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Mitchell is in the kitchen, George finds him compiling the ingredients of a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich.

His shirt's thrown over a chair, artless but exact, and George can guess that he accomplished it without even looking.

Mitchell's standing at the side, introducing a tomato to a very sharp knife with rather obvious consequences. The surface is low enough for his back to be a long, fine curve, folded over from his narrow shoulders.

His trousers are missing a belt this morning, and have given in to gravity, slithering down Mitchell's non-existent waist to hang precariously on his sharp hipbones, low enough that there's the barest hint of curve at the back. Mitchell is not all torso, though if George wanted to he could probably get both hands around Mitchell's waist.

Then he spends a strange moment actually trying to decide if he could.

"Do you want one?" Mitchell asks without looking up.

"Yes please."

Mitchell hooks three more slices of bread out, goes back to his tomatoes.

Shirtless Mitchell in the kitchen isn't exactly a rarity but it's early enough for the quiet and the smell of cheese to lull George into something that's close to indulgent.

He's still getting used to sharing his space, to sharing his space with someone that he doesn't have to carefully keep at arms length. With someone he can say exactly what he's thinking to and not earn himself some sort of horrified expression that would have him back-pedalling and desperately trying to steer the conversation somewhere safe.

George likes the fact that he can say what he's thinking, it's one of the parts that's comforting about this fairly new arrangement.

He just never really expected half-naked Mitchell to be a part too.

In a purely theoretical sense.

Though he's still surprised sometimes by how thin Mitchell is, how everything is overlong, like he's been stretched out, every movement shifting an acre of skin up his spine and across the muscles of his back.

It's-

Ok, maybe not just a purely theoretical sense.

George is always the one that's naked, what he reluctantly thinks of as necessary nakedness. There had been far too much of it early on to protest. George wasn't really given a choice in the matter and nudity had, for the most part, gotten easier.

George can't help it and Mitchell has never brought attention to it.

Not like that anyway, not in a way that's ever made him uncomfortable.

But Mitchell-

George has never seen Mitchell naked, and the fact that's he's gradually coming to the realisation that he wants to.

That makes him uncomfortable.

Because it feels a little like some sort of betrayal. Like he lacks the ability to be as calm, as unfazed as Mitchell. He feels guilty for wanting to see Mitchell naked and guilt is something he's at least familiar with.

He tries to come up with some sort of helpful analogy for that in his head, until he realises there isn't one. There is no analogy for his life, which seems grossly unfair.

So he's stuck floundering his way through the fact that he is not only a werewolf he is now apparently gay, or at least definitely gayer than he was before.

He wonders when exactly his life became an episode of Hollyoaks.

There's a pause in Mitchell's intent vegetable- no the tomato is technically a fruit, in his intent fruit slicing.

Which is curious until George realises that Mitchell has noticed him looking.

Noticed that his looking is more focused than usual. The way Mitchell can do that, through the back of his own head, isn't so much annoying as blatantly unfair.

George flounders for something to fill the silence, ends up staring at the fall of neatly sliced tomato.

"Have you ever wondered what I taste like?"

The knife comes to an abrupt stop, abrupt enough that for a second George is afraid Mitchell has chopped his own fingers off. It would be just like him not to make a fuss.

It's a strange pause, like George has asked something ever so slightly scandalous, and George honestly doesn't know if he has because though there have always been strange questions there have never really been touchy subjects. Mitchell has almost always known not to ask and George isn't really the type to barge through someone's personal life moving the furniture and looking under the cushions. George is the one who doesn't push.

So he doesn't know if he's accidentally put his foot somewhere sensitive without realising.

Mitchell twists his head just a little.

"I mean I'm not human am I," George adds because he's started now. "Not exactly human. Not even when I look it. I smell different so I must...I must taste different and I just wondered..." his voice trails off and he can't think of a way to end the sentence without it sounding stupid, so he shrugs instead.

"Yes," Mitchell says quietly, he tips his head back over his shoulder, fixes George with a pointed look that it's impossible to shrug off or look away from. "I've thought about it."

There's a long strange moment where George opens his mouth to say something, but fails to dredge up a single word.

Mitchell's head turns back and the knife is slicing again, but slower than before.

There's now more than enough tomato for a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich.

Mitchell isn't quite as unreadable as he likes to think, as long as you're not actually expecting to see things on his face.

There's enough sliced tomato to make some sort of artistic display.

"Is it like Chinese food?" George asks, because Mitchell makes so much of an effort to understand, to plan around, and sometimes George feels like he's not putting in the work.

This time Mitchell twists his head round and raises an eyebrow at him.

George leans against the side.

"You know, if you've never tasted it, where it smells different not necessarily good different or bad different, just different, and you don't know whether you'll like it or not."

George frowns, shrugs.

Mitchell is looking at him like he's done something surprising, though whether it's a good surprising or a bad surprising George is absolutely in the dark about.

"Yes," Mitchell says flatly. "Yes George you're Chinese food."

He swivels back to the tomatoes, though the knife doesn't move again.

George wonders for one bewildered moment if he's accidentally managed to imply something insulting

But then Mitchell's shoulders are shaking just a little and George realises that he's laughing over the corpses of at least four tomatoes.

"I was attempting an analogy," George says, half defensively and half resigned to smiling through his own relief.

Mitchell tips his head back again and he looks helplessly amused. George is close enough that if he reaches out he could lay a hand on the side of Mitchell's waist...if he was brave enough.

He thinks Mitchell might just let him.