Chapter Text
They're in the tiny living room now, each with a bowl of the finished soup. It's delicious, which Till attributes aloud to the fact that most of the ingredients were stolen. They have a good laugh, then settle into eating and conversation. Paul seems content to do most of the talking and they let him, cutting in at their own risk.
After a while, Till finds his attention drifting, as it seems to more and more these days, to Flake.
He sits cross-legged on the patched sofa beside Paul, listening as the other prattles on about the uselessness of some guitarist. Flake looks quite comical at first glance, bony limbs bent out like a stick insect's from an equally skinny frame. But Till doesn't focus on that for long.
His gaze falls instead to the bowl in Flake's lap. Flake lifts it close to his mouth whenever he eats, but when he isn't the bowl is lowered and balanced atop crossed ankles.
There's no reason why something so mundane should be erotic. It's just a bowl of soup, after all. Then again, it's a bowl of soup that happens to be resting very close to the V of Flake's legs.
Till has no idea where the thought comes from but it's already in his head before he can stop it. He wants to be fed from that bowl. He wants to get up, crawl across the floor and kneel in front of Flake, waiting patiently with hopeful eyes as he offers careful spoonfuls of steaming chicken and broth.
Flake would watch him with that near-constant bemusement at first, surprised, maybe a little embarrassed, but ultimately willing to indulge this request.
Paul might have encouraged him a bit as well. No sense in thinking he'd just sit by idly and watch.
Inevitably, the last drop comes and goes. Till feels pleasantly full. He is, however, far from sated. A new hunger has reared its head, built steadily as he sat in the chair lost in thought. It throbs below his belly and leaves his face hot. His breathing stutters.
Till stares at the now-empty bowl still sitting in Flake's lap. If only it would disappear. It served its purpose but now he just wants to take it away and bury his face in what lies beneath.
Yes.
That's what he wants. No sense in avoiding it now…
"Till!"
Till blinks, startled. Paul and Flake are both staring at him; Flake with concern and Paul with a mix of humor and confusion.
"Are you alright?" Flake asks.
Till nods slowly. Fuck. How long have they been watching?
"Fine," he says.
"Are you sure?" Paul's smirk widens "'Cause you looked like you were trying to explode Flake's bowl with your mind."
Till shrugs. "Yeah? Maybe I was just zoned out from all your jabbering." He grins as Paul rolls his eyes, then stands and begins to collect their empty dishes.
Flake smiles faintly as he hands his off. Till at least has enough composure to return it before escaping to the safety of the kitchen.