Omelet

It was 1964, and Ramone's house was filled with smoke. He had called his parents to no avail and had resigned himself to opening windows to try to clear it out himself. He knew damn well where it was coming from, too, he'd burnt his food on the stove and he was feeling like an utter failure.

All of a sudden, he heard a pebble hit the floor of his bedroom, and he stuck his head out the window to see.

“Hey idiot let me in. I've been knocking!”

“I can't, sorry,”

“Why?”

“House smells like shit right now, trying to clear out the smoke.”

He's not sure if Bruce caught his actual drift, though, since he couldn't smell it from where he was. After a moment of silence, he heard the front door open through the floor.

“Spare key, also, did you burn something? I thought for sure you meant you smoked a pack of cigarettes.”

Ramone's looking down at him from the second-floor railing. He had a defeated look on his face. “No, I just can't cook a meal to save my life.”

Bruce snorts and walks to the kitchen. All the windows were open, bringing in the chilly early spring air. He starts to make sense of the situation and then goes into the fridge.

Ramone walks down the stairs quietly in socks, turning around the corner to the kitchen to see Bruce with an arm full of ingredients

“What are you doing?”

“Cooking you lunch.”

It was endearing. This hadn't happened before, but Bruce did always try to do small things for him instead of watching him struggle. He's pretty sure the struggle made him uncomfortable.

“That's really nice of you, y'know.”

“I know.” he looked over at Ramone and gave him a passing smiling glance.

Ramone went over to the second smaller section of counter and hoisted himself up to sit atop it. He surveyed his cutting of ingredients curiously.

“So, why'd you swing by the house today even?”

“I wanted to see you.” he said as he cracked three eggs into a bowl with green onion, various spices, and cheese. “Also, I'm making you an omelet.”

He ignores the omelet part of now, but it did make him smile. “Seeing me at school wasn't enough?”

“It never is, I essentially live here.”

“That's true,” Ramone pauses. “And now you're cooking for me. We're practically married.”

The comment made Bruce grimace, opting not to respond. Ramone takes the hint and changes the subject.

“Did you want to hear the new song I'm writing after we eat?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I uh, also wrote something I want to share.”

“Really? Is it a song?”

“Poem more so.”

“Fancy, love it.” he says, getting down from the counter and moving to stand by the stove as the omelet cooks. He watched Bruce do the most expert omelet flip he'd ever seen as if he'd been showing off.

In anticipation, Ramone grabbed one plate, two forks, and a bottle of hot sauce. He put the accessories on the small circular kitchen table and brought the plate over to the stove. Soon enough the heat was off and the eggs were on the plate.

They didn't speak as they ate, but it made Ramone feel like maybe today wasn't such a bust. He'll just have to get better at paying attention to the food he's cooking. He knows his parents will have a few select words for him when they see the black ash-covered pan in the sink. Once there were only a couple of bites left Ramone looked up at Bruce shoving the remaining egg in his mouth and laughed.

Through the egg, he managed to get out “What's so funny?”

He wasn't sure if he could say exactly what he wanted. It was cute that he made Ramone food, with no judgment, didn't anticipate being offered some, and completely demolished it anyway. It felt like an act of mild devotion in a way. Sacrificing his own needs for those he cares about. It took everything in Ramone not to look his way dreamily as he licked the hot sauce dripping down his bottom lip.

“Nothing, you're just stuffing egg in your mouth.” he did, however, fondly smile at him.

He swallows. “What can I say, good egg.”

“Easy for you to say about your cooking.”

“Well, do you not agree?”

“No, no, I do. That was probably the best omelet I've ever had. I just like teasing you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever” he smiles, getting up and depositing their dishes in the sink next to the soaking pan.

Bruce inquired “What were you cooking that you fucked up so badly anyway.”

Ramone motions over to the powder and gloopy drops on the counter near the rim of the sink. he speaks with shame. “Pancakes.”

“Jesus Christ Ram.” Bruce feels like the wind has been sucked out of him. “Did you forget to butter the pan or something?”

A look of realization dawns on Ramone's face and Bruce can't help but burst out laughing. “You have to grease the pan?”

Bruce is holding on to the counter for support as he laughs. “You're unbelievable you know.”

Before the embarrassment could hit him yet again, Bruce grabbed his arm and pulled him through the doorway of the kitchen, grabbing his backpack from next to the door and dragging him upstairs to his bedroom. Once the door closes, Bruce (while taking off his jacket to hang on the bed frame) speaks: “You shouldn't be embarrassed, by the way. Don't tell anyone, but you should've seen how I fucked up boiling water a few weeks ago.”

Ramone looks at him in disbelief. “How do you-”

“Exactly. I have no idea. I'm sorry for laughing.“

“It's alright, at least I'll know for next time. Maybe I can cook you some pancakes next time you're over.” he walks over to grab his acoustic guitar.

“If you're confident you won't burn them to ash.”

“I can't promise that, but they'll be made with love.”  the sentiment makes Bruce awkwardly smile as he goes to rifle through his backpack for his notebook. It was busted around the edges, barely holding on to its binding, and had scribbles all over the front of it. It's an object Bruce's had for probably 5 years now, Ramone tries to count backward in his head. At least 5. He flips towards a page near the end, stopping and going back a few to find a place to start. “okay, I have it. I want to hear your song first, though.”

Ramone adjusts himself with his guitar on his lap while sitting on his bed. The strap was lazily falling off his shoulder as he ran through the scales and tuned.

“I wrote this last night. It's a little unfinished, but since you're here…” he trails off.

The melody plays out soft and unassuming, almost like a lullaby. The words wicked their way around every crevice in Bruce's brain, ensnaring him in a siren's song. It was a song about love, in its purest form it seems, and it lured him closer and closer. He didn't dare get within a foot, but he leaned in. It was fantastic, albeit rough. His voice was always something he adored, it had a dreamlike storybook quality to it. Even when he'd cover songs that weren't his.

It was over quickly, leaving off as softly as it began. Ramone cleared his throat and looked over to Bruce. “so, yeah, that's what I have so far.”

He couldn't create the words he wanted, but he did get out “You're going to be famous one day, Ram.” while staring into his eyes endearingly for a few seconds. He eventually shook it away and moved on.

“Don't say things you don't mean.”

“Oh, no, I mean it. You've got to get your music recorded in a studio, and then you'll see. Then i'll have to pay money to see you on the big screen”

Ramone let out a sound of disbelief as he lifted his guitar above his head and sat it on the bed next to him. “Yeah okay. I appreciate it though. I think it'd be funny to be a big name one day.”

There was a small silence.

“Are you going to read your poem, Bruce?”

“I think you should read it to yourself.”

“Aw, stage fright?” Ramone teased.

“Yeah,” he looks away and hands him the notebook. “It's a couple of pages long.”

“Alright, okay.”

He furrows his brow slightly as he reads, showing the intense focus he has on the writing. He hadn't read much poetry outside of school, but Bruce had always shown an interest in abstract writing so he read virtually whatever he put in front of him.

Today's poem was different, though. It felt pointed. Pointed at him. At first, he pushed it away as a dumb thought, but as it started to reflect words and feelings he himself put out into the world in the last couple of weeks his heart clenched. Turning the page did nothing to quell his thoughts, the words jumping off the page at him, begging and pleading with him to love them, adore them, hold them tight, and never let go. Something clicked in Ramone's mind at that moment. He slowly brought the notebook to a close and looked into Bruce's eyes.

“Is this about me?” he questioned. It came out more serious than he wanted. He hoped it didn't scare him away.

Bruce looks away shyly. His stomach ached; there was no hiding it now. A lot of his poems had been about Ramone, past and present.  He didn't think it was inherently bad that his muse happened to be his best friend, but it was pretty clear that nowadays his vision of him had skewed. 

“If this is the end of it all, just kill me.” Bruce whispers, bracing for the worst possible outcome, teeth grinding.

“Christ,” Ramone swore, rolling his eyes. He put the notebook next to his guitar and crawled forward on all fours. “Can I kiss you?”

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