When the number of frozen meals in the fridge gets concerningly high, John asks Gale if he takes any multivitamins. Gale just gives him a confused look in response.

"C'mon," John prods. "Help me make dinner tonight."

Gale immediately puts his laptop on the cushion next to him. "What do you need?"

"We'll start off easy. I got frozen meatballs but you're gonna make the sauce from scratch."

"You want me to cook?" Gale asks, making a face like John's just asked him to move a dead body. To be fair, it's probably a big step since his idea of a non-microwable dinner is mac and cheese topped with air fried chicken strips.

"Baby birds have to learn how to feed themselves at some point," John says, a delayed attempt at not sounding too paternalistic, and Gale raises his eyes to the ceiling. "The meatballs are beef meatballs, so it doesn't count as cannibalism."

"I grew," Gale says flatly. "I'm almost as tall as you. That nickname doesn't make sense anymore."

John shrugs. "Eh. I've seen your ankles. It fits well enough to me."

He darts away as Gale, in the process of getting up, makes like he's about to stomp his foot down on John's, and finds himself smiling as he retrieves the ingredients from the pantry. 

At twenty, he had transferred to UST and lived off fast food and fruit smoothies for a couple years straight so it makes sense that Gale doesn't know how to cook. They get started and he’s all nervous energy, taking forever to peel the garlic and even longer to mince the cloves with slow, hesitant strokes. He does better with the mushrooms, then opens a can of crushed tomatoes and prepares to add it to the pan while compulsively checking his phone to time the noodles to al dente. 

"You have to wait for the garlic to turn golden," John cautions.

Gale pauses. The can teeters above the pot as he grumbles, "I don't even know what that means."

"Alright, hang on."

John moves closer. Takes Gale's other wrist in hand and puppets him into scraping the garlic around, hovering over his shoulder to keep an eye on it. 

"See? It starts to smell more fragrant, more garlicky." John takes a deep breath through his nose to demonstrate. "That's how you know when to add the sauce."

As he stirs for the both of them, it dawns on him that Gale is somehow stiff as a board but pliable at the same time, arm surrendering obediently to wherever John is coaxing him to. His t-shirt is an old one, going grimy around the edges, the banded collar starting to separate from the body. He smells like John's detergent. He smells like he lives here. 

Jerking away would be too obvious. John stands there for a few more seconds, then wraps his hand wholly over Gale's to bang the spoon against the rim of the pot. 

"Okay. You're good now," he says, letting go and doing a half-turn to lean against the counter. He crosses his arms and digs his fingers into his armpits, safely out of sight. "Go ahead and add the sauce."

As expected, Gale pours from too high up. The first wave of sauce roars before rebounding off the hot surface. "Shit," he says, panicked, scuttling back, but it’s too late—there’s red splattered all over his shirt. The look he slides John could cut glass. 

John smiles. "Whoopsie."

"You're annoying," Gale tells him, but there's no heat in it. He's fixated on stirring, occasionally sticking his nose into the line of steam to take a whiff, and takes the pasta pot off the stove without prompting to drain and add to the sauce. 

John's about to tell him to turn off the burner when Gale does it himself and says, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," John says, settling against the counter once more.

"Why'd you move back?"

John makes an awkward noise and scrubs his mustache as a stalling tactic. He doesn't know why. It's not like he has secrets to keep, but he also doesn't have a real answer to give without delving into a personal history that has no place or purpose being dumped on anyone else. 

"For my mom, I guess," he reasons. "I thought she needed me, but then she went off and did her own thing, so. I don't actually know."

"You don't know," Gale repeats with a small smile. "But you know everything."

John snorts. "Yeah, well. Turns out I make terrible decisions without anyone depending on me, so that's part of it, too."

Gale grabs a couple plates from the cupboard. "I can't picture that."

"Don't try to," John warns. "I need at least one person to have some respect for me as a person."

"You guys are so overdramatic," Gale tells him. 

John laughs at how true it is. Sometimes it's easy to forget that they've known each other as long as they have; that for as long as John was watching Gale grow up, Gale was watching him, too, and he's finding a strange kind of pleasure in reacquainting with someone who knew him while he was still molding himself together. There's no need to explain his tics and superstitions, or condense his childhood into a breezy one-liner like he would with anyone new. Post-college, most of his other friends are scattered around the country and communicate mainly in group chats that chirp around the clock from different timezones. None of them decompress with him at home. None of them give unsolicited opinions about his shower singing. None of them see him crying while watching Little Women and offer him a silent pat on the knee as consolation. 

But Gale does. He doesn't have to ask why because he already knows why. 

"I've always been that way," John says—and as expected, Gale says, "I know."

After eating, John successfully wins the battle to load the dishwasher, only because Gale has finally stopped insisting on every household task. He's wiping his hands on his pants and halfway to the living room when his phone buzzes with a text from Brady.

hey. i need a favor

John pauses on the way into the living room to type back, what is it

can i crash at yours tonight? they’re fumigating my place and said it was fine to come back after a few hours but i don’t want to risk it

? you used to smoke pot out of empty soda cans

Brady gives the message a thumbs down. When John glances up, he sees that Gale is on the couch, remote at the ready.

sorry man. i would but i kind of have a new roommate sitch going on here

wait what. haven't you been affording that place on your own?

yeah long story, John says, even though it’s really not. i’ll tell ya later. ask benito ok? love you forever bye

"Sorry," he says to Gale, who just shrugs. 

They've been binging Game of Thrones for days, which Gale has somehow both not seen and managed to avoid spoilers for. The episode cued up on screen is recognizable as the one where Nedd dies. John motors over to the couch with renewed anticipation and flops down, grabbing a pillow to hug. 

"Oh shit. This is a good one."

"They’ve all been good so far."

"Yeah, but this one is gonna blow your mind. Brains on the wall kind of stuff." 

"Maybe we should implement a fine for you overhyping things," Gale suggests. 

The only hint that he’s kidding is buried in how his mouth tightens the tiniest bit. And the only hint that John is sitting too close is that he can spot it at all. In a snap realization, he feels Gale’s arm pressing against his own, warm and solid, elbow nudging a shallow divot into his muscle. 

"Sorry," John says again. 

He rolls over to squish into the angle between the back of the couch and the armrest. Gale studies him, cheeks plumped into a more recognizable smile. 

"You used to suplex me onto Joni's bed," he recalls. When John looks at him, he drops his eyes to where his fingers are fiddling with the remote. "I mean—I’m just saying you can sit however you want. It's not a big deal." 

"I can stretch out this way," John says, but he sticks one foot onto Gale's lap as a compromise. 

Gale pats it awkwardly, then squeezes the bones there before placing a pillow on top. The episode starts playing. As the credits roll, John says, "You guys begged for the suplexing." 

"It was fun," Gale says. 

"Almost threw out my back a few times."

Gale shushes him. "I’m trying to watch this." 

John digs his ankle in. Turns his attention back to the TV and watches without really watching. 

-

The way they fall into routine happens insidiously. John doesn’t even notice it until he gets home one evening, says, "Hey," on reflex, and does a small double-take at the TV screen paused on the HBO logo, and then at Gale parked on the couch in his sweats and a forest green sweater. Balanced on the armrest is his closed laptop, evidently abandoned for the rest of the day, while the coffee table is strewn with chips, dip, and a few crumpled candy wrappers.  

John unbuckles his messenger and carefully lays it on the floor just to have something to do with his hands. "Were you waiting for me?"

"You get back around now," Gale says, similarly putting his phone facedown low on his stomach. The bedhead from this morning has held on, constantly finding new life in his habit of alternating between tugging his hood on only to shove it back a minute later. "I just ordered food."

"You ordered food," John repeats.

"Better than whatever gruel you're about to eat."

On autopilot, John walks into the kitchen to fill up a glass of water. He calls, "It's protein," and Gale calls back, "That's what I just said. Gruel."

John hinges his thumb to his fingers, a silent blah blah blah as he deposits the glass in front of Gale before plopping onto the couch and taking in the scene again. If Gale is treating the space like his own—if he's making jokes and poking fun, then it means he's comfortable here. That was the whole point of letting him stay. Whatever intimacy issues John's got, they have nothing to do with the person sitting in front of him. 

So they've got a routine now. Whatever. It's fine. He tells himself this as if he's trying to convince someone else. 

"What’d you get?" he asks, and Gale says, "Ravioli."

"Oh." John cracks his knuckles and looks at the TV. He considers saying something, but instead just agrees, "Sounds great."

Gale’s mouth twitches. "I'm kidding. I remember how traumatized you were after a little bit of food poisoning." 

"I almost died!" John insists, sagging with relief. "Joni had to go out and get Pedialyte for me and she didn't even have her license yet."

"Dramatic," Gale says. 

He takes a sip of water, then grabs the remote. John's spot on the wraparound gives him a good view of both the screen and Gale's face without having to move his head too much. Gale tends to watch in silence, brows furrowed like he's listening to a lecture, and looks up episode recaps afterward for anything he missed. It hadn't occurred to John to tease him and now it feels too late to start, like he would be compensating for something else.

Halfway through the episode, the food comes—sushi, with an extra handroll for John—and Gale wordlessly hands over his own container of ginger, hovering it midair until John accepts it. 

"Thanks," he says.