What Tang Fan notices first, of course, is the smell— or rather, the absence of a smell. Dinner won't be for some hours, yet, sure. Of course. But Tang Fan is used to his daily return to their apartment being greeted by some sort of indication that a tiding snack will be presently forthcoming— wafting smoke, humid spice, melted butter. This afternoon? No such morsels.

"Sui Zhou?" he calls out from the hall. "Are you home?" Even if he can see his dependable black workboots set in the rack by the door, well-worn soles beginning to peel back from the toes, well, who could be sure? These are extenuatingly unordinary circumstances, after all.

"I'm here," comes Sui Zhou's muffled voice, out from their kitchen's general whereabouts.

Given that he does not sound to be in crisis, Tang Fan's concern — alongside any guilt for his complaints — promptly evaporates. "Do you mean to starve me?" he accuses whinily. "I am wasting away." He catches himself against the wall rather dramatically, leaning most of his weight into his hand for emphasis — or so he'll claim. In practice, it may be more of the recovery from a flailed stumble as he tries to step on the backs of his shoes to wriggle free of them.

"It won't be long," Sui Zhou promises. Tang Fan can hear the smile in his voice as well as he can picture it. In respect to the principle of the thing, Tang Fan pretends that this isn't nearly as assuring as it is.

None of the girls have roused with his commotion and wandered out to welcome him, but he can see Dan Jiao perched on the arm of the couch, hunkered down in a cosy lump. She barely blinks her eyes open as he strays towards her, but deigns to acknowledge him with a soft gu gu gu when he slides a finger over her shoulder and gives the downy feathers on her neck a little scritch.

"I would never eat you," he coos. "No matter how desperate your owner makes me." He doesn't particularly pitch his voice up to make a point of being overheard, but he's well acquainted with the amplifying acoustics of their apartment. If Sui Zhou does indeed pick it up, he doesn't respond in a way that carries. Dan Jiao, for her part, puffs out with a rippling ruffle of her feathers, and resumes ignoring him.

As soft and cute and delightful as she is, her patience can be as short as her pecks sharp, and Tang Fan has a boyfriend to bother. So he leaves her be after one or two more compelled pets, then makes a beeline for the kitchen.

Sui Zhou doesn't look up, but Tang Fan can tell that he knows he's there— he can't paper over the twitch in his mouth. His hair is lazily slicked back, still damp at his temples where he would have washed his face after coming home. There is a little furrow in his brow to mark his concentration, and his shirt is tight enough that Tang Fan can see the flex of the muscle in his bicep as he stirs at some sort of green paste concoction in the bullet blender. It is not the most attracted Tang Fan has ever been to him, but it is certainly ranked up there in terms of moments.

"What are you making me?" Tang Fan asks by way of formally announcing himself.

Sui Zhou still doesn't look up, but there is that twitch again. "Potato pancakes," he says. And then, without missing a beat, he adds, "Sort of."

Tang Fan, fingers falling to the buttons at his wrists, starts teetering over to the sink. Ostensibly this is to wash his hands, but really it's mostly to snoop on the contents of the cheesecloth-lined colander he can see peeking out over the lip of the basin. "It's very purple," is what he finally observes, after a moment's pause to multitask between consideration and rolling his sleeves up.

"Mm," Sui Zhou hums, failing to clarify. "Can you wring it out?"

"I have been on my feet all day," Tang Fan complains, even as he swivels the faucet over to the other side of the sink and turns it on. He might not have as physically labourious a job as Sui Zhou, sure, but Pan Bin was in enough of a mood today to have him actually hitting the pavement of Lujiazui instead of sticking his nose to the spreadsheet grindstone. Awful. No-one has ever suffered more than him.

"You can poach the eggs instead, if you'd like," says Sui Zhou, cutting in clear over the gurgle of the running water.

"I am dating a tyrant," Tang Fan mutters, mock-maudlin. He turns off the water and towels his hands dry with a dramatic flourish. Even if Sui Zhou probably isn't sneaking in some glances, he'll still be able to hear the snap of the linen. "Cruel man," he continues, louder. "I'll dry it."

"It's sweet potato," Sui Zhou explains, completely unaffected, his rumbly voice backed by the gentle percussion of clinking glass. "With beetroot and carrot."

"Ah?" Tang Fan gives it another look-over in this new light, before he twists the neck of the cheesecloth shut tight and starts to squeeze it out. It's not what he expected on the balance of ingredients, but he can vaguely layer the flavours in his mind, and they seem like they'll be nice. In theory, anyway. In practice, he trusts Sui Zhou's judgement, and loves when he gets adventurous with his cooking. Tang Fan has been subjected to many culinary experiments over the course of their cohabitation, and if luck continues to have it, he'll experience countless more.

It is a trial not to cave into turning around to watch Sui Zhou at work, but Tang Fan endures, and eventually squeezes out the grated vegetable mix as much as his noodle arms can manage. "It's done," he declares.

"Good," Sui Zhou says. "Bring it here."

So Tang Fan does, tempering his desire to preen and rush with Sui Zhou's apparent ease and idleness. He hasn't been lax, at least, while his back has been turned — there is oil now in the hot plate heating up, and a mixing bowl with beaten eggs, breadcrumbs, and indeterminable herbs. Tang Fan elects not to get in the way enough to give it a proper sensory inspection. He hands Sui Zhou the bundled cheesecloth, wipes his hands dry on his slacks in a moment of thoughtlessness — which will become future his problem when he's looking for clothes that aren't sticky and smelling of starches in the morning when he's already all but running late for work — and settles in at an observer's difference to pay great attention to Sui Zhou's fingers working the batter and not much else.

"How much longer?" he asks after what is surely some minutes, for the sake of equitably representing his stomach's interests.

Sui Zhou balls up a tiny round of the batter between his thumb and forefinger, then drops it into the oil, where it gives off a spitty hiss. "I can make you one now," he says, "to test. But you'll have to wait for the rest and the eggs."

"Well, you have to give me something," Tang Fan agrees readily, put-upon sufferance barely pulled over his giddy excitement. "It will just have to do."

So Sui Zhou makes do, as directed. It is a very long few minutes watching the little pancake crisp up in the oil, and even an even longer few more when Sui Zhou sets it out on some paper towel to the side and won't let Tang Fan touch it until it has cooled. And then of course he has to wait until Sui Zhou spoons out some of the sauce on it. Tang Fan is incredibly patient throughout, to the point that it is deserving of acknowledgement, if not reward.

"Here," Sui Zhou offers finally, at last, handing it over. Tang Fan gives thanks by way of biting into it so quickly that the tart taste of the chili paste melts across the roof of his mouth before the smell even reaches his nose.

"It's so good," Tang Fan praises, mouth overfull. It really is— delightful and unexpected, just like Sui Zhou, if he's being sappily honest. "Oh, the egg will make it perfect." He spares a few more chews, fingers touched daintily to his lips, then, "We really should open a restaurant," he adds.

"No," Sui Zhou answers serenely, direct to the well-travelled point, before turning away from the hot plate to start bringing the pot of water to boil. His dreamy fantasy of having a livelihood that is all Sui Zhou's cooking and the showing of it and him off with none of the work now cut very precisely short, Tang Fan laughs so hard he drools sauce down his chin and onto the plate of his palm. Ah, well. He'll wear Sui Zhou down enough to warm to one of his many incredible ideas someday. It's really only a matter of time.