[okay couldn't stop myself]
there's a noticeably lumpy texture to the pasta when buck dumps it on the microwavable plate. heating it does nothing to lend the form something closer to "spaghetti" (instead of "pudding"). buck can cut a slice with the side of his fork--trying to twirl a forkful of strands against the dip of a spoon would've been actually impossible. his suspicions had been raised from the moment he pulled out the stained-but-clean grocery-store brand container. when the acid bite of the tomato sauce squidges across his tongue, it's confirmed.
"you okay there, buddy?" asks chim when buck lets a few tears slide shamelessly down his cheeks, already rough from rubbed in salt and exhaustion, while he enthusiastically makes his way through one of the worst examples of the easiest dish in the world to make he's ever experienced. "yeah," he croaks, slicing straight down through the hot spaghetti-in-quotes brick. "it's just," he sighs, letting himself linger in the way-too-much-garlic-powder, the horrible tang insulting the memory of a tomato, "it's just so bad."
"well you don't have to eat it, buck," says chim gently.
"no, i know," says buck. he continues eating. "i just. it's real spaghetti. not an instant noodle."
"it kind of looks like albino worms in ketchup."
buck laughs, wetly. "no, no. that would at least be interesting."
chim nudges the grape juice closer to buck (it'd been maddie's idea to make sure he always had a special beverage to indulge in to accompany his meals). "interesting, definitely. also, super gross."
buck takes another bite. and his chest is a sudden valley, yanked into a new caving shape.
"it's like he takes pride in it," says buck, happy-sad and pinched and hungry. "not learning how to properly cook things."
"tommy," says buck, slicing again at his spaghetti loaf. "i think he's got a chip on his shoulder about fresh veggies and perishable food. if it's not boxed or frozen food, it's like he can't respect it."
"ugh," says buck. the noodle has absolutely zero chew. "it really is horrible."
"you know tommy sent this?"
"the tomato sauce is the worst part," says buck. "he hates the idea of having fresh garlic. look at this--that's a whole clump of garlic powder."
"again, there's no obligation to eat this."
but buck can't stop eating and the tears keep falling and whole vales are being carved into his torso so that if he looked close enough he could see julie andrews spinning around on his sternum, singing to the hills, and it was so strange to be here now, having lost what he lost, and realizing how much a tomato can be ruined, can be genuinely elevated, by a hand that cares.
he's reaching for his phone before deciding to. "i gotta thank him," says buck. "tell him he can't cook. god, this is horrible."
"sure, i guess that's a great way to start a conversation."
"he has to know that i know."
"how are you so sure he made this?"
buck wipes a grin on his face with his palm, taking a few splatters of tomato. "i just know," he says, and it's an even stranger thing to know because he doesn't--it's a comfort, now, to not know, and he falls into that beautiful uncertain embrace of uncertainty, his hands cramping from holding onto to so many edges for so long. he doesn't know with the greatest confidence that tommy sent this to him. he doesn't know that tommy alone could be so inept or sincerely-trying over this sour-blend of a tomato sauce. he knows tommy is particular about food, though, and if he sent over that particularity to buck, in this moment of giving-in, yielding to more and a biting sense of helplessness, then buck will eat and munch like someone capable of making a sauce from fresh-tomatoes had made this meal instead. he's grateful in chest and bones and by the tips of his fingers and there is as much love in the overcooked pasta as he ever tasted in bobby's perfect to-the-teeth chew. he can hope, with good evidence, this is from tommy.
so he texts him: you know you can sprinkle the garlic powder instead of dumping it.
and it turns out hoping isn't idiotic because tommy responds within a minute: seems like a great way to skimp on the garlic.
buck, breath heaving, tasting fruit, gets to say, believe me. you're not in danger of that. and mean it in more ways than one.
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