Sasquatch to the Moon

17: Mall-Stock Jeans Hate Club

preface: this is 5k words. twice as long as normal

preface 2: i haven't been diagnosed with adhd, I've only done research, if any of this is wrong, offensive, or right-out stereotypical in a bad way, TELL ME for the love of god I do not want this to be a 'she's spreading misinformation!!!!! On purpose!!!' thing. Again, I haven't been diagnosed with adhd. I don't know what it's like so this is what I've gathered from friends that have been diagnosed as well as quite the large amount of internet researching. 

other than that, enjoy some odd fluff and funky communication

-rabid

edit on april 9th - information change

edit on april 9th - literally the same thing I missed something the first time around lmao

ROCKET

We wake up just past one the next day. I still feel like I've got cotton in my head and up my nose but that's a drawback of crying for two hours.

Håkon, in the same exhausted state as I am, manages to coax both of us out of bed before one to eat breakfast, more like lunch, and then maybe get some time in at the rink.

"You slept like a rock," he mumbles, stretching up toward the ceiling and joining me at the stove. "I didn't hear a single thing come out of you."

I wiggle the hair band off my wrist and pull back the top of my hair. "Maybe you slept heavy too, you could've slept through it."

He smiles, reaching over me to grab the egg carton. In a few short moves, he's able to crack two eggs into the skillet.

"The way you make your eggs is going to send you to hell." I mumble, bumping his hip with mine. "It's not the being gay thing, that's not gonna do it for the judgement, it's this." I gesture at him adding milk and pepper to his eggs already sizzling in the pan before he starts whipping them with a fork.

"Hm," he glances over at me. "And how do you make your eggs? That's right. Fried, like a demon."

"Fried eggs are the single best way to eat them, you cannot argue with me." I let the butter slide and melt along the pan, too much makes the edges of the egg crispy and too little makes it stick. It's gotta be perfect. Next, I crack my two eggs into the pan making sure that they blend on one corner. I watch the bottoms slowly turn white until I feel comfortable flipping in the sides with my spatula to make them smaller.

"Hm, but," he mumbles over his focus. "They get all icky and crispy on the bottom, that's the worst way to eat eggs. Especially the way you cook them, the centers are all gooey."

I gasp, turning to him. "You don't like runny yolk? I'm going to break up with you, fuck whatever that was last night, this is a dealbreaker."

He mocks offense. "Excuse me, I was just wondering why the hell you like it when the egg isn't cooked all the way."

"And you like it when the yolk is all dry and chalky?"

"No, it's gotta be slightly under that, but you? No no no absolutely not." He waves his hand toward my skillet, watching his eggs closely to make sure they don't overcook. Normally in the mornings we're too tired to be talking to each other over cooking but apparently it being 2:00 has put some pep in our just-woken-up dynamic.

He puts the fork in his mouth and adds pepper and salt, then some cheese before flipping his eggs onto a plate. "Done, and where are you in the process? Halfway. Bingo. More efficient."

"Get-" I hook my ankle around his knee and pull him back toward me. "Get back here you big stupid bloke." I reach up and hook a finger around his collar, kissing his nose. "You're lucky I love you."