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Vox routinely started his mornings with coffee and eggs. Every day was the same. It was a fixed procedure. Nothing had changed since the days that he worked that shitty little weatherman gig, up to his CEO status in Hell today. Vox coveted his familiar ritual.
This morning, Valentino had woken up Vox in bed for a change. While Vox was normally an exceedingly early riser by both inherent nature and deliberate nurture, his body was working overtime to rid him of his pesky illness.
“God, I’m sorry, Val,” Vox mumbled instantaneously, already rueful the very moment awareness flooded his senses. “I slept in, didn’t I?”
Valentino only hummed, sounding disgustingly fond. “Clearly you needed it, papito.” He stepped closer, and now Vox could see that he was donning a plate. “How do you feel?”
“Oh, you know…” Vox trailed off vaguely, waving a dismissive hand. In truth, his head ached, he was a little nauseous, and his limbs were stupidly sore. But he didn’t need to give Val any other reason to dote, worry—or worse yet, attempt to dissuade him from his job. He was bent on proceeding with his day in relative normalcy.
Val bent down and laid the mysterious plate in Vox’s lap, setting it overtop the thick, sweaty sheets that enveloped Vox through his fever. “I made you some breakfast.”
Vox gaped blankly down at the plate, blinking bleary eyes. His screen brightness lagged, brightening a bit slower than usual. The sight was a bit hazy, but Vox knew scrambled eggs well enough to identify them unmistakably. “...This is for me?”
Valentino delicately lowered himself onto the mattress, sitting by his feet on the bed. “All your’s,” he confirmed, voice honey-smooth. His wings draped beautifully loose, spilling off the side of the mattress. He watched Vox with a lazy, pleased smile.
Even half awake, Vox felt the desperation to kick the sheets off, just so that Val could plant that scantily clothed ass right on him instead. Val was still in his sleep shorts, deliciously tiny and leaving little room to Vox’s imagination.
“Well?” Val prompted, sobering him from the haze.
Vox shook his head a bit, refocusing. “Yeah, babe,” he quickly began to formulate a response, hastily grasping the fork on the plate. He looked back down to actually inspect the food, being met with neatly-plated eggs. They were soft, fluffy, still faintly steaming, and appeared well-made. However, strange little curls of green threaded through them.
“What’s that stuff you put in it?” He asked innocently, not yet pulling his eyes off of his examination.
Valentino leaned forward, entering Vox’s peripheral, probably trying to see what he was concerned about. “What do you see, amor?” He followed-up curiously, squinting behind his own glasses to get a better look.
“It’s—” Vox stuttered, trying not to sound disappointed. “It’s green.” He chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen green eggs before.”
“Oh!” Val as he sat back up, grin spread wide. “It’s spinach!”
Spinach.
Vox slowly lowered his head again, reexamining the food with a new perspective. He moved the green bits around with his fork, testing the texture.
There was a brief moment where Vox nearly forgot he was being watched. He continued to study his plate.
“I made it special for you, papi,” Valentino added playfully, driving a stake into Vox’s heart. “You’ve been sick. You need your vitamins.”
Vox looked up with a polite smile that he hoped reached his eyes. “Babe, it looks incredible. Are you kidding?” He reached down to squeeze Val’s hand, then pulled it up for a gentle kiss. “You’re spoiling me.” He let his hand go, going in to scoop up a forkful at last. “Also, you might want to wash that hand now.”
Contrastingly, Valentino rather giggled cheekily, then licked the kiss off the back of his hand with a flat tongue. “Lo mío es tuyo.”
Vox hid his vicious flush behind the fork, suddenly grateful he kept the sheets over himself to disguise what would probably become a ridiculous erection. He diverted those urges by focusing on the food on his fork, which was purposefully more egg than spinach to start.
The first bite was safe, familiar, and very good. He hummed around the fork, his shoulders easing a fraction. “Oh, that’s delicious,” he praised, muffled by his mouthful of food.
By the second bite, he finally encountered the foreign green bits. It was strange against his tongue, immediately flagged as a different texture. It wasn’t crunchy, yet it also wasn’t soft like his eggs. It was more… slippery. It felt oddly stringy in his mouth, folding weirdly between his teeth. In no way did he feel like it belonged there.
The taste was another plight entirely. It was earthy and bitter, overpowering the flavor of his eggs, coating his tongue in charred greenery. It clashed with the rich buttery eggs that he actually liked.
Still, Vox did not stop chewing. He did not dare hesitate, painting on a face of satisfaction. His smile held, albeit a fraction tighter. “Mmm,” he hummed demonstratively, nodding. “That’s—Yeah, that’s good, Val.”
Valentino’s eyes narrowed in amusement. He didn’t look entirely suspicious, but he was intrigued by his reaction, no doubt. “Yeah?”
Vox nodded fervently, more enthusiastically. “Yeah!” Maybe he was overcompensating a little, but there was some truth intertwined within it. “The eggs are perfect. Like—perfect, Val.”
He was not lying entirely.
He went in for another bite because stopping after the first taste of spinach would undoubtedly betray his discomfort. It would be rude of him to let that show.
Unfortunately, rather than adapting to it, the second helping was an even worse experience. Now that Vox had learned the taste and texture of the spinach, he was overly aware of it. He couldn’t get away from it. It was impossible to not feel it in his mouth. His brain began to zero in on every slick little strand, separating it from the eggs, cataloguing the difference, rendering it impossible to just enjoy the parts of the dish he liked. The meal as a whole was tainted by the little pieces interwoven throughout it.
He swallowed anyway.
“Still delicious?” Valentino asked again, painfully soft, watching him closely.
Vox flashed him a quick thumbs up, already shoveling another bite to sell it. “Mhm.”
There was a faint beat as he chewed quietly, feigning contentment. But, per his luck, it was pierced by a deep, low gurgle sounding from his midsection.
rrrrkkgh…
Vox paused, the food disgustingly suspended in his mouth. But his stomach was suddenly calling his attention—and Val’s too, unfortunately, as they both looked down.
His brows knit slightly, and he slowly, mechanically swallowed. “...Uh—sorry about that.”
Valentino perked up instead, disregarding his apology. “Oh my God, Vox, did you hear that?”
“I—yeah, I—” Vox cut himself off with a nervous laugh, waving it off. “Whatever, it’s just—y’know. My stomach’s weird in the morning. It always does that.”
He risked another bite, now doubly apprehensive. He didn’t know if it was wise to keep putting food in if his stomach was beginning to protest it. He hadn’t actually thrown up in a couple of days, thankfully on the mend—but considering the vague nausea he woke up with, coupled with unfamiliar food, he was left more than a little bit jittery. What if he was allergic to spinach? Or what if spinach didn’t agree with him? What if spinach upset his stomach? The uncertainty nestled into his mind, sprouting roots, making it even harder to finish his plate.
He swallowed thickly, stifling a grimace. Almost immediately, yet another grumble resounded from beneath the sheets, slightly more insistent now.
grrrrrlllrrp…
This time Vox lowered his fork, his mouth curling in a slight wince. “Okay, that’s—” He huffed an unsettled sigh, his shoulders hunching protectively. “Val, I don’t know if my stomach agrees with this.”
Valentino, to Vox’s surprise, didn’t even try to hide the pleased grin spreading across his face. He didn’t look the least bit worried or surprised. “That’s the spinach.”
Vox suddenly flashed him an offended look. “No, it’s not.”
“It is,” Valentino insisted, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Leafy greens, baby. They do that.”
Vox stared at him for a long moment, processing, his expression dripping in a blend between embarrassment and betrayal.
He then slowly looked back down at the plate. His eyes fell back on the plethora of spinach dispersed amongst the eggs. On cue, his stomach rolled, equally confused by what was inside of him.
“...Are you messing with me?” Vox murmured under his breath.
Valentino laughed outright at that. “Not at all, papito.” He actually patted Vox on the back, feeling indescribably patronizing—yet most grievously, Vox knew it was warranted. “Welcome to eating vegetables like a grown adult.”
Vox let out a breathy, incredulous laugh, rubbing a hand over his belly. “Fantastic. Just fucking wonderful.” With his other hand, he poked at the eggs with his fork, his confidence waning. Some spinach shifted out of the eggs, sliding onto the plate. He recoiled a notch at the sight, swallowing, his expression flickering.
Quickly, he took in a deep breath, smoothing himself back into his easygoing, well-mannered charm. “I mean, it’s fine,” he assured both Val and himself. “It’s—good for you, right? Iron, vitamins, fiber… All that crap.”
“Mmhm,” Valentino indulged him, delighted.
Vox held his breath, taking in another forkful… only to regret it, yet again. The texture was still unbearable, and the aftertaste was progressively worse with every warm, chewed-up leaf that marinated on his tongue. Not to mention, now his stomach was equally disgruntled, earning him strange cramps to boot.
His stomach suddenly roiled, fiercely, far more than before. Vox’s whole face screwed up before he could manage to hide it, and he held his belly more possessively. “Val!” He cried out flusteredly, heat rising through his neck, up to his burning screen face.
Valentino was practically wheezing. “It’s the spinach!”
“I got that part!” Vox snapped, but it was hardly malicious—more agitated embarrassment as he pressed his hand into his noisy gut. “Jesus, it’s—why is it so immediate?”
Valentino wiped at his eyes, still laughing. “Baby, you hate it.”
“I don’t—” Vox frantically started to counter—then stopped, mouth pulling into a deep frown.
Valentino was right, and worse yet, he knew it.
“Baby, it’s okay, you don’t have to like it,” he tried to reassure him, thoroughly tickled.
Vox’s shoulders dropped, slumping down, looking ashamed. “…I like the eggs,” he admitted, quieter. “They’re really good.”
Valentino’s smile softened a little at his admission.
Vox glanced back to the plate, poking half-heartedly at a piece of spinach. “It’s just—this part is… weird.” He confessed, no longer able to keep his disgust completely at bay. “It doesn’t—feel right. Or sit right. Or taste right.” His belly gave a gentle little gurgle in protest. “And I don’t think my stomach likes it either.”
Valentino snorted at that, leaning forward to peck a kiss on the side of his screen. “That’s just the fiber, bebé.”
Vox huffed indignantly, but leaned greedily into the kiss. His eyes stayed locked onto the plate, remorsefully gazing at the meal that Valentino had prepared so lovingly, generously, and thoughtfully for him, yet he could hardly stomach.
Closing his eyes, he could no longer stand to look at the unfinished plate. He released a grieved sigh, laden with the slightest guilty whine. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t wanna be rude. You made it for me,” he added, a bit more quietly.
There was a beat of quiet.
In the absence of reassurance, traitorous anxiety coiled its way into Vox’s belly.
Then Valentino leaned forward, plucking the plate off of Vox’s lap.
“Val—”
“You don’t have to eat something you hate just to spare my feelings,” Valentino stated so simply, so easily, moving the plate to the nightstand, quelling his guilt effortlessly.
Vox looked up at him, blinking wide eyes. “...You sure?” He instinctively grabbed Val’s hand, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles, a placating instinct. “That’s not gonna piss you off later? Make you upset?”
Valentino melted into the gesture, a smile crinkling his eyes behind his glasses. “Don’t be silly, Vox. I can remake the food.” He squeezed Vox’s hand back in departure. He gently withdrew, rising from the bed. “Breakfast in bed is supposed to be magnífico, not miserable.”
“Well—I wasn’t miserable, Val. The eggs were good!”
Val hummed knowingly, collecting the old plate off the bedside table. “Of course, babe,” he conceded, letting him spin his tires.
“And I didn’t know my stomach was gonna react like that,” Vox defended further, hoping to lessen the blow of rejection, should Valentino be offended. “Maybe I actually would’ve liked it if my stomach hadn’t been so weird about it.”
Valentino just giggled, charmed. “Of course.” He reached out to pat the top of his head. “No more spinach for you, princesa.”
Vox ducked his head, huffing, but couldn’t help the relieved smile that tugged at his mouth now that the truth was out. “Alright, then,” he was disarmed fairly easily. “Yeah, let’s—let’s give spinach a rest.” His belly still made a fuss, a little unhappy ripple sounding amid the undignified, peculiar feeling in his midsection. “It’s still happening, Val,” Vox lamented grumpily.
Valentino suppressed a laugh behind his hand, practically giddy. “Well, is your tummy gonna be okay for more eggs?”
Vox rolled his eyes, a playful smirk prodding at his features. “For normal eggs, I’m willing to find out the hard way.”