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Ramón and Pac had been repairing a couple of features of the murder mystery game for a few hours. Mostly just touch-ups here and there to the redstone, and maintenance on the create machines – which only a handful of people on the island actually understood. Ramón was a key helper when it came to the latter of the two projects, especially since the whole process would usually take days to do alone.
Fit was kind enough to let Ramón come over to help while he went about his janitor tasks, so they’d been moving fairly quickly. Before Pac knew it, half the day was gone, and they had done routine checkups on almost everything. Ramón mentioned something about taking a break, and Pac agreed instantly.
They sat on the front steps of the Barbie house, a sandwich in Ramón’s hands and a bottle of water in Pac’s. A comfortable silence settled between them, the soft breeze serving as their only interruption. Pac was ten seconds away from suggesting they take a nap in the mid-afternoon sun when he heard the familiar sound of words being scratched onto a sign.
Ramón held it up for him to see, and Pac blinked away sleep to read it properly. “You know something that I’ve always wanted to try?”
“You want to try something, Ramón?” Pac yawned, taking another swig of his water. “What is it?”
Ramón’s tail swished behind him as he started writing again, pointed ears twitching. The smile on his face was overflowing with joy, like he could hardly contain himself. He wasn’t easily fatigued the way Pac was after hours of work – those were the perks of being a kid, though. He recovered faster, had more energy to burn.
Ramón was a cute child, always so exciting to be around. Pac had grown closer to him throughout his time becoming Fit’s friend. They bonded over their mutual enjoyment and frustrations with the create mod, and evolved from there. Admittedly, Pac had become rather soft for the kid. If Ramón asked nicely enough, there was probably nothing Pac wouldn’t do for him.
“Cooking,” was what Ramón’s next sign said. “I know Chayanne is really good at it, and I’ve watched him do it a couple times. It looks fun.”
“Oh, cooking food,” Pac hummed. “It’s definitely fun, but it takes practice. You should get Chayanne to teach you.”
Ramón’s face shifted slightly, unreadable. “I don’t want to bother Chayanne. He’s always busy, and he’s only awake for short periods.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Pac replied. He tipped his head back, enjoying the sun on his cheeks, and thought for a moment. “Is there someone else who could teach you?”
A moment later, Ramón tapped him on the shoulder to present another sign. “Could you teach me?”
Pac jolted upright, adrenaline bursting through his veins immediately. “Me?”
“Yes,” Ramón wrote. “You help me with my machines all the time. I trust you to be a good teacher.”
And okay… maybe saying he’d do anything Ramón asked was a bit presumptuous. Cooking was not Pac’s strong suit. It wasn’t a skill he’d ever want to show off or brag about, especially not to someone whose opinion mattered deeply to him. There was a good reason why Chume Labs’ fridges were stocked with instant meals.
“Oh, well… Uh,” Pac stammered. “Machines are kinda different from cooking. I’m not the best. I can only make, like, soup and stuff. If anything, I’m better at baking.”
“Soup is fine. Baking sounds fun too.” Ramón shrugged, not backing down. Pac wasn’t sure how to escape the little twinkle in his eyes. He knew that he wasn’t a good teacher when it came to these things, not even close. But Ramón was persistent, and he said he trusted him. How was Pac ever supposed to deny that?
He tried, valiantly, one last time, “What about your dad?”
Ramón’s eyebrows raised into his hairline with shock. Pac didn’t even need to read another sign to know exactly what kind of conclusions the kid was making. He waved his hands frantically, ears burning with embarrassment.
“That’s not what I meant,” Pac complained. Ramón laughed, muffling the sound with his hand, and the older man playfully hit him. “Calm down, man! I just thought that you could maybe ask him for help. I’m sure Fit knows how to cook.”
“Know is a strong word,” Ramón contradicted. “He can do it, but it takes him ages.”
“Nothing wrong with spending time with your dad,” Pac pointed out. “You can call it quality family bonding time.”
Ramón gave him an exasperated look, like he couldn’t believe Pac was still fighting him on this. He scribbled one last sign, designed to win their pathetic argument, and held it up with the biggest puppy eyes he could manage.
“I can’t call it family bonding unless you’re there too, futuro pai!”
And he caved.
When Pac whooshed through the elevator into Fit’s lavacast base at the designated time, he hadn’t even considered that Ramón might not have told his father that they’d have a guest that day. It wasn’t until he entered the kitchen and Fit nearly dropped a bowl out of surprise that it occurred to him as a possibility.
“Oh, sorry, Fit,” Pac hissed, stepping further inside the room’s threshold. “I should’ve messaged to tell you I was coming up!”
“Pac?” Fit blinked at him, shock coating his face. “What are you doing here?”
Pac tilted his head in confusion, and glanced around the kitchen, as if he’d accidentally shown up to the wrong place. Given that Ramón was present, and there were cooking utensils and ingredients scattered about the countertop, he felt pretty safe assuming he hadn’t.
“I’m here to teach Ramón how to cook,” Pac answered slowly. His gaze slipped back to Fit, and he noticed something that had evaded him moments prior. “Are you wearing an apron?”
Instantly, Fit’s eyes blew wide, cheeks flushing. He gaped, stuttering out gibberish that meant nothing to outside ears, but that was fine. Pac didn’t need an answer when he could clearly see the soft pink fabric tied around Fit’s waist. He was shameless in his admiration of it. Especially once he noticed how nicely it brought his friend’s toned chest. Pac’s self awareness was all that kept him from whistling at the sight.
“I didn’t take you for an apron guy, Fit,” Pac said, smiling cheekily. Ramón watched them from the kitchen table with a similar expression.
“It, uh,” Fit struggled. He hung his head, a white-knuckle grip on the bowl in his hands. “It was… a gag gift. From Phil. I didn’t want to get food on my clothes, and that's all I had.”
“It looks good on you,” Pac mused, thoroughly entertained by Fit turning the same shade as his apron. “Matches your eyes.”
Fit laughed, albeit breathlessly, and it was a beautiful sound to Pac’s ears. He rarely received actual reactions to his intentionally flirtatious comments. Typically, his companion would have more of his defenses up by the time he and Pac came into contact, so everything would bounce off with nothing more than a few snorts here and there. Today though, Fit hadn’t been expecting company. Pac thought he looked particularly lovely with tinted cheeks.
“You’re too much,” Fit replied finally. He put the bowl aside and crossed his arms over his chest, making an obvious attempt at regaining his lost dignity. Pac smiled as he cleared his throat. “You’re here to cook, you said? I didn’t realize Ramón invited someone else to our lesson.”
“Really? He didn’t tell you?”
Pac shot a glance at the smug child in the corner. For all the trouble Ramón had gone through to arrange this little meeting, he didn’t seem dressed for kitchen activities in the slightest. His overalls were coated in dried machine oil and his goggles hung limply around his neck, equally as filthy from assorted mechanical work.
“Ramón was busy repairing my treadmills this morning,” Fit explained unprompted, successfully reading Pac’s mind. “Since he’s got more stuff to do with Tubbo after we’re done, he doesn’t think it’s worth it to shower and change.”
“Oh.” Pac frowned. Fit resumed what he’d been doing prior to the interruption, setting out bowls and knives on the counter. A thought occurred to Pac, causing him to wrinkle his nose. “Wait, if he’s not going to wash up, then how is he going to cook?”
“I’ll just watch for today,” Ramón wrote. “I can participate during my second lesson.”
Pac narrowed his eyes at the implications of a repeat. It didn’t take a genius to know Ramón was plotting something. The kid was mischievous, and when he put his mind to a goal, he never gave up. He bit his tongue though — not about to throw away his chances of seeing Fit in an apron again.
“He’ll be spectating,” Fit hummed, pulling a measuring cup out of a drawer. “I was just planning on making a simple meal, since my boy isn’t actually participating.”
“Like what?” Pac sidled up next to him, peering at the gathered kitchen supplies. A large majority of it looked as though it had never been used before. Only the cutting board, a few pots, and one of the larger knives contained any evidence of being handled. “I’m not an amazing cook, but I’ll do my best to help.”
“How about pizza? Shouldn’t be terribly complicated.”
Pac agreed, and Fit scooped up some nearby ingredients – wheat and water to make into bread dough. They were both silently grateful for the island’s crafting shortcuts, keeping them from the long and arduous process of making dough from scratch. The usefulness ended there, though.
Pizzas made through crafting recipes were impossible to get just right. The amount of sauce, cheese, toppings, and whatnot weren’t customizable, and it always made the crust oddly chewy. In a pinch, they worked fine, but someone craving decent-tasting food would be forced to undergo the remaining half of the process on their own, which was exactly what Fit was intending.
They removed the cooking supplies that wouldn’t be useful for this particular recipe, and cleared a space to roll the dough. While Fit laid it out, beginning with the rolling pin, Pac washed his hands. He encouraged Ramón to come do the same, but the boy wasn’t fond of anything requiring him to leave his chair.
“Leave him,” Fit hummed, appearing suddenly by Pac’s side. He held out a towel, and Pac accepted it appreciatively. “I think the idea of soap scares him. Bathtime is a nightmare.”
“He can’t hate it more than Richas. The only reason I’m in shape is because we have to chase him through the favela so often,” Pac snorted. Fit brought their comfortable chatter over to the dough, rolling it into a more appropriate shape while he listened. “Cellbit and Roier are trying not to use the ElMariana threat as much, because if he stops being afraid of him, we have no last resort.”
“They’re very creative for thinking of that in the first place,” Fit complimented. The dark-haired man hummed politely and glanced down at the dough, finding it to be a little thinner than it should’ve been. Fit clearly didn’t notice, too busy rambling to stop his motions. “Ramón was really good about it when he was littler, but now he just wants bribes.”
“Fit?”
“Yeah?” He followed Pac’s pointed finger and cursed. The dough had been spread so thin that holes had started to tear in the base. It wouldn’t be able to withstand a single topping in its current state. “Oh, shit! I always do this.”
Pac laughed, and moved to help. He reached past Fit’s hands, well into his personal bubble, and began pulling the dough back into a ball shape. The man didn’t notice how his companion froze, falling silent. If he had looked up, he might’ve seen the darkening hue of Fit’s cheeks, and their dangerously close proximity.
Instead, he worked around the other’s stilled arms to knead their project to coherency again. Eventually, Pac used his hip to nudge Fit to the side, taking the rolling pin for himself.
The movement succeeded in snapping the taller man out of his haze. He shoved his flour-covered hands into his pockets – a habit Pac had seen him do frequently when they were together, though this was hardly the time for it. Fit cringed the second he realized what he’d done, and returned them to his sides, flexing each of his fingers like they’d been burned.
Pac inquired after his health, a bit concerned, “Is something wrong?”
“Perfect,” Fit replied too quickly. He took a deep breath. “Perfect. Just embarrassed… about the dough.”
Pac accepted the answer, and began his try at forming the pizza base. It went significantly better. The shape wasn’t ideal, and there were certainly spots where Pac had pressed too hard, or spread it too thin, but it wasn’t bad. Both he and Fit decided it was better to count their blessings, and do what they could with the outline provided.
“What should we add as toppings,” Fit said, glancing towards his selection of fruits and vegetables on the other end of the counter. Pac scratched his chin, thinking. “Personally, I like my pizzas with a buttload of cheese, sausage, and pineapple.”
“Pineapple,” Pac repeated, scrunching his nose.
Fit raised a judgemental brow. “Oh, you’re one of those kinds of people, are you? Have you ever even tried pineapple on pizza?”
Pac blinked, mouth opening and closing. For all his big talk, he couldn’t find a valid retort – not when Fit was looking at him with those big eyes of his. He brought up his shirt to cover his mouth, hoping the guilt in his expression would be hidden as he shook his head.
“That’s what I thought,” Fit huffed. He stepped over to the ingredients, grabbing a block of cheese, a grater, and a sausage. “I would recommend you eat it at least once in your life. Maybe you will hate it, but then you’ll have a valid idea as to why. Doesn’t have to be today. Since we’re making this pizza together, I won’t force you to step out of your comfort zone.”
“No, it’s fine,” Pac sighed. “Let’s make it your way. I’ll try it.”
Fit straightened, a smile tugging at his lips.
“But,” Pac hastily added. “If I don’t like it, I’m going to find the hottest pepper I can and you have to eat it – without milk.”
Fit’s smile dropped, replaced with a loud complaint, “That’s not an equal trade! C’mon, Pac, be a little nicer. Have mercy!”
“No, no,” Pac refused. He crossed his arms over his chest, turning away so he wouldn’t be swayed by Fit’s sweet face. Twisting the words slightly, he used his friend’s argument against him, “You might like it, Fit. You’ll just have to see once you try it.”
They bickered back and forth a few more times, making miniscule progress here and there. Pac started grating cheese, while Fit preheated the oven, and sliced the meat into smaller pieces.
Despite the limited counter space and kitchen utensils, they worked well alongside one another. Cooking didn’t seem like such a grueling task when they were together. Not that either would ever admit such a thing.
Somewhere in their transition to domestic normalcy, Ramón’s presence had been completely forgotten. Though, he wasn’t complaining. Things were playing out exactly as he’d hoped they would. He was happy to kick his feet up, camera in hand and a whole album titled ‘Family Cooking Time’ ready to be filled.
By the time the sauce, cheese, and additional toppings had been sliced and arranged on the pizza, the oven beeped to signal it was fully heated. They slid their creation carefully onto a metal sheet, and stuck it inside to cook. Pac predicted they would wait twenty minutes at the most, and they high fived to congratulate their hard work.
That was when the two finally remembered Ramón.
“Holy shit,” Fit exhaled, slapping a hand over his mouth at the sight of his son, still sitting in the same chair. “Ramón, we were supposed to be teaching you.”
“Oh no,” Pac groaned, slumping against the counter. “I was distracted. I forgot to explain what we were doing.”
Ramón smiled, waving it off. He was gracious enough to forgive them, as long as they promised to redo this lesson another time with him. Neither saw through the obvious scheme, and Ramón left the exchange silently victorious.
About fifteen minutes later, the smell of rising dough and melting cheese permeated the air. Fit and Pac sat around the table with Ramón, mostly discussing the murder mystery build, and how far along it was now that the mechanical side was running. It was an easy topic to hold, with Pac going over schematics and Fit pretending to follow. Unfortunately, it was interrupted by a ping to the latter’s communicator.
“Ramón,” Fit started, frowning. “It’s from Tubbo. He wants to speak to you.”
The communicator was handed over to the boy, and the two adults watched as several messages were exchanged. Eventually, Ramón put aside the device to write a sign for them. “Tubbo says one of his machines is overheating and about to explode. He needs me to come help, or the avocado toast factory is doomed.”
“Well, hurry then,” Fit urged. He began to stand. “Warp there, and I’ll join you—“
“No,” Ramón interrupted, his sign written at neck-breaking speed. “You have a very important job too: Stay here with my future dad and make sure the pizza doesn’t burn.”
Fit and Pac both froze as they read the words in tandem. Ramón waved goodbye, and warped away, no further explanation given. They were left alone, nothing but the popping heat of the oven behind them to fill the quiet.
“Heh,” Fit choked a moment later. “Kids, right? They’re so out of control.”
“Yeah,” Pac whispered, barely audible. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. Ramón is very cute.”
The beeping of the oven broke the tension, and both of them jolted up to stop it. The pizza smelled amazing upon pulling it out, and it was left to cool for a minute before they sliced proper pieces. Pac was especially loathed to admit that the pineapple didn’t look too bad once everything was thoroughly cooked.
Fit saw the upset expression on his face and tilted his head. “Why are you frowning?”
“Frowning? I’m not frowning,” he scoffed, blatantly lying. Fit’s lips curled upwards into a grin. Pac could practically see the light bulb coming on behind his eyes. “Whatever you are thinking, it is not true.”
“Right, right,” Fit laughed. “Of course not.”
Pac avoided his nagging gaze until the pizza was finally cool enough to cut. Fit produced a fancy pizza-roller from a nearby drawer, and in a matter of minutes, there were eight neat pieces waiting to be eaten. They agreed to leave the largest slice for Ramón, and then it was time to pick their own.
Fit had no reason to be hesitant, choosing instantly and beginning to eat. Pac was significantly more hesitant. At this point, he wasn’t worried about eating something he disliked as much as he was dreading how their bet would turn out.
Technically speaking, he had nothing to lose. Fit hadn’t made demands about what would happen if he ‘won,’ but Pac was competitive all the same. And he’d been sort of excited to make Fit eat a pepper. He wanted to see the guy’s face contort – was pretty sure it’d be really funny. Getting any reactions out of someone so stoic was awesome, so that would be comedy gold.
Unfortunately, in order to achieve his goal, he had to first prove Fit wrong. The odds weren’t great. He liked the smell, and it looked appetizing – to assume that those two factors might result in a bad taste would require him to sink even further into his delusions.
Pac sighed, and picked up a small slice. Fit watched him with bated breath as he took a big bite, enough to get all the toppings in one go, and chewed it for a minute. A second later, his face fell, shoulders drooping.
“What,” Fit urged. He set down his slice to grab Pac by the shoulders. “What’s wrong? Is it that bad? I think we could’ve let the crust crisp up a little, but if you don’t like the taste–”
“No, Fit,” Pac started. He put his hand overtop of the other man’s. “It’s not bad. That’s the problem… I like it.”
Fit processed his words, and gradually, a grin split across his face. Pac startled as he let out a loud whoop of victory. The hands left his shoulders, and then Pac was being squeezed around his waist. His feet lifted off the ground, pulling a shriek from his mouth while Fit spun him around.
Pac was set down, and his frazzled mind tried desperately catch up with whatever the fuck had just happened. He was having an increasingly impossible time – blanking completely every time Fit directed his glorious smile towards Pac.
“See, I told you! It’s always worth it to try things,” Fit boasted, finishing the remainder of his slice in only a couple of bites. Pac glared down at his food, upset at how he enjoyed the rest of it just as much as its first impression.
When he glanced up, Fit was slipping the pizza into the fridge for Ramón, wrapped tightly to keep it relatively fresh. Pac snorted to himself once the man turned back to him. Fit shot him a questioning look, so he gestured to the side of his mouth. “You have sauce on your chin.”
“Really?” Fit groaned. He swiped at his face a few times, failing to reach the spot. Pac gestured to it again, being more specific, but Fit still missed it. The man grunted, growing frustrated. “Where?”
“It’s to the left… No, Fit… Left,” Pac attempted to instruct him. Fit was obviously confused by the directions, no matter how exact they were. The spot remained incompletely untouched. They were both reaching the end of their rope with the tedious back-and-forth. “Oh my God. Just let me do it!”
Agitated, Pac closed the distance between them with one large step. He grabbed either side of Fit’s face, pulling him down slightly and holding him still. A quick swipe of his thumb below the other’s bottom lip relieved them of their troubles instantly.
Then, as Pac’s irritation lessened, and he realized exactly what position they were in — inches apart, with Fit’s eyes blown wide, and his cheeks stained a lovely pink — a new problem was created. He froze, stunned by his own actions.
Pac was about to jerk back, an apology already forming on his lips, but he was stopped by a hand ghosting over his waist.
Fit hovered there, breathing shakily and waiting for permission. Something in Pac’s expression must’ve betrayed the beating of his heart, because arms were suddenly snaking more firmly around his waist, keeping him there. He was as trapped by Fit’s hold, as Fit was by his.
Against his will, Pac felt his eyes slip down to the other man’s lips. His thumb was resting nearby, the memory of brushing over the soft, pink skin now ringing through his mind. He forced his gaze up, only to see that Fit was in much the same position. Neither of them spoke, but with their chests nearly pressed together, their hearts were able to race in tandem.
“Fit,” Pac whispered. “Can I kiss you?”
Fit’s breath hitched. “Please.”
Pac tipped his head up and kissed him. It was gentle, connecting them together as though they were never meant to be apart. Fit’s lips were soft, but slightly chapped. The grip on his lower back pulled them fully together, though it didn’t squeeze, and Pac reveled in the sensation of being wholly encompassed by someone he loved.
There was a hazy feeling settling within his body, unlike any high Pac had experienced before. He relaxed, existing tension vanishing in mere moments. A pleasant buzz started beneath his skin, warm and familiar. His head was devoid of thoughts, besides those involving the man in front of him. Nothing else existed around him – around them – for as long as they were connected.
Electricity traveled through his fingertips, crackling where his hands cupped Fit’s jaw. Pac brought them down, resting them on his chest. His palms felt fabric beneath them, slightly different from a regular shirt.
The all-consuming serenity over them was interrupted by Pac’s panging realization that he was kissing Fit while he was wearing an apron. At first, he tried not to let it matter. Unfortunately, the mental image of the man he adored looking so out of his element because of one pink piece of cloth kept coming back to him.
Despite his best efforts, he felt laughter pulling his lips into a smile, and separating them as it echoed into the kitchen. Fit blinked, gaping, while Pac ducked his head to cackle into his companion’s chest. This proved to be a bad call, because the second he realized the apron was right in front of him, the joke only became more funny.
“I’m sorry,” he choked, certain Fit had to be very confused by the whole scenario. He didn’t want him to think he was laughing at him, even if he was kind of.“I’m sorry, you just–! You’re in an apron! And… And you look really nice!”
Fit pulled him back by his shoulders so their eyes could meet. Pac was surprised to find that he didn’t seem appalled by the sudden outburst. Rather, his face was soft, bleeding with fondness. He spoke in a hushed, amused tone, “I know, right? I pull it off well.”
Pac’s laughter eventually quieted into a smaller snicker. Fit waited with him the entire time, smiling, and occasionally causing a slight relapse with additional commentary. When everything stopped, they remained. Pac rubbed circles into Fit’s shirt, and Fit stared down at him, completely content.
Distantly, there was the whooshing sound of an elevator, but neither was quick enough to switch their positions. Ramón came barreling around the corner, eyes wide and chest heaving. He took one look at the two in the room and their intertwined arms, and gasped.
“I missed it?” Ramón’s handwriting was scribbled, barely legible through his desperation. “But I was so fast! I was only gone for twenty minutes!”
“Ramón,” Fit coughed, carefully tugging himself out of Pac’s embrace. It was clear by the flicker in his gaze that he regretted the loss of contact immediately. Still, he approached his devastated child, and knelt to his level. “You didn’t miss anything, my boy. We saved the pizza. It’s in the fridge.”
“I don’t care about the pizza. This is cruel, Fit,” Ramón whined, slumping. “You two have been holding off for months, and the one time I’m not here to take a picture, you finally stop being dumb?”
No matter what either man did, Ramón’s temper would not be quelled. He silently ranted at them, using up dozens of signs, for over an hour. Fit and Pac were forced to listen through the whole thing, even as they burned with embarrassment. They stood shoulder to shoulder, glued in place by the anger of a child.
When the frantic writing tapered off at last, Ramón gave a hefty sigh. His expression changed from frustrated to something more resolved, peaceful. “I’m glad that you’ve both figured it out. I am very happy to have a second dad again.”
“Woah, Ramón,” Fit chuckled, but it sounded hoarse, weak. “Baby steps. Baby steps.”
Pac felt something brush against his knuckles. He glanced down, and bit back a smile at the sight of Fit subtly reaching out his hand. Pac filled in the gap for him, intertwining their fingers. He squeezed, and Fit squeezed back. There was a promise buried there, and though it was unspoken, it was real, just as everything was with them.
And that was enough. For now. For
them.
It was enough.