#((but domestic steddie IS always more important so))

[stevethehairington]

Spaghetti is on the menu tonight.

There's a pot of water getting close to boiling on the back right burner of the stove, and Steve keeps a close eye on the pan on the front left burner as his special recipe homemade tomato sauce (the one Eddie can't get enough of) simmers away.

He's humming under his breath — Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy, he heard it on the radio earlier and it's been stuck in his head since — stirring the sauce periodically.

The big pot starts to bubble, so Steve sets the wooden spoon down and reaches for the pack of noodles, box already cracked open and waiting to be overturned into the boiling water.

That's when Eddie shuffles into the kitchen.

"Mm, smells good in here," he says, joining Steve at the stove. He drapes himself over his back, like the clingy koala he secretly is. He tucks his chin over Steve's shoulder and curls his arms around Steve's middle, hands dipping beneath the fabric of his shirt to press against the soft of his stomach.

"Should be ready in ten," Steve tells him, leaning back into Eddie’s touch.

"Good, m'hungry," Eddie replies, pressing his lips to the side of Steve's neck. He bares his teeth, bites down just a little.

It makes Steve laugh softly, squirm a little to get Eddie to quit it. "That tickles," he complains, and Eddie laughs into his skin.

"Can't help myself, baby, you just taste so good," Eddie says, then presses a kiss to the spot — an apology.

"Grab me a clean spoon?" Steve asks, giving the sauce another stir.

"I guess," Eddie responds with a pout, not wanting to let go. He keeps one arm around Steve and pulls away from his back just enough to allow him to stretch his other arm out to rifle through the silverware drawer and snatch up the requested spoon.

"Thanks," Steve says, taking the spoon. He tips his head back to press a kiss to Eddie's forehead, as best as he can from the awkward angle.

He sets the wooden spoon aside, and dips the clean spoon into the sauce, cupping his palm beneath it as he brings it up to his lips for a taste. "Hm," he hums after the test, smacking his mouth as he tries to figure out what's missing. "It needs something else."

Eddie taps the side of Steve's hand. "Lemme taste," he requests.

Steve dips the spoon back in, then twists in Eddie's arms to hold it out for him.

When Eddie leans in, he bypasses the proffered spoon and instead catches Steve's mouth in a kiss.

Steve laughs into the kiss, the smile that breaks out across his face getting in the way.

"Tastes perfect to me," Eddie says, grinning wide enough that his dimples leave deep indents in his cheeks.

Steve rolls his eyes fondly and pushes his hand into Eddie's face. Eddie just catches his wrist and turns his head so he nuzzles his cheek into Steve's palm.

Eddie does eventually let Steve guide the spoonful into his open mouth after, copying Steve by smacking his lips. "Maybe some salt?" He suggests, and Steve nods.

Eddie doesn't wait for him to ask for it, just darts across the counter to their little spice rack, pulling the salt from its spot. He hands it over to Steve, and takes up his place behind him once more.

Steve starts to hum again as he adds the salt, stirring it in. He makes it to just before the chorus and stops, bending down for another taste.

That's when Eddie decides to pick the song up himself, only he starts to sing it out loud instead. He keeps his voice soft, but lets it fill their little kitchen as he warbles out the lyrics.

The sauce is simmering, the pasta is cooking — nothing needs their direct attention. So Eddie takes it upon himself to snatch up Steve's hand, take a step back, and twirl him around.

"Eddie!" Steve cries out in surprise, and he goes spinning back into Eddie's arms, facing him this time.

"Steve," Eddie says between verses, amusement dripping, then swings him right into a happy little dance, matching the pace of the song as he croons the lyrics out.

Steve laughs as he stumbles into Eddie's arms, and tries to protest, tries to say, "But dinner!"

Eddie just waves a hand. "Dinner will be fine," he tells Steve. "Dance with me." And he wraps his arms around Steve's waist so that Steve has no choice but to loop his around Eddie's neck, and sways them around.

The dying golden light of the day streams through their curtains, painting the kitchen in a warm glow, and Steve allows himself to be led through it to the smooth cherrywood of Eddie's voice as he sings out the jaunty lyrics to the song he knows Steve loves.

As the song comes to a close, Eddie finishes it with a flourish, and tries to dip Steve, who squawks out in surprise and clutches tighter onto Eddie's neck, laughing and smiling and warning Eddie not to drop him.

When he rights Steve again, Steve shakes his head and reaches up to cup Eddie's jaw, to guide him in for a kiss. Slow, deep, toe-curling.

"You're ridiculous," he says. "I love you."

Eddie's smile glows, his eyes sparkle. "I love you, too." And he leans in for another kiss.

(If they end up making out a little, pressed against the kitchen island, and the pasta overcooks a bit, well, it's just the two of them eating it, so it doesn't really matter.)

By then, dinner is pretty much ready, so Eddie reluctantly leaves Steve's side to fetch the plates, and Steve drains the pasta and adds it to the sauce.

They sit across from one another at their tiny little table, knees knocking and legs tangled beneath. They hold hands over the tabletop and share twin smiles as they enjoy their meal together.

Spaghetti night is always a good night.