And Therefore Is Wing'd Cupid Painted Blind

Age 24

“So what do you think about this one?” Rogue looks down and sees Sting sliding a newspaper clipping across the table in front of him. He reads over the words on the newspaper and chuckles softly to himself, before his eyes drift back to the book he was previously engrossed in.

“Is this your way of asking me to move in with you?” Rogue asks, not looking over at Sting.

“Well I just thought since I’m always at yours anyway -,” Sting trails off, looking anywhere but at Rogue.

“How are we going to afford it?” He asks Sting who is now sitting forward in his chair anxiously waiting for Rogue’s response.

“With money, duh,” Sting states, leaning back in his chair as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“With whose money? Neither of us have jobs that pay high enough for that.” Rogue flicks his eyes over to Sting before staring back down at the advertisement, studying it closer. “And why do we need three bedrooms and two bathrooms?”

Sting looks down into his coffee mug. “Well we don’t but I just thought it looked nice.”

“It does look nice there’s no doubt about that, we just can’t afford it Sting,” Rogue says, his eyes soft as he looks over at the blonde man. “Perhaps in a few years when we have more money saved, then we’ll see.” He smiles softly; making sure Sting knows that he’s not saying no, just not now.

“Yeah I guess you’re right,” Sting takes a final sip from his coffee and walks over to the sink putting it in and grabbing his jacket off the bench. He walks back over to Rogue still sitting at the table and gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to head to work, see you tonight.”

“Have a good day,” Rogue says, as he watches Sting’s back walk out the door.



Sting just wanted to do something nice for Rogue. It’s been tough for him the last few months; he’s had to focus a lot less on his art in order for him to be able to afford his rent. Sting knows just how much the work load is taking out of Rogue; he’s not made to sit behind a desk staring at a computer screen for nine hours a day.

Sting sits in a café on his lunch break holding his black coffee tightly in his hands trying to keep them warm against the cold day. A newspaper sits on the table in front of him open to the home advisements. After Rogue’s words this morning he skips over anything that is anywhere near the size and price of the one he brought up this morning. He flips through the pages lazily, taking small sips for him mug every now and then when he spots it.

That’s it. That’s the one.



It’s a week later and Sting never again mentioned anything about apartments. Rogue wasn’t sure if the guy was hurt because he shut the idea down, but it wasn’t like that, getting an apartment together right now especially one like Sting had found, it was just impossible. It’s not like he doesn’t want to move in with Sting, he wants nothing more, but their current financial position makes it unrealistic. Rogue wants Sting to know that.

It’s times like this when Rogue wishes he was a better cook. Wishes he could make a nice meal for Sting as a way of apologizing. As it stands now Rogue stares down at the ingredients laid out before him with not even the slightest clue of what to make. Sting would say he’s happy with anything but Rogue wants to make something special. Rogue glances up at the clock hanging on the wall realising Sting will be here in just over an hour so he quickly gets to work.



There was something off with Rogue’s apartment when Sting steps inside; he’s immediately hit with the aroma of cooking.

Rogue doesn’t cook.

In fact Rogue is a terrible cook.

Sting moves further cautiously into Rogue’s apartment, he rounds the corner to Rogue’s kitchen and is shocked by what he sees. Rogue stands at the kitchen bench which is covered by more ingredients than he thinks Rogue will ever need. He doesn’t seem to notice his presence.

“Rogue, what are you doing?” Sting speaks up, hoping he doesn’t startle him.

Rogue doesn’t turn around. “Oh Sting, go sit at the table, I’ll be over in a minute.”

Sting raises his eyebrow questionably, though Rogue can’t see it. He sighs quietly still worried about what the man’s up to, but walks over to the table nonetheless. The table is set nicely, two plates lined with knives and forks and tall glasses of water, Sting can’t think of a time when the table hasn’t been littered with takeout boxes when they’ve had dinner together. He sits down and waits patiently for Rogue to join him.

A few minutes later Rogue walks in carrying two large steaming bowls, his hands covered by the heatproof mitts Sting had brought him for his birthday a year ago. He thinks this is the first time they’ve left the safety of the cupboard. Rogue sets the bowls on the table between them carefully and sits down.

“So-,” Sting stares down into the bowls questionably. “What’s all this about?”

Rogue looksup at him, “Do I need a reason to cook for you?”

Sting decides it’s better not to answer that, instead he studies the contents in the bowls. One holds a white chunky substance that he assumes is supposed to be rice. The other looks like a kind of sauce with even bigger chucks, Sting is terrified.

“So ah, what did you cook?” He asks, looking up at Rogue who’s studying his movements. Sting hopes he doesn’t pick up on his nervousness.

“It’s satay chicken and white rice.” Rogue states, as if the answer was obvious.

Sting glances back down into the bowls before looking at Rogue. He gulps, “Why is the satay grey?”

“I don’t know, ask the people who created the recipe.” Rogue says, still staring at Sting.

“Okay, well how about we eat then. It, ah it looks good,” Sting manages to stutter out. He’s not looking forward to this.

He picks up the spoon in the rice bowl and helps himself to a decent serving; the rice is even clumpier now that it sits on Sting’s plate. He then helps himself to the grey chicken, dumping it onto the rice. Rogue never takes his eyes off of him until Sting hands him the so he can get himself some.

Sting stares down at his full plate not exactly sure if he wants to put something that Rogue cooked unsupervised, into his body. But Rogue cooked this for him, so he has to at least try some. He looks up at Rogue and smiles, the man returns it.

“Thank you, Rogue,” He says, taking a deep steadying breath in he lifts a spoonful of the grey chunky slop into his mouth. His eyes widen as his tastebuds are attacked by salt.

“Is it okay?” Rogue asks him from across the table, as Sting swallows the spoonful down.

“Oh it’s fine, just a little salty,” Sting replies, taking a large sip of his water.

Rogue looks confused. “Salty? What? There’s no salt in this Sting. It’s supposed to be sweet.”

Rogue looks down at his own plate deciding whether he should taste it himself or not. He decides to, lifting a spoonful to his mouth and chews. Immediately his own tastebuds are overwhelmed by salt, he chews and swallows quickly in an attempt to get rid of the vile taste.

“Did you follow the steps?” Sting asks looking at Rogue with a slightly amused expression.

“I followed it all word for word. I don’t understand what happened,” Rogue sits there, a shocked look on his face as he tries to determine what went wrong.

Sting gets up from the table and walks into the kitchen, his eyes scan over the ingredients on the bench that Rogue has yet to clean up. His eyes land on a certain white packet. He turns it around; it reads SALT in big black letters across the middle. Sting glances around spotting the recipe still sitting on the bench, he reads over it quickly before chuckling to himself seeing were Rogue went wrong. He walks back into the other room with a large grin on his face; Rogue is still sitting looking at the food as if it will tell him what he did wrong. Sting walks up behind him and leans down to whisper in his ear.
“You put salt instead of sugar in it babe.”

Rogue twists around looking at Sting with a horrified expression. “Holy shit, there’s half a cup of salt in this.”

Sting can no longer contain his laughter as he grabs his stomach and doubles over letting his voice fill the room. Rogue stares at him wondering what he can do to fix this; he can’t believe he screwed this up. “Sting I’m so sorry.”

Sting straightens up to look at him, small chuckles still escaping his lips. “Why did you do this?”

Rogue looks at him, hoping everything will still be okay. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Well if you wanted to do something nice, then you shouldn’t have cooked.” Sting says, laughing again.

“I wanted to apologise for upsetting you.” Rogue says, eyes drifting down to look at his lap.

Sting stops laughing immediately, he takes a step over to Rogue and kneels down in front of him. “Upsetting me? What?”

“You never brought up the apartment again after I shot down the idea the first time.” Rogue says sadly, still looking at his lap.

“Rogue what are you talking about? I’m not upset.” Sting says, grabbing hold of one of Rouge’s hands gently.

“You’re not?” Rogue asks shocked, lifting his head up to look at Sting.

“Of course not. I understand why you said no. We don’t have the money for it.”

“Well now I just feel stupid.” Sting stares at him, wondering what he means. “I thought when I said no you took it to mean that I didn’t want to move in with you, which is in no way true. I did this because I wanted to make it up to you.”

Sting pulls Rogue into a hug, neither of them caring about how awkward it was from this angle. “I was never mad at you, Roguie. You can be so dramatic sometimes.”

Rogue chuckles as he holds Sting, glad that everything is still fine between them.

“Do you think we can order some food, I’m starving?” Sting asks after a moment.

Rogue scoffs, pushing Sting away from him. “Way to ruin the mood, idiot.” He walks into the kitchen to get his phone. Leaving Sting sitting on the floor with a grin stretched across his face.

When Rogue comes back into the room having ordered their food he notices Sting staring at him intently. “What?”

“I’m taking you somewhere tomorrow.” He answers.

“Ah okay,” Rogue says taking his seat again, he isn’t sure if he should be worried due to Sting’s sudden seriousness. But he pushes it to the back of his mind when Sting sits there once again grinning like an idiot.