Etraya: Inbox

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

TEXT • VOICE • VIDEO • ACTION
USERNAME: HANK

Hank here. I probably don’t give a rat’s ass what you have to say. Leave me alone. How the hell do I get this damn thing to stop rec — [BEEP]

Comments

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

When am I not available, bud

What’s up?

[Should Hank worry...? He’s gonna worry.]

[instabilitatem]

[Keeping a secret. That's the tough part.]

I wanted to cook for you again.

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Okay. What’s on the menu?

[He’s a little suspicious. A little worried. Hmm.]

[instabilitatem]

What would you consider your favorite?

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Uh

You know you don’t gotta go to all that trouble, Connor

But I dunno. Lasagna??

[Cheese and meat and pasta! It’s like spaghetti... but more.]

[instabilitatem]

[So pasta cake to go with the actual cake. Connor can do that.]

If you could leave the apartment for an hour, I'll have everything prepared when you get back.

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

You know Connor, if we hadn’t just talked about this I might think you were trying to get rid of me because you don’t like me

I can get out of your hair for a bit. Take Sumo on a walk. Enjoy the nice. Uh. Scenery

[And out he goes! Hank considers picking up more alcohol while he’s out, but he doesn’t want to hurt Connor more than he already has, so — no alcohol today.]

[instabilitatem]

[As soon as Connor has space, he gets right to baking both cakes! The lasagna goes in first before the teeny little layered cake-- whiskey flavored of course--.

When he's ready, with the candles representing 54, Connor texts Hank.]

The lasagna is done.

[When Hank comes in, both the lasagna and the little layered cake are on the table.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

[Something feels off although Hank can’t quite put his finger on what. And he’s not going to complain — yet — because Connor said he likes cooking, and he likes Hank, so why not lot him go hog wild?

He can’t blame Connor for not wanting him around while he cooks, though. With how their conversations have been going lately, with Hank just... going off.

Once Hank gets back to the apartment, he and Sumo both sniff the air.]

Smells good, Con.

[Then, heading toward the kitchen:]

Uh.

[Jesus Christ, the guy’s gone and made him a cake and a lasagna.]

Don’t think I need to tell you it’s not my birthday, so... there another very old occasion we’re celebrating?

[instabilitatem]

[Connor nudges the cake toward Hank as the candles burn away.]

I wanted to celebrate, regardless. [While he can, he doesn't say.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Suppose I can eat to that.

[Hank pulls out a chair. Sits down, eyes squinting as he looks at the candles.]

How many candles is that? About eight hundred?

[Don’t make him count eight hundred candles, Connor. Don’t make him...!]

[instabilitatem]

[It's not 100 candles! It's exactly 54! Connor did his homework and counted each one out.

Connor sits down across from Hank, smiling as he regards him.]

It's fifty-four candles. To celebrate your birthday early. The flavoring is whiskey.

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Not quite following the logic there, Connor.

[If his birthday were next month, sure. But it’s ages away.

Making up for lost time, maybe? Not that Hank’s birthday really matters to him, but it seems to matter to Connor.]

Thanks, Con. This is... really nice of you.

[Hank whistles. It still feels weird just stuffing his face in front of Connor, but cake especially feels greedy of him.]

[instabilitatem]

[Connor is quiet for a moment before he finally confesses,] I wanted to celebrate because I'm not sure I'll be here for it.

[He looks down at the lasagna, at the cake, and then back up to Hank. He can only hope this doesn't trigger another panic attack.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

[Hank sighs. Leans back in his chair, raising his chin as he looks over at Connor.]

You’re gonna be here. [He doesn’t even add “if you still want” like he usually might, because Connor clearly wants that.]

But I get... this. [Gesturing toward the table.] We should be making memories, yeah? Regardless of whatever happens. Sorry I haven’t been great about that.

[Hank’s just been hurting Connor, both physically and emotionally. And getting him to smile sometimes, too. But he should be smiling more.]

[instabilitatem]

[Quietly,] Happy birthday, Hank.

[Connor is clearly upset, but he's not talking about it.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Yeah. Thanks, Con.

[Hank forces a soft smile. Grabbing a fork to stab at the cake, then:]

You gonna deprive me of your whole crime lab mouth thing for this cake, or what?

[instabilitatem]

I don't think you want to know the sugar or alcohol content in the cake.

[Connor nods toward the cake.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Hey, hey. I’m the birthday boy, right?

[Hank offers the fork to Connor. It just has a bit of frosting and cake on it, hopefully not enough to hurt him. Assuming that’s how it works. Hank realizes he has no idea.]

Here. [Grabbing another fork, Hank gets his own forkful of cake.] Let’s try it at the same time, so you can’t spoil me with the nutritional whatever.

[instabilitatem]

[Connor's face brightens when Hank offers him the fork with frosting. He nods with a smile and touches the frosting to his tongue.

It's.

So.

Sweet.

Did he put in too much powdered sugar? Or perhaps too little whiskey.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

[Hank watches Connor, trying to commit that smile to memory. And human memories fade with time, but he’ll remember this.

He raises his own fork to his mouth, eyes widening. The cake is sweet and boozy.]

Damn. [Hank lets the flavors settle on his tongue before swallowing.] I’ve never had a whiskey cake before, y’know.

[instabilitatem]

[Connor continues to smack his tongue as the frosting lingers on his tongue. Once he gets it off he nods.]

I thought you might like a non-traditional cake. [Connor sets his fork down, keeping the nutrient information to himself this time. As he climbs to his feet, he asks,] Do you like it?

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

You know what? [Hank has another bite of cake.] Yeah. It’s like rum cake, but... well. Stronger.

[Whiskey itself is already kind of an overwhelming flavor, and the cake perhaps even more so. But with the added sweetness, it reminds Hank of some of the whiskey cocktails he likes. He grimaces a little at the next bite — this bit of icing is even boozier — but he swallows it down. Just like drinking the real thing, honestly.]

You went and got more whiskey, huh?

[instabilitatem]

I did. Now that I know it's not replacing me. [Connor does his funny little wink and then disappears back into his room. He emerges moments later with what can only be described as a trash bag. A very rumpled trash bag. He sets it on the table next to the lasagna and seems particularly excited by it.]

TRASH BAG LMFAO

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

[Hank’s paused his cake eating to actually cut the lasagna, and then...]

Uh.

[Connor looks very excited about a trash bag, which is both confusing and endearing. The guy is just so damn earnest.]

Do you need me to take this out for you?