Title: Queer as Toast

Author: Silverkitsune

Pairings: Michael/ Ben. Ted/OC. Hunter. Patrick Kim is my own creation.

Rating: PG (language)

Spoilers: Season five spoilers

Part 1

Feeling frustrated and useless, Michael brushed a few strands of brownish blond hair off of his son's damp forehead. Hunter lay on his bed, curled in the fetal position his arms crossed protectively over his stomach.

"Dude, you suck," the teenager moaned. "You suck so much."

Holding back a response, Michael laid a cold, damp washcloth over Hunter's forehead, and gave his shoulders a rub.

"I left the garbage can next to your bed in case you need to throw up again," Michael said. "I'm going to go check on Ben. I'll be right back with something to calm your stomach down."

Hunter whimpered in response as another round of cramps hit him.

Feeling as though he'd just kicked a kitten, Michael pounded down the stairs, taking a quick detour to the kitchen before heading to their first floor bathroom. Pushing the door open, he found Ben on his knees in front of the porcelain bowl looking pale. Kneeling down next to him, Michael handed him the can of ginger ale he'd grabbed from the fridge.

"Drink that it'll help," he said, his free hand hovering uncertainly over Ben's back and shoulders.

"Thanks baby," Ben said giving Michael a wane smile. Michael returned the smile, his own just as weak.

"Guess this is the last time I cook."

Ben shook his head. "Ahh, no I wouldn't say that you should never-" his face went a rather unhealthy hue of green. "You may want to leave."

"Call me if you need anything," Michael said backpedaling quickly towards the door.

Sighing, Michael turned away from the sound of his husband losing his dinner, and he would bet the majority of his lunch, and made his way back to Hunter's room.

"I feel awful," Michael moaned the next morning. He quickened his stride in order to keep up with Ted's longer legs as the two traveled down Liberty Avenue on their way to the gym. "The two of them were sick all night! Ben called into work since he didn't get any sleep, and I let Hunter say home from school."

"Well Michael, cooking never has been your strong suit," Ted said, sliding a sympathetic arm around his friend's shoulders. A good move since Michael had buried his face in his hands.

"Ted, I could have killed them!"

"If it was your night to take care of dinner why didn't you just order Chinese or pizza?" Ted asked shepherding Michael across one of the busier intersections.

"Because it was Tuna Helper, Ted. Tuna fucking Helper. I thought it would be impossible to fuck up Tuna Helper. It's like making macaroni and cheese. All you have to do is cook the noodles, add tuna, throw in milk, butter and that little packet of flavoring they give you and bam dinner."

"Ben will eat Tuna Helper?" Ted asked sidestepping a used condom.

"Not normally," Michael responded, finally looking up, guilt etched on every line in his face. "There are instructions on the back that say it will make the meal healthier, but they don't really work. I think Ben only ate it because I sort of announced that I'd actually cooked it instead of bringing something home from the diner."

"What did you add that made them get so sick?"

"I don't know," Michael said. "I don't know what to do. I can't expect Ben to take care of dinner every night, but I can't just order take out every time it's my turn to make dinner. It's too unhealthy."

Nodding sympathetically, Ted stopped in the doorway of the gym fishing his pass out from his pockets.

"Michael, if you want to make sure it never happens again, you can do one of two things. You could ask your mother to give you cooking lessons-" Michael's eyes widened in terror. "Or take a cooking class. The community college offers them. If you want, I'll sign up with you and we can go together."

Michael looked thoughtful. "That sounds like it could work." He paused. "But you already know how to cook."

Ted shrugged. "Never hurts to brush up on the simpler dishes. I might learn something new."

"Alright," Michael said. "I'll do it, but you have to promise you won't tell Ben, or Hunter, or Brian, or my mother, or Emmett, or-"

Ted gave Michael a peck on the cheek.

"Your secret's safe with me."

"Ben? Ben, I can't hear you. Your connection's going out. Ben? Yeah, there's bad reception on my- What? I don't know. Um, a tower must be down or- What? I can't hear you. Right, home. Um, around- I said I'll be home around-. Hello? Ben? I'm going to hang up. What? Yeah, I love- What? Ben I'm hanging up. Bye."

Thursday night found Michael on the front steps of Harris Community College, trying to convince his husband that he was having cell phone issues. It had been years since he'd done something like that, but he was pleased to see he still knew all the tricks of the trade. Make fake static noises, regulate pulling the phone away from your ear, and then bringing it closer, shout "what" more than a few times. It was just like being 17 again.

Ted stood next to him looking baffled. "Why did you just do that?"

Michael flushed. "I don't want Ben to know I'm doing this, but I couldn't think of a good excuse for why I would be gone all night."

"Why don't you want him to know?"

"I don't know. This is just sort of embarrassing."

"What are you going to tell him next week?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I get to it."

The room that was to be their classroom for the next few weeks reminded Michael of the home ec department he'd frequented back in high school. There were a total of seven stations scattered across the room, each equip with an oven, cooking counter top, two stools, sink and cabinets filled with what Michael guessed would be supplies. Each were evenly spaced from one another, except for the one in the front of the room that the teacher would be using. There were two large refrigerators in the back of the room that everyone would be sharing.

Grabbing the first open station, Michael draped his coat over one of the stools. Leaning against the counter he crossed his arms over his chest, and watched the slow trickle of people as they entered the room. Had he been facing the other direction, Michael would have seen a very different scenario.

Ted, much like Michael, had draped his coat over the extra stool. However, instead of turning to watch the incoming students, Ted had focused his attention on the handful of students of all ages who were setting up shop at each station. Casually, his eyes jumped from one face to another. When one of the faces he jumped to caught his eye and smiled warmly at him, Ted smiled back. When the friendly smile started to make his way over, Ted began to wonder if he'd woken up in the right universe that morning.

The man looked to be in his late 30s. The friendly brown eyes that held his were set in a face that was clearly Asian in heritage. Korean perhaps. He had to be at least six feet tall, and his black hair was cut short and close to his skull. He grasped Ted's hand in a firm handshake as he gave his name.

"Hi, I'm Patrick Kim."

"Ted. Ted Schmidt."

"Nice to meet you Ted. First time in a cooking class?"

Ted smiled. "No. I'm actually a pretty good cook, but I told a friend of mine I'd sign up with him for moral support." He nodded in Michael's direction. "You?"

"Oh, I've been in a few cooking classes here and there."

"If you want, you could join up with our station," Ted offered. "Four hands are better than two in the kitchen."

"Among other places." Patrick said with a grin.

Ted swallowed. "Um-yeah. And I, well I'm pretty good –with my hands that is."

"I wouldn't doubt it. I'd love to share the space with you Ted," Patrick said. "But I'm actually your teacher, and they gave me my own big space at the front. Don't worry though; I'll be keeping my eye on you. I have to make sure you don't upstage me."

Happily, Ted smiled after Patrick's retreating back.

Once he'd reached the front station, Patrick pulled a long red apron over his clothing.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," he said in a loud clear voice. "My name is Patrick Kim, and I'll be your instructor for the next few weeks. I have a firm belief in that the best way to learn something is to do it, so tonight we're going to jump right in. Now don't panic just yet this dish is a simple one; spaghetti and marinara sauce along with some meatballs. There should be an apron in the bottom cabinet of everyone's station. Pull them on and let's begin.

Retrieving his own dark green apron from the bottom cabinet, Michael pulled the loop over his head, tied the sash around his waist and took a deep breath.

It was ten o'clock when Ben finally heard Michael's key slide into the lock. He was in their living room, the last few moments of an old cinematic favorite drifting across the T.V. screen. Hunter was fast asleep in the large easy chair in the corner.

"I missed the monthly viewing of Singing in the Rain," Michael said, dropping his keys onto the coffee table and collapsing next to Ben.

Ben slid his arm across Michael's shoulders. "I keep thinking that he's got to get sick of it eventually. That one day I'll come in and he'll be watching Rocky or at least a different musical."

Michael shrugged. "He fell asleep before the ending. That's progress. Before he'd watch the whole thing and then start the DVD over again."

"That's our kid." Ben smiled. He leaned in to nuzzle Michael's neck, but stopped half way between his starting point and his favorite nuzzling spot. He took a tentative sniff.

"You smell like garlic."

"Really?" Ben could have sworn he head Michael's panic tone surfacing, but it only lasted a moment, and he soon forgot about it. "I was at the store. Big unexpected shipment. I was trying to tell you that when our phones went out. I got a pizza."

"Ahh. Looks like you got some of the sauce on your shirt."

"I thought I got it all!" Michael said pulling the piece of stained fabric away from his body for a better look.

"So what came in?" Ben asked. "New shipment of- Jesus Christ Michael, your hands!"

At least six of Michael's fingers were wrapped in some sort of band-aid, and the palm of his left hand was wrapped in gauze.

"Paper cuts," Michael supplied after following Ben's worried look to his injured fingers. "Really bad fucking paper cuts...from cardboard- of the comics- the boxes the comics came in. The big one is actually form when I tried to move the cardboard cutout of Rage across the room."

Lifting them up for further examination, Ben frowned at the bandages. "You sure did a number on them. Do they hurt?"

"Only a little bit," Michael responded.

"We should probably rewrap the one around your palm. I never knew your job could be a hazard to your health."

"Better mine than yours," Michel mumbled under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing. Hey look! This is where the audience finds out that Debbie Reynolds has been the one singing all along. I love this part."

Michael and Ted had been friends for years. It was a friendship that had been tested by a one-sided infatuation, a drug addiction, a horrible break up, and Brian. By now Michael liked to think that he knew Ted well. Really well. So well, in fact, that there should have been no new information about Ted coming his way. Ted's flirtation with Patrick Kim, however, seemed to be unearthing a whole new pile of information. For instance, he'd never know that Ted and his father used to cook together when he was a kid, that Ted now had a fully equipped kitchen and that he had an amazing variety of herbs and spices sitting in his spice rack that weren't just for decoration, but actually added to any number of dishes on a regular basis. He'd also never known that Ted could turn that particular shade of red after being complimented on the tenderness of his chicken breast.

"Ted," Patrick said. "This is fantastic! You should be helping me teach."

"Oh, well I know a few things here and there," Ted stammered happily. "It helps that I've made it before."

"No, this is great." Patrick said with a shake of his head. "I'm starting to get jealous of your skills with that spatula and I went to culinary school."

Momentarily halting his flirtation with Michael's station partner, Patrick came over to Michael. "How's the sauce coming?"

"It's brown," Michael answered lifting the spoon up and examining the liquid that now coated it. "Very brown."

"Brown?" Patrick replied, his eyebrows furrowing together.

"Yeah, brown. Is it not supposed to be brown?"

"Well…."

"What color is it supposed to be?"

"Orange, but you know what I bet this is orange, just a really dark orange."

Michael frowned. "I may not be able to cook, but I know which colors are which. This is brown. Did I burn it? Is that why it's brown?"

Taking the spoon from Michael's hand, Patrick gave the sauce a stir and took a whiff. "It doesn't smell burnt. What did you put in it?"

"All the stuff you told us to put in it."

"Really? Are you sure that you didn't add too much of anything?"

"I watched him measure everything out," Ted chimed in. "It should be fine."

Patrick's frown deepened. "What are those things floating in it?"

"The things that you told me to put in it," Michael said with frustration. "Remember? I had to dice them, and I cut my finger. Should I not have put them in?"

"No, it's good that you put them in. They just shouldn't be so…visible."

"Maybe it's just how it looks," Michael said hopefully. "Maybe if I taste it, it will be fine."

"Right, you could do that." Patrick paused. "You signed the waiver, right?"