Charlie Carrington & Eckhart Wolffa collab avec le merveilleux 
Charlie murmura tranquillement, s'accroupissant à son chat et à celui d'Eckhart, Shoes, qui décida de tourner autour d'un de ses mocassins. Bien sûr. C'était son préféré de se faufiler, de jeter les cheveux de chat, et même de laisser des marques d'égratignures. Bien sûr, ça a ennuyé Charlie, mais il aimait les chaussures plus que ses... chaussures, donc il s'en est occupé. Mais elle était encore une petite merde. Un de ces jours, vous allez disparaître, et je dirai juste à Hart I dunnno, elle doit enfin en avoir marre d'être nourrie et aimée et partie. Je peux te ramener à la livre que nous t'avons eue. Ne le mettez pas devant moi.
Les chaussures ont donné un bâilleur géant qui montre les dents et étiré une patte vers le haut, se battant à la main sans que ses griffes s'étendent. "Non, ne commence pas ça," il grondait comme des chaussures se mêlaient, s'étirant pour lui fendre la tête contre la main, et Charlie soupirait. Je ne te donnerais jamais. Je suis désolé. Il a dit, griffant derrière les oreilles gâtées de chaton. Les chaussures commencèrent à purer et Charlie rassembla le Scottish Fold dans ses bras, grogneant tranquillement comme il l'a fait. Il s'est taquiné, recevant une douce de la part du chat alors qu'il s'était redressé pour la porter au lit. "Allez dormir sur sa tête au lieu de mes chaussures," il murmura, jetant des chaussures sur le lit à côté d'Eckhart. Les chaussures sont immédiatement allées à Eckhart pour se blottir et Charlie est resté là un moment, regardant l'image qu'ils ont faite. De la lampe qu'il a allumée de l'autre côté de la pièce, il a jeté une lumière pâle sur Eckhart, et il s'est trouvé, pour la millionième fois, se demandant comment il a eu la chance de frapper quelqu'un comme cet homme. Ses doigts se déchiraient et l'envie de créer une œuvre d'art inspirée par cet homme était forte. Ce serait une bonne distraction, mais seulement dans quelques heures, une alarme allait partir pour les réveiller. Il n'avait pas besoin d'entrer dans un morceau et de refuser de le laisser. C'était déjà arrivé. Ce qu'il devrait faire, c'est dormir, mais c'était une lutte en ce moment. Il avait jeté et tourné depuis qu'il s'était couché, et pour ne pas réveiller Eckhart, il a finalement accepté son destin et s'est levé pour errer. Puisqu'il ne pouvait pas se laisser perdre dans un morceau, même un petit, il, à la place, a enlevé son téléphone de la table de chevet et a pris une photo. Trop mignon. Il pensait qu'il mettait rapidement l'image en arrière-plan de son téléphone avant de la remettre à sa place.
Il a commencé à errer vers le salon, mais ce qui l'avait gardé lui a pris l'œil. Pour un étranger, ça ressemblait à une lettre innocente, mais c'était loin de ça pour lui. Depuis qu'il l'a eu il y a quelques mois, il avait du mal à ne pas y penser. Il s'en alla et le ramassa lentement, sentant la qualité du papier entre ses doigts, le déplacant lentement à nouveau. Les plis provoqués par le pliage étaient plus profonds, pire, puisqu'il l'avait déjà ouvert mille fois, pour se fâcher et s'inquiéter des mots imprimés sur la surface crémeuse. Il l'a regardée de nouveau avant de se forcer à le remettre en place, s'est ouvert. Une partie de lui était excitée de voir ses parents, ses frères et sœurs et leurs familles, mais il y avait une anxiété grinçante griffant son chemin à travers son corps aussi. Cela se passait depuis qu'il avait reçu la lettre. Il se sentait mal pour Eckhart; il avait trop insisté pour les prochaines vacances. Le point culminant était que lui et Hart auraient du temps pour eux-mêmes, quelque chose dont ils avaient besoin beaucoup plus ensemble. Sans oublier qu'il avait une question pressante à poser à Eckhart, et qu'il se sentait comme en vacances, dans un cadre magnifique comme celui-ci, ce serait le bon moment pour le demander. Il espérait.
Il se détourna de la lettre et regarda le lit. Il fallait qu'il arrête de s'inquiéter. Il détestait le dérangement d'Eckhart. Il a rembourré à travers le sol en bois, arrachant quelque chose sur l'une des étagères d'une bibliothèque séparant le salon de la chambre à coucher..Il est tombé dans une chaise en peluche par une fenêtre, tirant la petite poignée vers le bas et l'ouvrant une fissure. L'air de nuit est entré, sentant la ville, mais assez tôt, l'air tournait avec l'odeur de la fumée de cigarette aussi. Charlie s'est enfoncé dans la chaise, mettant ses pieds malematchés sur le seuil de la fenêtre, et soufflant la fumée vers la fenêtre ouverte. La tension dans ses épaules saignait, et il laissait la cigarette s'embrouiller entre ses lèvres alors qu'il posa sa tête contre le haut de la chaise, les yeux glissés. Il serait dans un avion, en direction du pavillon d'hiver, pour voir sa famille déconnectée, dans quelques heures.
Un croque vient du tas de couvertures, d'oreillers et de fourrures - juste un glissement de peau visible, se levant et tombant au-dessus de la montagne de draps. Eckhart se leva, tout comme son chat qui trouva du confort sur l'oreiller chaud derrière lui, et rembourra ses pieds nus sur les planchers de bois du studio. "Eckhart hurlait, gémissant bas dans sa poitrine alors qu'il entrait en collision avec Charlie." Ses mains ont pincé la cigarette des lèvres de Charlie et l'ont filée par la fenêtre, pas de baisers si tu continues à fumer comme ça. Tabagisme bouche n'est pas agréable.
Comme s'il n'avait pas juste décrit son dégoût pour les bouches remplies de cigarettes, Eckhart a pressé un doux baiser aux lèvres de Charlie, et puis un autre, plus urgent. Il coulait doucement à Charlie, laissant leur nez se brosser et leur front presser tandis que ses mains serrées et les pieds les guidaient tous les deux à la chaleur. Mais pas avant qu'il ait glissé la fenêtre fermée, murmurant à propos de l'air froid de New York.
La culpabilité que Charlie avait ressentie à l'éveil d'Eckhart a été noyée par le contentement dit que l'homme a provoqué l'étincelle dans sa poitrine, une chaleur croissante qui s'est étendue et s'est installée profondément. Il a fait les plus petits bruits de protestation quand la cigarette lui a été prise, la plupart du temps gaspillé, mais c'était une mauvaise habitude qu'il voulait de toute façon frapper. S'il devait lui donner un coup de pied pour continuer à recevoir des baisers d'Eckhart, alors ce serait la meilleure motivation pour le pousser à le faire. Il voulait faire un commentaire sur Hart l'embrassant, après avoir dit qu'il le ferait, mais il s'est trouvé, au lieu de se perdre dans le contact lui étant accordé, le retour avec un petit sourire dansant aux bords de ses lèvres. Il soupira doucement alors qu'il était fait pour se lever, il fut guidé vers le lit, mais il s'en alla volontiers. Il savait qu'Eckhart était prêt à redescendre, et il avait besoin d'y aller à côté de lui.
"Soyez attentifs à moi," Eckhart a demandé dans des murmures doux, faisant glisser Charlie sur lui - le chat se déplaçant déjà à boucler à côté de deux corps chauds, maintenant. Il a laissé ses lèvres glisser à travers l'oreille de Charlie et dans son cou pour grignoter à la chair douce là-bas. Chaque presse lente et languissante de ses mains ou de ses lèvres ou le grondement dans sa poitrine qui vibrait à travers Charlie exigeait le focus de ce dernier. Un doux rappel de les maintenir à la terre, que ce soit dans l'odeur du sommeil et de la sueur ou dans le doux bruit de la voix d'Eckhart, comme statique dans les oreilles de Charlie. "Arrête de penser," Eckhart huffé juste au-dessus d'un murmure, ses doigts se fronçant dans les beaux cheveux noirs qui pendaient comme un mop sur la tête de Charlie, "breathe avec moi; nous avons quelques heures, encore."
Un soupir par Eckhart. Écoute mon coeur battre.
Charlie sentit une houle d'adoration dans sa poitrine alors qu'Eckhart s'occupait de lui. Il pouvait sentir une lourdeur qui commençait à s'installer dans ses os, le faisant sombrer dans le corps chaud sous lui, se tournant vers Hart. Il n'a rien dit, ni fait de bruit, il vient de fermer les yeux et d'écouter Eckhart, suivant sa direction. Il a laissé l'odeur, la sensation et la chaleur d'Eckhart encas, juste se laisser perdre dans ce moment privé et doux entre eux. C'était des moments comme ceux-là que son esprit ralentissait, qu'il pouvait penser le plus clairement et sentir le plus détendu. Seul Eckhart pouvait le faire sentir ainsi, et il ne serait jamais capable de remercier et d'aimer l'homme assez pour cela. Il s'est faufilé dans la chaleur, une main coulissante vers le haut pour se frotter doucement à la tête de Shoes, son autre main coulissante vers le haut et disparaissant dans les cheveux de Hart, tout en tenant doucement. Il rompit son silence en laissant sortir un petit "kay" de mm déjà en train de tomber. Etant comme cela, son corps s'apercevait à quel point c'était fatigué; maintenant qu'Eckhart avait chassé l'anxiété qui l'avait poussé à se sentir fort, il pouvait faire comme l'a dit l'homme, et écouter son battement de cœur tout en s'assoupissant.

Quatre heures vinrent et allèrent, comme leur rythme de sommeil qui s'envolait; une montée constante du réveil et du sommeil. Une fois leur avion touché, Eckhart a déchiré à travers leur poursuite pour arracher les deux manteaux qu'il avait emballés à l'intérieur. Même avec Charlie, Eckhart l'a serré dans le lourd manteau de pois et a enveloppé l'écharpe orange autour du cou de Charlie. Il a fini le toucher en poussant l'ushanka sur la tête et les yeux de Charlie et en tirant les rabats pour lui serrer un baiser au nez. Après s'être regroupés, ils ont immédiatement fait leur chemin vers la réclamation de bagages et peu de temps après dans l'air mince et froid de Denver.
"Allez, laissez aller," Eckhart se déplaçait vers l'homme en agitant un 'Charlie Carrington," signe pas trop loin d'où ils sont sortis. Le froid a déjà mordu sur sa peau, laissant des impressions rouges sur son nez et ses joues. Quoi qu'il en soit, il n'a pas semblé fasciné, surtout quand Charlie l'a interrogé sur ses bagages et il l'a emporté des pieds.
Charlie a failli s'accrocher à la vue du panneau avec son nom. Il avait l'impression que ça lui attirait l'attention, mais il était probablement surréagissant. Comme d'habitude, Eckhart l'a distrait, mais ce n'était pas de la manière la plus utile. Il a lâché quelque chose qui s'apparente à un grincement - bien qu'il ne l'admettât pas - et a jeté ses bras autour du cou de Hart. Ce ne serait pas la première fois qu'Eckhart a décidé que le ramasser au hasard serait une bonne idée et... d'accord, Charlie aimait ça, mais il n'avait pas à agir comme il l'a fait. Mais, il a rendu évident qu'il l'a fait, par la façon dont il a serré son emprise autour du cou de Harts et était complètement détendu dans ses bras.
Un sourire brûlé vif même dans la brume nuageuse de neige alors qu'Eckhart transportait Charlie vers leur destination. Il lui a donné un clin d'œil avant de le laisser descendre et d'ouvrir la porte pour lui, donnant au chauffeur une petite vague alors qu'il aidait l'homme avec ses bagages avant de glisser à côté de Charlie.
Charlie ne voulait pas lui arracher les yeux du visage d'Eckhart, sentant ses propres lèvres s'agiter vers le haut à la vue de son petit ami, sourire. Il avait le meilleur sourire ; il a transformé son visage en quelque chose de beau, pas qu'il ne l'était pas avant. Bien que, ses lèvres s'enfonçaient vers le bas aux mots de Hart, mais il n'a pas duré longtemps. Il a essayé de ne pas laisser un sourire amoureux se briser à travers son visage alors qu'il roulait les yeux. Oui, il va bientôt te ressembler, il s'est évanoui, donnant aussi une petite vague au chauffeur avant de glisser volontairement dans la limousine. Il a ajusté l'écharpe autour de son cou, le desserrant un peu, puisqu'il était assez chaud dans le véhicule de luxe.
Eckhart avait l'air sérieux alors qu'il se tournait vers Charlie. Quoi qu'il arrive, tu m'as toujours eu, d'accord? Ta famille a beaucoup d'importance, gamin, et ils valent beaucoup, mais ils ne valent pas tout. Oui?
Charlie est retourné dans le siège en cuir, regardant sur Eckhart quand il a dit "hey,, mais puis il a regardé sur lui à son expression sérieuse. Il clignait sur les mots de Hart, et encore une fois, il se demandait ce qu'il faisait pour obtenir cet homme dans sa vie. C'était comme si Eckhart pouvait lire son esprit, connaître ses pensées exactes, et savoir exactement quoi dire pour apaiser ses soucis. Il se sentait toujours nerveux, il battait à l'intérieur de lui, mais Eckhart avait raison. Il le fixa quelques secondes avant de sourire, expression adoucissante alors qu'il s'approchait pour prendre Harts main dans sa propre. Il a frotté son pouce le long de ses doigts, donnant un clin d'œil. Il murmura, se penchant pour appuyer sur un baiser chaste à l'angle de sa bouche, ne s'attardant qu'un instant avant de s'asseoir en arrière, poussant Hart's main serrée tout le trajet.

Charlie trouva ses yeux pris sur le passage de la blancheur de la neige pendant que la limousine roulait le long, la main ne libérant pas Eckharts jusqu'à ce que la limousine s'était tiré vers le grand, grand pavillon d'hiver. Il a pris une profonde respiration alors qu'il sortait de la limousine, regardant vers le haut un endroit qu'il pouvait vaguement se rappeler; il avait été à peu près autour de l'âge de dix ans quand il a été amené ici, et naturellement, tous les frères et sœurs n'étaient pas présents pour ces vacances. Il avait passé la plupart de son temps à trouver n'importe quoi avec la capacité d'écrire, avant de trouver du papier pour doodler son temps loin. Il était allé à l'extérieur d'une bonne quantité, bien qu'au lieu de lancer des boules de neige ou de faire des anges de la neige, il tentait de créer un bonhomme de neige qui n'était jamais un bonhomme de neige, mais plutôt un chien, ou même un cheval. Ce dernier avait été une tentative horriblement ratée qu'il venait juste de tomber dans et de se poser là jusqu'à ce qu'il grandisse trop froid et ait dû entrer à l'intérieur.
Il l'a regardé et a laissé un souffle, les yeux presque croisés pour voir son souffle disparaître lentement dans l'air froid. Il n'a pas beaucoup changé, il a murmuré, essayant d'ignorer la façon dont son estomac tordu dans les nerfs. Il était sûr qu'il y en avait d'autres qui étaient arrivés avant eux. Peut-être qu'ils ne tomberaient pas sur eux jusqu'à ce qu'il ait eu le temps de s'installer. Il y avait une partie de lui qui ressentait de l'excitation, bien sûr, mais une plus grande partie de lui se sentait nerveuse et un peu malade. Vous exagérez. Il s'est grondé lui-même, alors qu'il faisait un mouvement pour aider avec les bagages, mais il semblait que le personnel avait été préparé pour que d'autres se retirent; deux personnes sont venues aider avec les bagages, et Charlie s'est senti froncé. Plus il était âgé, plus il s'était senti mal à l'aise avec le personnel, plus les gens étaient payés pour s'occuper de lui. Il ne s'était jamais bien entretenu avec lui, mais il les a laissés faire leur travail, ne voulant pas interrompre ou causer une agitation qui serait inutile et impolie, d'ailleurs.
Au lieu de cela, il ne pouvait s'empêcher de s'approcher pour reprendre la main d'Eckhart, avant de monter les escaliers jusqu'à la porte d'entrée, qui était tenue ouverte. Bien sûr que si. Il devrait s'attendre à toutes les cloches et sifflements pendant qu'il est ici. Il était seul depuis si longtemps, devenu indépendant aux côtés d'Eckhart, qu'il savait qu'il se sentirait extrêmement mal à l'aise avec lui. Il avait l'habitude de s'occuper de lui-même maintenant, et Eckhart; tandis qu'ils s'occupaient l'un de l'autre, ils s'occupaient encore d'eux-mêmes, et il ne voulait pas que quiconque ait pour seul but de l'attendre. Mais, il savait s'y attendre pendant qu'il était ici, alors il allait le sucer et y aller avec. Il est entré dans l'intérieur chaud, laissant respirer et le prenant. Il n'avait vraiment pas changé, du tout, et il sentit quelque chose de clench dans sa poitrine à la familiarité vague de celui-ci.
Monsieur le Président. Carrington! Vous avez finalement arrivé., une bonne s'est approchée de lui, avec un sourire aimable sur son visage vieillissant. Charlie ne l'a pas reconnue, en toute honnêteté, bien qu'il n'allât pas dire ça.
"Oh, sommes-nous en retard?" demanda-t-il, un peu de tension dans sa voix alors qu'il lâchait la main de Harts pour se faufiler avec ses manches pour regarder sa montre, mais il n'avait pas à le faire depuis que la bonne était prompte à le rassurer.
Oh, non, monsieur! Je m'excuse. C'est juste un plaisir de vous voir grandir, M. Carrington.La bonne lui a dit, et maintenant Charlie se sentait vraiment mal de ne pas connaître son nom.
S'il te plaît, appelle-moi Charlie. M. Carrington est mon père. - Il a dit un peu tranquillement, regardant le plancher de bois poli avant de regarder à Hart. Ici Eckhart Wolff. C'est mon petit ami.
Enchanté de vous rencontrer, monsieur. Dois-je vous montrer à votre ancienne chambre, alors? - la bonne - Charlie essayait vraiment de se souvenir de son nom - a demandé avec un sourire rayonnant. Eckhart a gâché son salut à côté de Charlie, mettant son meilleur sourire.
Charlie a dit, un peu surpris que sa vieille chambre ait été maintenue intacte, mais qu'est-ce qui lui serait arrivé d'autre? Il savait que ses parents ne changeraient rien. Quand la servante le fixa, il se rendit compte qu'il n'avait pas répondu exactement, et il gronda un peu. Merde, désolé, merde, je veux dire, ou, euh, tire. Ok, juste. Oui, s'il vous plaît, désolé., il s'est un peu enchevêtré en parlant, sentant ses joues s'éclater à son trébuchement et sentant la présence d'une grande main se poser sur son bas du dos.
Mais, la bonne n'a évidemment pas été graduée, parce qu'elle a hurlé sans que son sourire s'affaiblisse. Vos bagages devraient déjà être là, a-t-elle dit alors qu'elle commençait à ouvrir la voie. Charlie a rapidement commencé à suivre, regardant autour d'eux au fur et à mesure qu'ils allaient, trouvant les Eckharts à la main sans même avoir à regarder ou à se faufiler un peu.
Il suffit d'agir comme ça c'est un autre dîner avec les parents, d'Eckhart plié bas pour chuchoter dans l'oreille de Charlie, lui serrer la main dans une poignée ferme. Ayant voyagé pendant la majeure partie de sa carrière, Eckhart connaissait ces formalités comme s'il avait grandi avec elles. Beaucoup d'hôtels à cordes élevées ont bien accueilli son équipe, même dans les affaires moins que savoureuses qu'ils avaient tendance à se retrouver dans - même Eckhart savait l'embarras de se réveiller à moitié nu, entouré d'une pile de regrets aussi terrible que sa gueule de bois. Heureusement, il connaissait ses propres limites et ces événements se trouvaient souvent peu nombreux et éloignés.
Même si cela n'avait pas besoin d'être dit, ce voyage avait Eckhart sur son meilleur comportement. Il voulait juste être absolument sûr de lui, surtout pour Charlie. Il a serré la main de son petit ami et a laissé Charlie le diriger vers l'avant. Il pouvait sentir l'anxiété rayonner de lui et une fois qu'ils sont arrivés sans arrêts ou interruptions, Eckhart a donné un curt merci et a fait ses adieux après qu'elle les a avertis de l'accueil qu'ils ont dû assister au salon principal. Dès qu'elle est partie et qu'Eckhart a fermé la porte, il a poussé Charlie à s'asseoir sur le bord du lit et s'est enroulé autour de lui. Cuisses entrecroisant les hanches de Charlie, ses bras sont venus autour pour boucler sur l'estomac de Charlie et se sont penchés légèrement en arrière pour le laisser plier dans la poitrine d'Eckhart.
Charlie savait qu'il y aurait des rassemblements tout au long de cette histoire, mais on disait qu'on allait arriver si tôt dans le salon principal a fait une étincelle d'anxiété dans sa colonne vertébrale. Bien qu'il ait essayé à son mieux de l'ignorer, au lieu de remercier la bonne - peut-être qu'il pourrait réussir à demander à un de ses frères et sœurs plus âgés, sûrement ils connaissaient son nom - et se sentant un soulagement intense quand la porte était fermée. Maintenant c'était juste lui et Eckhart, mais ça ne voulait pas dire qu'il pouvait immédiatement se détendre. Il se sentait encore sur le bord, pensant à l'accueil plus tard, mais cette pensée n'a pas duré longtemps. Comme d'habitude, Eckhart s'occupait de lui, et alors que Charlie se sentait toujours coupable, il en avait besoin, il savait aussi qu'Eckhart ne s'en souciait pas. Ou bien il ne le ferait pas, il n'aurait pas été resté si longtemps avec Charlie, il n'aurait pas été tombé dans l'amour avec lui, de tous les gens que Hart pouvait avoir. Il s'est immédiatement détendu dans le corps plus large, les mains reposant sur les bras couverts Eckhart, poussant pour sentir les bras sous le tissu épais de la veste et de la chemise.
Je suis fier de toi, Harley, Eckhart chuchotait, berçant Charlie en avant dans une position plus confortable, Tu es en train de faire grand jusqu'à présent. Les choses ne vont que s'améliorer, d'accord? Et s'ils ne le font pas, je suis ici. Il va prendre beaucoup d'enfer pour se débarrasser de moi. » Eckhart a continué à murmurer, brossant son nez dans le cou de Charlie et prenant une profonde respiration de lui, recevant un léger frisson de l'homme comme une récompense avant Charlie a réussi un clin d'œil pour reconnaître ses paroles. Une main pressée à la poitrine de Charlie et Eckhart a laissé leur respiration se synchroniser, senti son battement de cœur dans sa paume.
Après un certain temps d'enroulement, Eckhart se repoussa légèrement et laissa ses mains éplucher le manteau de Charlies en arrière, avec le chapeau et l'écharpe. Une fois qu'il s'en est sorti et les a jetés sur le côté, content de prendre soin d'eux plus tard, Eckhart a poussé Charlie en avant avec juste un léger bord de force. Ses mains ont saisi l'épaule de Charlie et les doigts ont immédiatement trouvé les nœuds tendus qui lient les muscles de Charlie serrés. Il en résulta un petit gémissement venant de la gorge de Charlie, son dos arqué comme un chat dans sa meilleure tentative de pousser dans les doigts magiques d'Eckhart, une façon silencieuse de demander plus. Le travail méthodique de pétrissage de ces muscles, creusant sa paume dans la colonne vertébrale de Charlie, sentant l'autre respiration profonde dans le soulagement aidé à calmer les nerfs d'Eckhart, ainsi. Parce que l'enfer s'il n'avait pas frayé ce voyage ; contrairement à Charlie, Eckhart a juste eu un moment plus facile de le cacher. Surtout pour le bien de Charlie, mais beaucoup était pour son propre bien-être. Il n'aimait pas la perte de contrôle et ne la perdrait pas volontairement.
Sachant qu'ils n'avaient pas beaucoup de temps, Eckhart a fini rapidement et a laissé Charlie retomber dans sa poitrine. Vous êtes tous bons maintenant?Il a souri, appuyant sur un baiser au temple Charlie, si vous voulez, on peut juste dire baisez-les et faux décalage horaire pour se coucher tôt pour ce soir. Bien que, cela veut dire missin, out on dinner..... Après un beat, Eckhart sourit dans le côté de la pommette de Charlie, pressant la moitié de son visage dans les cheveux de Charlie, c'est-à-dire, bien sûr, si je n'avais pas emballé quelques collations à beaucoup sur nous-mêmes. Je dois regarder mon apport calorique, mais ça ne me dérangerait pas d'enfreindre une règle ou deux pour toi. Et j'ai ton ordinateur portable pour Netflix Binging. C'est à vous, marin.
Alors que Charlie n'avait pas voulu que cela se termine, il savait qu'il ne pouvait pas durer pendant si longtemps, et il a sombré pratiquement désossé dos contre la poitrine d'Eckhart. Il ferma les yeux, laissant respirer et riant des mots de Hart. Il n'a pas répondu au début, au lieu de choisir de tourner la tête pour qu'il puisse se brosser les lèvres le long des Hart. Bien que, il ne s'attardait pas - ce serait merdique d'obtenir quelque chose commencé comme ça et doit partir - et au lieu s'est endormi vers le bas pour qu'il puisse se branler le visage dans le cou d'Eckhart, juste sous son menton, s'y installer. Tentative. Mais vraiment merdique, aussi, il a respiré un rire contre le cou d'Eckhart, avant d'embrasser la peau là-bas. Honnêtement, je pourrais m'endormir en ce moment, mais... c'est la première réunion officielle. Bien qu'il ne voulait pas trop, parce que la suggestion de Hart ressemblait à la meilleure chose au monde, il savait qu'il devait la sucer dans ce cas. Mais, peut-être après quelques dîners angoissants et maladroits, je peux simuler la maladie et nous pouvons nous enfermer ici pour le reste des vacances, a-t-il dit légèrement, les mains prenant les deux Harts propres, et commençant à frotter doucement ses doigts dans la peau, juste sentir la peau rugissée, soudainement reconnaissant qu'il avait ce, qu'il avait Eckhart. Evidemment, ils savaient tous les deux qu'il plaisantait. Il ne pouvait pas faire ça, même si une partie de lui en voulait aussi. Donc, pour l'instant, il va se laisser concentrer sur Eckhart, et essayer de ne pas craindre ce qui venait trop.
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• N A M E •
Oliver Nathaniel Harris. Doesn't care if people refer to him as Oli.
• A G E •
35.
• G E N D E R •
Male.
• O C C U P A T I O N •
Ex-military surgeon; now a private chef for quite a few big names in the entertainment business.
• S E X U A L I T Y •
Homosexual.
• R E L A T I O N S H I P S T A T U S •
Recent nasty break-up from boyfriend of two years; now is fake fiance to Gabriel Carrington.
• F A M I L Y M E M B E R S •
Mother: Holly Harris, alive; ex-surgeon at what had been voted as Los Angeles' best hospital, Cedars-Sinai Medical Center; now retired.
Father: Jack Harris, alive; ex-private chef for some bigger names in the entertainment business; now retired.
Older brother: Matthew Harris, deceased; ex-military.
Oliver often visits his parents, having a good, strong relationship with both of them, and sees distant family more often than not. He's very much a family man.
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• A P P E A R A N C E •
Oliver walks into a room with a confidence he doesn't quite feel. He often utilizes his whole 6'0 height, always walking and sitting with the proper posture, straight back and shoulders, lifted chin; he has an air about him that makes him come off like he's a man with a purpose, like he's someone who grew up knowing exactly what they wanted and when they wanted it. One will never catch Oliver dragging his feet, or slouching his shoulders, unless he is that disappointed or laughing that hard but it never lasts long at all. He can keep still for a good period of time, so sitting around, or even standing, never seems to phase his formal posture. This doesn't mean he's always stiff and rod-straight; in private, or around those he's comfortable with, he will definitely relax and slouch around, hold himself in a completely opposite way from the way he does in public settings. Perhaps adding to the appearance of confidence he seems to have is that he is fit; he has a toned, lithe form with defined muscles that gives away he has been through intense training, and hasn't let himself get out of shape. It helps he does have a fast metabolism, so skipping a few gym days or weeks doesn't affect him too badly.
Oliver doesn't tan as easily as others, and since he doesn't spend any more time than he has too out in the hot sun back in LA, his skin complexion is more of a creamy color than anything else. Even despite what he has been through, his body is practically devoid of any scars. He may have a few light ones from accidents, but nothing extremely apparent. Surprisingly, his hands aren't that hardened; some roughness to the tips but overall, not only his hands, but all of his skin, is soft and smooth, a sign that he does take care of himself, especially as a result from being a very hygienic person. He has been tossing around the idea of getting a tattoo in memory of his brother, but he isn't exactly sure what he'd get, or where he'd get it. It has been on his mind long enough, though; he probably just needs to bring it up and bounce ideas off of the right person.
Oliver's hair is a darker brown, cut in such a style that the shorter sides are barely brushing the top of his ears, the back barely brushing his neck, and it's thicker on the top, appearing shiny and healthy. His hair can look noticeably different in style depending on how he treats it that day. Either he can slick it back, flattening it to cause the sides and back to look longer. Or he can slightly spike it in the front, or just simply push it back, giving him the appearance of more hair on top of his head than the sides and back. He doesn't take much time on his hair; depending on where he's going, sometimes he may just push it back with his fingers and let it do its thing, or he might take more time on it and make it appear more neat. He is rarely clean-shaven, choosing instead to let facial hair grow where it may. With facial hair as dark as his hair, it can either come through as a five o'clock shadow, or be a few hours past that point. He doesn't often let it get thicker than that, choosing to keep it more so short and thin. His dark eyebrows are long, straight until they dip down just slightly at the ends, and appear thicker than most, giving them more of a bushier appearance.
Set beneath the thick beauties, are gentle eyes with thick eyelashes that stand out against his high cheekbones when he looks down. He has eyes that can't quite decide what color they want to be; most of the time, they appear to be a vivid blue, one that's light, could be called icy. Other times, they can seem closer to a light green, or a grey, or even darker in color, more of a brown. What he's wearing, and the type of light setting he's in, helps determine what color they choose to be that day. Laugh lines appear at the corner of both eyes, naturally more noticeable when he's smiling, and he sometimes finds himself looking in the mirror, smoothing his fingertips over them with squinted eyes because damn, he is getting old. Underneath a slightly wide nose, are pink lips, the bottom lip fuller than the top; naturally, they'll appear red if he licks or bites at them too much. Which isn't often he does, since he hides nervous habits such as those, but it still happens sometimes. An adorable butt-chin with a wide jaw brings together Oliver's handsome face.
Oliver tries his best to not have a style that reflects his rich lifestyle but well, he has a slightly expensive taste, but nothing over the top. He isn't like his mother, who thinks the higher the price, the better and prettier it is. He just goes for what he likes, and it usually happens to be something that'd fall under the high casual category. He actually enjoys clothes shopping, finding new things to wear out, adding more items to his honestly already full closet. If it's one thing that can make him feel good, it's clothes, so he has plenty of them. He goes with the seasons, reading magazines talking about the latest fashion trends though he may not always follow them, and dresses according to the weather. He does the same with his colors; his favorite season to wear is Fall. He loves scarves, light jackets, and fall colors. In a winter environment, he's prone to be seen in a creamy white sweater paired with darker, fitted slacks; or a rust brown wool coat with a grey turtleneck beneath and dark boots; or maybe even a smoke grey pea coat with a plain white shirt underneath and paired with brighter skinny jeans. One constant on his body seems to be a long chain around his neck, with a pair of dog tags on the end; not his own, but rather, his older brother's. Oliver quite enjoys dressing himself, and putting outfits together, making him quite the fashionable guy.
• P E R S O N A L I T Y •
Oliver has been through a lot, and the person he is today, is certainly not the same person he was twenty years ago. Twenty years ago, Oliver was a rich, privileged fifteen year old going through private school, letting his grades suffer in favor of hanging with the wrong crowd and illegally drinking. Fifteen years ago, Oliver was still rich and privileged but was twenty, and was riding through college on mommy's and daddy's money, so he could give less shits about his grades. Instead, he gave more shits about getting, well, shit-faced. Thankfully, Oliver was knocked out of that life, and after his experience in the military, and with his alcoholism and therapy afterward, he, of course, wasn't quite the same person. Fortunately, a lot of his good traits stuck with him throughout the years. Oliver has always been a very driven person; whatever he did, he put his all into it, whether it be drinking, studying, or even cooking. It's rare for Oliver to half-ass anything, even when he isn't in the best of moods, or isn't having a good day, he still gives whatever task he has that day his all. This does result in him appearing stubborn, though. He prefers to do things his way - though that doesn't mean he won't listen to other suggestions - and doesn't like to be told he can't do something. He's the type of person who doesn't like to hear no, and would rather figure something out on his own.
Oliver has always been very quick-witted. With parents who insisted on being proper, and going to big, fancy events, it caused Oliver to grow up behaving in a certain manner he has never quite shaken. He shook the stuck-up attitude that came attached with it, but he kept the charming attitude it had given him. If the setting calls for it, Oliver can come off as quite the debonair gentleman, slipping into conversations with ease, blending in with the type of group he just stepped into with little to no problem. This isn't to say he throws his beliefs and opinions to the wind; he just delivers them in a logical, and calm, manner that usually keeps the peace among the people he's with. To some, he can come off as posh, even stuck-up, though he never intends to be that way. Oliver has never been a judgmental being; even at his worse, he kept his compassion about him, his caring nature towards others, and he will never lose that part of himself. He doesn't hesitate to defend others, keeps a cool head in conflict and high-tense situations, and doesn't protest being blunt if it's called for. He's pretty honest when his opinion is asked for, but he does worry about what others think of him, so sometimes, he may sugar-coat his opinion, though he tries not too. Many would say he cares too much, too strongly. He's someone who has to help people; while right now, he's in a career that helps people's stomachs, maybe eventually he'll be okay enough to go back to actually saving lives.
He's a thinker, someone who likes to step back and observe something at all sides. Though, doing that to himself may take some time, since he isn't one for self-reflecting that often. He is very curious about any and everything, and that, alone, makes him retain more pointless knowledge than he cares to admit. Always, he has been an active listener to others. Someone could be talking about the most boring thing but he's right there, nodding and mhm'ing in the right places, taking it all in. He doesn't very often appear rude; he's actually a very kind and gentle individual, who will put his own problems on the back burner in favor of helping someone else. Which that he knows is a problem, but one he isn't working to fix. He isn't quick to anger, even on his bad days. Rather, he's quick to pay attention to someone else, something else. A distraction is what he seeks when something is getting to be too much for him, be it in the form of entertainment or listening to another ramble about anything they want. In that way, he does ignore his problems, but a lot of times, a distraction does prevent him from doing something he'd regret later.
Oliver comes off as a pretty positive guy; he tries to look at the bright side of things, rather than what's going wrong, and he's getting better at doing that. He tries to keep himself smiling or laughing about something, just to keep his mind off of his own troubles. He'll make jokes ranging from dark humor to the lamest pun ever, he loves it all. He enjoys coming off as almost sarcastic but he knows there's a time and place for everything, even jokes. If he knows someone gets a kick out of his jokes and sarcastic nature, he's sure to always turn to that person and mumble something to them if he wants no one else hearing. He can be seen as almost carefree, in a way, but that doesn't mean he is without stresses; he struggles daily with his own demons. Specifically, alcohol. It's a big weakness of his, since it gives him a feeling of not caring about what he's been through. He isn't an angry drunk, or even a sad drunk. He can grow mopey, and when he does, he can become a mess. But usually, he's more tactile, talkative and he probably laughs a little too loudly when under the influence. Though, he's trying his hardest to avoid that, no matter how badly he might want it. He doesn't like to talk about it, and instead attempts to politely deny a drink if it's offered to him, never wanting to explain why and usually coming up with an excuse that doesn't give away to the fact he's an ex-alcoholic. One of the times he will get easily annoyed is when someone is pushy, and tries to get him to do anything he doesn't want too, especially drink. Going to therapy has forced him to face why, exactly, he hits the bottle so hard. He does have PTSD, depression, and a mild case of anxiety; but the biggest reason is because of the guilt he suffers from. Oliver heavily blames himself for the patients he lost. He heavily blames himself for pain he has caused others. He's hard on himself, to the point it dwindles his confidence and it makes him feel very bad about himself. He has issues lifting himself up. He knows he has saved a lot of lives, but it seems like the ones he has lost, the people he has hurt, the limbs he couldn't save, haunt him the most. Those what if's visit him late at night and keep him up. If he even mildly offends someone, and they point it out or he notices, he's quick to apologize, but expect him to beat himself up for it for some time after.
He tries really hard to avoid anything alcoholic, even talk of it, like the plague. Another thing he avoids like the plague is talk of his time overseas; if he talks about it, he keeps it short, and smoothly changes the subject. He prefers playing off his problems, his mental scarring, and tries to not make it as big of a deal as it actually is. Therapy has helped him admit to more of his problems - to his therapist. To an outsider, though, he's more tight-lipped. Oliver tries really hard to hide his inner struggles, and instead chooses to pay attention to others, while hiding behind a mask of quick-wit and confidence that isn't so real. Therapy has always been hard for him, because sometimes, he doesn't like to face reality. He isn't much a realist; he likes to stay in a place where things are better, though he's learning to not do that. He can be quite sensitive about certain matters, and he can appear like an open book at times. If something is snapped at him or a blunt truth is said to him, he may flinch but cover it up and attempt to play it off; if something is snapped to someone else, if someone else is hurt, he'll stand up for them. That just shows how much, or rather how little, he cares about himself. It had been different, when he was younger, a time that feels so far away. Now, he just takes whatever is dished at him, and tries to hide his hurt over it, but he doesn't let anyone else get treated unfairly, if he can do anything about it.
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• L I K E S •
⇧ Cooking - he finds something relaxing and methodical about following a recipe; there's an order to it that he enjoys. the science behind cooking is something that he also greatly enjoys, and knows much about. alton brown is a total hero of his.
⇧ Late night movies - those weird movies that come on at two in the morning that shouldn't had been made? yeah, those are a guilty pleasure of his.
⇧ Hot drinks - the feel of a warm cup cradled in his hands, seeing the steam come off the surface of the liquid, feeling the heat when he brings it close enough to his face; there's something about that that just speaks to him.
⇧ Cold weather - snow, snow, snow. bring it on, because he loves it. also, he loves scarves, so that's a bonus in cold weather.
⇧ Stillness - be it the stillness of a dark, starry night, the stillness of a dark room while laying in bed, or the stillness of an empty, quiet house, he finds a certain peace within those.
⇧ Science - his best subject has always been science, and he loves all types of science, but especially health sciences, space science, and molecular gastronomy (type of food science).
• D I S L I K E S •
⇩ Alcohol - he has had his fair share of issues with the stuff and he hates it's still a weakness.
⇩ Loud noises - while he may not have been in direct combat, he has experienced plenty of loud, frightening sounds to make him not like sudden, loud noises.
⇩ Dry heat - he was stationed in a dry barren location; he doesn't like dry heat, sand, or sweating when he isn't intending too.
⇩ The patients he has lost - of course, he has lost people, and he always takes it to heart, forces himself to attempt to ingrain their name and face into his memory, though having worked in a heavy combat area has caused some of them to blur, and that only increases his guilt.
⇩ Insomnia - he loves sleep, so the fact he suffers from chronic insomnia isn't something he's too thrilled about.
⇩ The dentist - he goes, he wants to keep his teeth in their best shape, but seriously, he hates laying back in that chair, being blinded by a light, and having strange hands in his mouth. if he didn't care so much, he wouldn't go at all. he will always ask, why, why do they talk to you when their hands are in your mouth?
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• H I S T O R Y •
When in reference to the typical American dream, Oliver Harris would jokingly say he had everything, even the white picket fence, but not the dog. He wouldn't be joking though. With a surgeon for a mother, and a popular private chef for a father in West Los Angeles, the Harris family was not short on money by any means. Thus, Oliver and his older brother by two years, Matthew, grew up in a household where not only would any requested material items be given to them, but where they also experienced an intense amount of attentiveness and praise from both of their parents. Oliver had a childhood that would be the envy of those who had a lack of attention, and what felt like love, from their parents in their youth, since the two Harris boys had that, and more, in abundance. It resulted in quite the indulgent childhood. It was no surprise that Oliver was a spoiled, and slightly conceited, person in his adolescent years. He wasn't proud to admit he did cause his parents, and even his older brother, problems in his teenage years, and somewhat beyond that. Getting mixed up with the wrong crowd resulted in him caring more about skipping class and illegally drinking than his grades. Shortly after witnessing Matthew's graduation, he left for the military, and Oliver hadn't batted an eye at it. A lot of people went into the military; their parents hadn't fully approved but they had never held their children back, so they gave him their blessing. While Oliver had always been pretty intelligent, close to his own graduation, his parents had to settle with him going to a college they hadn't labeled "elite" because they were determined to push him in that direction. Even despite his uncaring attitude in high school.
Oliver wanted to go to college, but only because of the prospect of more freedom and a lot more partying. Oliver hadn't chosen a major, much to his parents' hidden frustrations, but when not busy destroying his liver, or attempting to keep his eyes opened in a class, he had been considering following in his father's footsteps. One thing he and his father had heavily bonded over had been cooking, and Oliver never lost his touch with cooking. He had quickly become his dorm building's chef, being able to take any food and make something half decent out of it. He was really only in college because while he might be taking advantage of his free ride through college by drinking it away, he did love his parents, and had wanted to at least make them sort of proud. Nearly two years into college, barely passing, he got a call from his parents requesting he come home for that weekend. He had resisted at first, the best parties happened over the weekend after all, but they had insisted. He caved, since they were his parents, and went. He almost wished he hadn't. They gave him the news that Matthew had been killed in combat while overseas. It floored Oliver. He could recall just talking to him a few days ago on the phone, the older boy gently scolding him for nearly failing science when Oliver's best subject had always been science, but never outright calling him out like sometimes their mother did. Matthew and Oliver had always had a relationship that, even if they barely said a word to each other for a few weeks, they could go to the other and start spewing everything wrong without it feeling weird or awkward. The two had been close, even each other's best friends when younger, and they hadn't quite lost that connection even after splitting up.
After that, Oliver took a step back and really looked at his life. He thought about the gentle scoldings and advice Matthew would dish him that he'd just brush off and realized he was ruining his own life at the rate he was going. That his family could see it, but knew he was young and bullheaded enough to not listen to them, so they hadn't pushed. It was a defining moment in his life; if only that moment hadn't come from the result of such a depressing tragedy. Instead of letting it bog him down, and diving deeper into his partying lifestyle, he pulled himself away from it. With all of that advice Matthew had given him he had chose to ignore weighing down on him, he couldn't keep down his current path. He began to take college seriously, lifted up his grades, and was actually doing pretty well for himself. He'd still go to a party but he made sure he went when it wouldn't effect his school schedule. It had been hard at first; he had, of course, liked being irresponsible and lazy. He had liked the feeling alcohol had given him but Matthew wouldn't be proud if he had kept that life up. His parents wouldn't had been, either. Close to his graduation and earning his bachelor's degree, he had his parents asking him what he was going to do after college. They were still suffering from the loss of Matthew, still upset and sad about it, but that would be expected. They stuck together and tried their best to keep going. Oliver considered becoming a private chef much like his father - it would be easy, since his father had connections - but the more he thought on it, the more his mind kept returning to one thing. His mother as inspiration, he had decided to go to medical school. But rather become a nurse, or doctor, or even a surgeon at one of the hospitals in Los Angeles, he had decided to do something that upset his parents. He'd earn his medical degree, join the military, and work up to becoming a surgeon. He wanted to save other soldiers, since he couldn't save his brother.
His parents had, for once, tried to firmly tell him no, to put their foot down, but Oliver had made up his mind. He wanted to go overseas and save lives, so no other family had to experience the pain his had. He had always been determined and his parents couldn't convince him otherwise. So, after four years of medical school, he joined the military, and that was that. He stayed with the military for four years, became a surgeon, but it had been a lot harder than he was expecting. The things he heard, he had seen, the lives he had lost. He saved plenty, of course he had, but the ones he lost stuck with him, and weighed him down. The limbs he had to take from soldiers to save them weighed him down. The overall environment weighed him down. It hadn't all been bad. Of course not. He had made friends, gained new family members that he still kept in contact with today, though their relationship wasn't as strong now. He could recall some fond memories, could name a few guys that stuck with him, could laugh at a few stories. Like one story, that made him cringe but then laugh, about how he had saved this guy, but had to amputate his leg which was the part where Oliver would cringe. But then he'd recall how the guy stayed in the military hospital for about a month, and if given the chance, Oliver would visit the patients as often as possible. Almost each time he went, the guy would either be out of it on drugs, or a lack of sleep like many traumatized soldiers suffered from, and would say the funniest things. Sometimes when Oliver was feeling shitty, he'd remember that guy, and it'd make him give a slightly sad smile. After his four years were up, he couldn't go back. He still feels selfish over that decision, so many more lives could be saved, but he couldn't bring himself to go back. He was 30 when he came back to the States, moved into his own apartment in West LA near his parents, and tried to settle back into the city. It had been rough. For almost a year, he barely contacted his parents, didn't bother finding a job, and instead fell back on the old habits of drinking and just trying to forget everything that he had seen and blamed himself for. Alcohol became his crutch. It became his way out, his way of avoiding his mental scarring.
His parents became increasingly worried about him, and that only caused him to shut himself in more. By the time he had been back in the States for two years, he finally had a wake up call. After a particularly bad episode that almost resulted in him taking his life - his parents, especially his mother, having completely flipped their shit over it - he finally sought help. Just the thought of putting his parents, his other immediate family, through another too-soon loss propelled him to attempt to get better. That choice led to therapy. Lots, and lots, of therapy. Naturally, he wasn't fixed over night. He was suffering from PTSD, depression, and alcoholism. Even he understood these were not easy fixes. Money had never been a problem, so he got the best of the best help. Even then, he had relapses, but it happened. He picked himself back up and kept going. He had always been a determined and stubborn person, that was for sure. After half a year into therapy, he decided to pursue his original dream, and began to follow in his father's footsteps, working on his career as a private chef. With his father, and his connections, it hadn't been hard to wiggle his way into that life. He quickly found a good footing, and was quite enjoying his new career choice. He had considered becoming a surgeon at the hospital his mother had worked at, but just the thought of possibly losing another patient sent his heart racing and palms sweating; he immediately decided against it. After a full year into therapy, he met another struggling soul by the name of Brad. They hit it off, could relate to the other, and it started a budding romance.
Too bad that romance turned sour after almost a year of dating. It took a while for both of them to realize they were not good for the other; Oliver, being the headstrong person he was, was very anal about being around alcohol. Considering he had his few relapses, he always grew uncomfortable and weary around the stuff. Brad, on the other hand, felt like he could control his bad habit, and would sometimes allow himself a drink or two. Thing was, Brad was pretty damn good at controlling his bad habit, only letting himself a taste sometimes, but it always put Oliver on edge. This resulted in Brad becoming increasingly annoyed with Oliver's "overbearing" behavior, as Brad saw it. They both tried to make it work, stuck with the other because there had been love there, but it was bled out when Oliver kept trying too hard and feeling guilty over little things, and Brad kept ignoring his attempts and claiming he was being overly paranoid about alcohol. Just a shy of two years, they had a nasty break-up. Brad accusing Oliver of wanting everything perfect and neat, in an order; wanting to pretend and appear like everything in their life was posh and "hoity-toity" when it was not that at all. Oliver had been hurt, since he does try his best to not come off as "snobby" or "rich" because of the way he was raised, and he was also hurt Brad didn't understand his concerns, and his trouble, with alcohol. Obviously, Brad hadn't suffered as bad from the addiction, and Brad had never known how to handle Oliver's occasional nightmare or the small episodes he still suffered from when a noise resembled an explosion or a gunshot a little too closely. He was much better at controlling himself when either of these things occurred, years of therapy could do that to a person, but naturally, he still struggled.
After the break-up, Oliver was sort of amazed he had spent two years with Brad. Looking back, he realized how he and Brad had never quite clicked. He saw how they could never work out. They couldn't quite relate to the other, even if they suffered from the same addiction. Oliver did wonder if he was more upset at the two years he had lost with Brad, or if he was truly upset over the lost of Brad. Either way, he was sort of relieved. Brad had always put him on edge with the few drinks he might have in public, would cringe or flinch every time Brad got a little loud because Oliver thought maybe he was having one too many, so he was relieved to be away from that anxiety inducer. But despite that, he could feel himself feeling really shitty, slowly walking back into that rut that would eventually lead to a relapse, so a small vacation by himself was needed. He needed to be away from the city, away from the reminders of Matthew and Brad, away from his parents' constant worrying. He loved the snow, the cold, and so running off to a snowy, cold environment seemed like the most logical choice. Running off to his parents' cabin in Colorado seemed even more logical. Thinking of the warming affects of alcohol was something that did not need to be logical, and something that needed to be avoided. Saying yes to being a fake fiance to an old face that didn't remember him was, indeed, very not logical but... hopefully that'll be the only illogical choice he'll make on this already strange vacation.
• M I S C E L L A N E O U S I N F O •
Oliver takes medication for his depression, though he sometimes wonders why he does since he still has intensely bad days; he really does it because his parents, and therapist, want to see him trying to get better (he doesn't give himself enough credit because he has come a long way from where he was originally). To keep his hands busy and mind off drinking, his therapist recommended he pick up a few hobbies. As of right now, Oliver can knit/crochet; he enjoys putting together models of any transportation vehicles; he attempts origami but he's still sort of failing at that one; he likes to mess around with a Rubik's cube; of course, cooking is always a great way for him to get his hands busy and his mind distracted; he has also learned that helping his elderly neighbor out with her flower garden is engaging and fun.
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