Connor watched Ollie sadly scrape the burned patties into the bin, while James opened the windows to let the smoke out. 

“Do you want to stay for pizza?” Ollie asked him, dropping the pan in the sink. “Or maybe we can order something else?” 

Connor raised an eyebrow at the three men in front of him– did none of them know how to take care of themselves? “That’s all you have?” He tilted his head towards the bin. “Can’t any of you guys cook? How old are you?” 

“Are you expecting an answer for all those questions or were you asking to prove a point?” Victor was crouched, his hand stretched out a bit, doing his best to win Freckle back.

Connor shrugged and winked. This guy was really fixated on cats. 

“Your point would be somewhat valid,” Victor continued, his tone was cool and level, “but I grew up with a maid and a cook.” 

“Fancy.” Connor yawned. “And now look at you, a fully functioning adult living off of–,” he paused to skim the pile of half empty bags on the floor around the couch,“chips and Coke.” 

Victor smiled with the corner of his mouth. He shrugged, left the couch, and sat at the table. “It’s everything I need,” he said. “Nutritionally complete.” 

Connor nodded slowly, “Oh right, the two major food groups– salt and sugar. How did I forget? It all makes sense now.” He smiled mischievously. “Your personality, I mean.” 

Victor clicked his tongue and scooped Freckle from Connor’s lap. “I’m grateful for this free psychoanalysis.”

“Anytime,” Connor said. 

“Can you cook?” James asked, leaning back against the countertop. 

“Can I cook? Yeah. Can I cook better than you?” Connor smiled. “Obviously, yeah. What ingredients do you have?” 

Ollie jumped at the opportunity to offer Connor a guided tour of their fridge more artfully than a museum curator. 

Connor considered. Their fridge was chaotic, but he could pull something together. “How about pasta with broccoli in butter lemon sauce. I can cook some bacon on the side and we can sprinkle it on top. Is that fair?”

Ollie let out a small, dreamy sigh. “That sounds so good. I can’t remember the last time we had a proper home-cooked meal. I’m so hungry for food that’s not handed to me by a man in a uniform.” 

“Are you sure about that?” Victor teased. 

Ollie took a second to think. “No. I do like men in uniforms. But the food part still stands. I’m so, so, so tired of frozen stuff. I have nightmares with lasagnas that are still cold in the middle.” 

“That’s horrifying,” Victor said. 

James nodded in sad agreement. Connor put water on the stove to boil and started chopping the broccoli. He snuck a peek at James. Now that he wasn’t bursting, screaming, into Connor’s apartment, red-faced and covered in grocery bags, Connor could finally get a good look at him. And damn, he was worth looking at – he was tall and muscular, almost but not quite bulky. His hair was neatly buzzed the same length all over, as if he did it himself on the regular, and he had even, handsome features and a strong jaw.

Connor filled four bowls with noodles while idly wondering what James would look like naked. After a moment’s consideration, he sprinkled some parsley on each bowl. He didn’t actually like parsley, but it looked fancy. He took in a deep breath, he’d bragged about his cooking, and now he had to prove himself. 

 “It’s ready,” he called out, carrying the bowls to the Ikea dining table, “and it’s damn delicious.” His voice held a quaver of uncertainty that he hoped none of them noticed. 

 The three others sat at the table like an odd pack of wolves and, with no regard for table niceties, began shoveling their food as if they really hadn’t eaten anything but bland mashed potatoes for a week.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Ollie asked, breaking eye contact with his noodles at last, “It’s really good!”

“Oh, I ah… I guess I was waiting to say Grace.”

The others froze. Victor made a gagging sound as he inhaled a noodle too quickly. The fork in James' hand stopped halfway to his face, the spaghetti dangling over his bowl. 

Ollie put his fork down. “Oh, sorry!” He looked at Connor cautiously. “I hope that we didn’t offend you.” 

Connor felt his face burn. “N-no! Not at all. I’m not even religious!” He instantly regretted his words. “It’s just an old habit from home. I don’t say it myself.” Before they could comment further, Connor shoved an overfilled forkful of creamy noodles in his mouth and instantly choked on them. 

James reached out and slapped his back a couple of times, which didn’t help at all. Connor’s face burned with humiliation. He stared at his plate– was it possible to drown in a half inch of alfredo sauce? But soon enough the guys resumed their conversation, and the embarrassing moment disappeared like noodles into James’ mouth. 

“I love spaghetti,” Ollie said and smiled at Connor. “They’re really good, you’re the best cook in this room.” 

Connor’s face warmed slightly at the praise. Ollie seemed sweet and kind, and a little inane, like a tiny curly puppy intent on eating a pinecone.  He let himself relax and casually watched James for the rest of the dinner. 

“So, where are you from Connor?” Ollie asked, then put some parsley in his mouth. He spat it out a moment later. 

“I’m from Abbots-” Connor stopped. “Vancouver. I’m from Vancouver.” He decided suddenly to lie. They didn’t need to know that he was from a small hick town.

“Oh I love Vancouver!” Ollie chirped, “So you’re a Canadian?”

“It’s obvious by the way he says ‘about’,” Victor said, licking the side of his fork. “It sounds like ‘a boot.’” He didn’t smile when he said that, and there was nothing on his face to show that he was joking. 

Is he serious? Did I even say ‘about’ tonight? Connor thought, indignation flaring in him. “No, it doesn’t,” he shot back, “It sounds like a normal about.” Was Victor joking or did he wanna start some shit? ‘Cause Connor would fuck him up– verbally of course. He kept his face neutral, this wasn’t too annoying yet. And he didn’t want to be on bad terms with his neighbours. And also, Victor was just maybe good-looking enough to tease him about his accent and pull it off.

Victor looked him in the eye and smiled almost imperceptibly. “I don’t hear a difference.” He didn’t pick the parsley off his pasta. 

Connor tapped a finger against his lips. Victor was weird and kinda hard to read. 

After they finished eating, they dumped their plates in the sink and Ollie herded them into the living room. James and Ollie sat side-by-side, their shoulders touching. Victor lay on the couch and swung his legs over the couch’s arm. His head was resting on James’ lap. There was no room for Connor. 

Ollie perked up, noticing the issue. “Let’s sit on the floor.” He slid down with a soft whoomp. “We should have some drinks now, right?” 

“Yeah, drinks and introductions,” Connor answered, unscrewing the top of the bottle.

“Are those two things connected?” Victor yawned, finally joining them around the coffee table. 

“They could be!” Ollie wiggled, as if he was overflowing with pent up energy. “A drinking game introduction! I’ll go first. Never have I ever not been named Ollie!” He took a shot.

“Ollie that doesn’t make any sense,” Victor said, his voice was so kind and gentle now.

It was such a shift from how he’d been talking so far that Connor was taken aback. He stared at Victor and laughed– a small surprised sound. Their eyes met for a few seconds. 

Ollie pouted. “Well, ok.” He tied his hair in a bun on top of his head. “Let’s make up some rules then.”