maybe because he’s a dog, he likes eggshells, he had thought wonderingly.

Thus began the experimentation.

Formulation of Research Question

Remus starts cooking with regularity, each time deeply curious about Sirius’ reaction. He tries his hand at simple pastas, curries, stir fries, and more. He fails spectacularly in new and creative ways each time. One time, he causes a small fire.

No one could possibly enjoy this, he thinks resolutely, making great effort to continue chewing his rubbery half-burnt roast chicken.

And yet, Sirius does. Or pretends to, if his pained smile is anything to go by. The mystery turns Remus to frustrated musings.

Why is he pretending?

Characterizing the Phenomenon

He decides to see how far he can take this.

The scholar in him claims that he’s simply trying to gather as much evidence as possible. But, honestly, he’s just pranking Sirius. It’s fun.

Every day, despite having limited free time, he spends an hour or more making increasingly dubious and varied entrees. He makes a Shepherd’s Pie and purposely forgets the gravy and cheese. He dumps half of shaker of salt into a dehydrated mushroom risotto. He grills steaks that achieve accolades far beyond the pale of a mere “well done”.

Possibly the biggest insult occurs the day he prepares a beautiful-looking coq au vin, a classic French dish for his classic French friend who was bred with classic French cooking, with Moscato instead of a dry red wine.

“Oh, Moony, now this looks incredible!” Sirius crows with real enthusiasm. Remus leers at him as he takes a bite. And waits.

“Just as I thought,” says Sirius, a little weakly. He would have sounded normal to anyone else, but Remus knows him far better. The next part he says much more warmly, earnestly: “I hope you never stop cooking for me.”

Controlled Trials

Remus has a theory. He has a theory, and it’s one that makes his stomach flip inside-out (no, no, in a way that is completely unrelated to his godawful cooking), makes his heart pound, and deliciously terrifies him. A theory supported by the way Sirius has become his favorite food critic, but also in other ways.

It’s the way Sirius looks at him after full moons, like he’s hurting just as badly. It’s the way Sirius surprises him with his favorite chocolates (the ones with the surprise salted-caramel center). It’s the way Sirius helps Remus up the stairs with an arm tenderly around his waist when he’s had too much wine, and, after Remus is under the covers of his bed, the way Sirius’ hands rest on his forearms for a few moments too long, like he doesn’t want to leave.

He has this theory that’s driving him insane with sleepless nights. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it’s correct.

But first, he needs more evidence.

Trial #1:

They are having friends over for dinner, as adults, or those pretending, are wont to do.

Remus is cooking.

He is making a classic Indian dish: masala dosa. He does not ferment the batter—he considers that to be a friendly suggestion by the recipe. He does not touch a single bottle of spice. He considers those friendly suggestions too. It is the worst dish he’s ever made.

As they dine, Lily attempts to be discreet about her gagging. It is not discreet. Peter frowns outright and slowly pushes away his plate. And James....well James is tearing into him.

“How dare you!” James spits with a vitriol that’s never before been directed been directed at Remus. “Moony, you weirdly insisted on cooking for all of us, and it’s like you tried to make it awful and disrespect my ancestors. My mum used to make masala dosa for Sirius and I whenever we were off term as a special treat, did you know that? It’s our favorite food and you fucking butchered it.”

Remus feels a bit bad, but not very. Effie Potter is alive and well, and soon enough, will surely make her darling little princelings food so delicious, it will wipe away any memory of Remus’ nightmare dinner party. Instead he looks at Sirius across the table, who has been staring at him this whole time.

“Padfoot? What did you think?”

“Well...Jamie, I get why it’s not your cup of tea,” Sirius starts haltingly, “it’s very different from Effie’s recipe...but also very unique. I loved it.”

Everyone stares at Sirius, who, by all means, looks guileless.

Later, no one can figure out why, after being told in no uncertain terms by three of his closest friends that his dish unequivocally sucked, Remus is grinning so broadly.

Trial #2:

“Lily, please.”

“No. Why would anyone want this?”

“Lily,” Remus pleads, “You’re my best friend.”

She raises a red brow at him.

“Best girl friend,” he amends.

She sighs. “Just tell me why you would possibly want this. I’ll be so embarrassed if I do this.”

Remus bites his lip. “I can’t tell you. But I really need this. There’s a good reason for it and I promise it’s not a prank.”

“Certainly not. Pranks have a punchline.”

“Please? I never ask you for anything.”

“Remus, that is not even remotely true.”

Sensing he is losing, he attempts to recreate Padfoot’s signature puppy eyes.

“Urghh! Alright, I’ll do it if you stop doing whatever it is you’re doing; it looks like it hurts.”

She invites everyone over for dinner, as adults, such as Lily, who was born with an adult-brain, are wont to do.

She follows a steak and kidney pie recipe that Remus had insisted on her using. Only, instead of using kidney, she uses nearly raw whale liver. The liver is swimming in a revolting pool of its own juices. When interrogated about this later, she blinks innocently, saying, “I thought the organs were interchangeable?”

Remus is too tense to eat as he listens to the plates being set down. Barely a moment passes before Sirius’ voice is booming: “EVANS! What the fuck is this!? It tastes like dogshit! I would know!”

Remus’ heart explodes with joy.

Trial #3:

The definition of insanity, some have said, is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. Remus wonders if there’s any folksy wisdom about doing something differently every single time and always achieving the same result.

A month after the Liver-Pool fiasco, Sirius sits across from Remus at their little dining room table, his face lit up by dancing candlelight—candles lit by Remus—a small smile playing about his mouth as he eats dinner, dinner that Remus has cooked.

“It’s delicious, Moony. As usual. I’ve missed these dinners with you.” Sirius’ mouth twists sadly as if recalling the past month of Remus’ unusual absences and nausea-free meals.

“Padfoot...I made paella with popcorn shrimp, anchovies, and basil...and you think it’s delicious?”

Sirius gapes for a moment but recovers: “I do! I think it’s unusual but wonderful...I like…things like that.”

Sirius takes a seemingly nervous gulp of his red wine (purposely paired incorrectly).

“Sirius,” Remus says softly, “Are you in love with me?”

Sirius chokes on his wine and it spills all over his trousers. Alarmed, Remus runs over, slapping Sirius’ back as he coughs violently. Only, in the process, he upsets more of the wine in Sirius’ hand, causing Remus to leap, grab a kitchen towel, and rub it roughly all over Sirius’ stained thighs. He jolts the moment he realizes exactly what he’s doing. Sirius is staring down at his kneeling form with wide eyes. Both of their cheeks are flushed a lovely port color.

Catching his breath after his coughing fit, Sirius whispers, “Why would you ask me such a thing?”

“Because,” he whispers as well, even though his throat should be in perfect condition, “you keep pretending to like my awful food.”

Sirius sputters. “You’re a great cook! I like your food!”

“Pads, absolutely no one likes my food,” Remus murmurs gently but firmly. “No one.”

Sirius’ eyes suddenly become over-bright. He says nothing.

“Listen...if you did...love me,” Remus says slowly, trying to deliberate his words, “Honestly, that would be...fine. That would be fine.”

“’Fine’?” Sirius mutters bitterly. Now his tears really do spill over. Remus catches them with his thumbs on instinct...and leaves his palms on either side of Sirius’ face.

“No,” he swallows decisively. “Not fine. That would be lovely. That would be the most lovely, wonderous thing that has ever happened or will ever happen to me, and I’d be—just—Sirius, I’d be so happy.”

Hope and disbelief war on Sirius’ face.

“I’m serious,” Remus insists, uncurling out of his kneeling position to stand over him.

“No, you’re Remus, I’m--”

He stamps his lovely wine-stained mouth with a hard kiss, both hands desperately clutching Sirius’ face. Sirius immediately curls his fingers into Remus’ hair and pulls him in closer by his shirtfront. His mouth opens, and Remus thinks deliriously, Oh God. God, that’s his tongue and he tastes like basil and red wine and magic.

One of his hands trails down to clutch at the very top of Sirius’ thigh and Sirius lets out a funny, tiny, little sound, and it makes Remus smile against his mouth. They’re panting when they finally break apart.

“I have something to confess,” Remus begins breathlessly. “I’ve learned to cook, at least a few things, that are really good now. That’s where I’ve been all month, at the Potter’s, trying to learn some of the dishes you grew up with. I’ve got masala dosa keeping warm in the oven, and it’s actually good this time, I promise. Effie showed me how.”

Sirius stares at him. “That’s a good thing, Moony, because your cooking was truly atrocious.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, utter dogshit.”

“I know.”

“Paella without any saffron? Who does that?”

“I know.”

Sirius hesitates. “I still love you madly though.”

Remus smiles shyly. “I know. I love you madly, too.”