“You’re my guest!” Winston stared back at Remedy with equal amounts of confusion. “Y’all are gonna be livin’ here. It’s just as much your house as mine now.” He gestured to the room. “That couch, the fridge, the bed, the shower…” He listed, trying to wrap his head around Remedy’s mentality. “S’all yours too now.”
Anthony blinked. "I'm…. a mercenary who's served the Phantom Alliance many more times than the World Guard. I'm a murderer, which I don't regret, and I'm dangerous. I'm not really your guest."
Winston looked unimpressed for the first time since he’d met Anthony. “Did I invite you here, Remedy?”
"….Yes?" he responded, baffled. "Doesn't that mean I should sleep on the floor? I'm not going to take your bed, so where else would I sleep?"
“It means your my guest.” Winnie huffed. “If you’re not gonna take my bed right now then you can sleep on the couch. Don’t even think ‘bout sleepin’ on the floor.” He threatened, shoving his hands into his pockets. “There’s a blanket on the couch for you already. Go relax while I shower, an’ then I’ll get to makin’ dinner.”
Anthony blinked in bewilderment. He nodded after a few moments and rose to his feet, suddenly quite sheepish. "Do you want me to do anything? Clean up?"
“All I want you to do is rest.” Winnie replied, waving him off. “Go get warm, I’ll be out soon. Maybe I’ll let you help with dinner.” He was a bit surprised that he was… well in control of the situation. But he wasn’t about to let it go to waste.
Anthony, realizing suddenly how ridiculously open he was being, pulled a blank expression over his face and nodded curtly, though his heart wasn't in the act. He turned to approach the couch, hesitantly at first, but relaxing fairly quickly once he'd sat down.
Winston waited a minute, satisfied once Anthony was sitting down. He grabbed a change of clothes from his room and quickly got into the shower, not wanting to take too long sopince his guests were likely starving.
Samuel bounded up onto the couch beside his brother and practically curled up in his lap, sighing in contentment. Anthony’s heart squeezed painfully, but he didn’t push the younger boy away. Instead, he combed his fingers through his hair, humming quietly:
Winston’s shower was relatively fast. He scrubbed off all the dust he could, singing softly to himself all the while. But skin enough the ten minutes passed and he was back out, changing into flannel green pajama pants along with a white t-shirt that carried an abundance of stains from acrylic paint.
Samuel let another sigh slip, determined to take advantage of his brother’s newfound softness. Maybe staying with Winston really would do him some good, and he’d come out changed. Less cold, hopefully.
Winston stepped out of the bathroom, his damp hair flopping down on his forehead. He strolled lazily into the middle of the room before shaking like a dog to get some excess water out of his hair, humming to himself as he entered the kitchen. He faced away from Remedy, hiding a smile as he saw the mercenary cuddled up with Sam.
Anthony was yanked sharply from his reverie by the sound of the bathroom door opening. He jerked away from Samuel, fear flooding his system—what if Winston had seen? He couldn’t afford to show any weakness, and he’d already shown plenty. Consequences would come, and soon.
“Do you want to help? Or would you rather get some more rest?” Winston asked, pulling out a lump of pizza dough from the fridge.
Anthony stood quickly, shaking his head with the barest hint of a scowl. “I’m not a baby,” he muttered and approached the kitchen. “You don’t have to coddle me.”
Winston almost laughed, but managed to stifle it. Determination flashed in his soft blue eyes. “If I were coddlin’ you, you’d be asleep in my bed right now. Fact I’m givin’ you a choice at all means I ain’t.” The teen responded, yawning widely. He wiped down the counter before scattering flour all over it.
“You’re coddling me,” Anthony insisted, clearly not understanding that there was such a thing as people wanting to be polite towards him. He slipped his hands in his pockets. “What do you need help with?”
“C’mere, don’t be shy.” Winston waved him over, ignoring his remark about being coddled. “You gotta knead the dough for me. Can you do that?”
Anthony hesitated. His experience with cooking was limited, to sag the least. “I just.. roll it? Like play-doh?”
Winston chuckled this time, genuinely amused by Anthony’s innocent confusion. “Mhm, don’t coddle you.” He shook his head, trying not to smile. “Come on, stand next to me so I can show you.”
Anthony grew suddenly defensive. “Try cooking real food after eating from garbage cans for four years he answered tersely, but did as he was told.
Anthony grew suddenly defensive. “Try cooking real food after eating from garbage cans for four years he answered tersely, but did as he was told.
Arg, won’t let me edit my typo)
(Lol it’s okay)
Winston simply sighed in reply. “That’s why you need to learn, Remedy. I’m not coddlin’ I’m teachin’. The difference is important.” He began to knead the bread, showing Anthony how to do it. “You wanna get the flour on it, alright? But don’t force it.”
Anthony nodded slowly, forcing his features to twist and relax into a completely neutral expression as he—they—worked. “Like this?” he asked after a moment, demonstrating.
“Perfect. Ain’t that hard, is it? You’ll catch on real fast.” Winston encouraged, resisting the temptation to coddle the boy. He grabbed a separate lump of dough, singing quietly under his breath as they worked.
Anthony tensed but didn’t comment—he couldn’t exactly snap at Winston in his own home, especially not after all that he’d offered. He continued to work the dough as instructed, remaining completely silent. If Winston wanted to speak, he would say so.
Winnie continue to sing under his breath, lost in his own little world as got into the rhythm of things. He brought out a rolling pin once he decided the dough was fit for the next stage, the lyrics to High Hopes, now audible as he tapped his foot along to the imaginary beat.
(that song is amazing)
Focus on the dough, Anthony mentally frowned at himself, forcing his eyes to stay completely fixed on the task in front of him. He couldn’t afford any distractions, no matter how well his (roommate?) sang.
Winston, after rolling out the dough, paused to check on Anthony’s progress. He peered over the other boy’s shoulder, taking his slightly larger height to its full advantage. “A little more flour, then roll.” He instructed, setting the rolling pin down besides Anthony and grabbed a jar of tomato sauce from a cabinet, along with a spoon.