Chapter Text
The dormitory kitchen was too small, the knives were dull, and the butter was different from the butter at home, but it was still the closest thing Francis had found to peace in England.
He had already peeled the apples before Arthur arrived. Thin curls of peel sat in a bowl beside the sink, and the room smelled faintly of cinnamon from the spice tin he'd left open on the counter. Rain tapped against the little window above the sink, turning the courtyard outside into a blur of dark stone and yellow light.
The door opened behind him.
"You're doing it again," Arthur said.
Francis looked over his shoulder. "Good evening to you too."
Arthur set his books down on the nearest chair and walked over to the counter. His eyes immediately landed on the pile of ingredients.
"Where's the recipe?"
Francis stared at him for a second. "In my head."
Arthur frowned. "That's not a recipe."
"It's worked so far."
Arthur looked unconvinced. He picked up the flour bag and turned it over as though a hidden set of instructions might be printed on the bottom.
"How much are you using?"
Francis shrugged. "Enough."
Arthur closed his eyes briefly.
"That's not a quantity."
Francis cut the apples into the bowl, added sugar by eye, then reached for the cinnamon. The warm smell rose immediately, familiar enough to make his chest ache a little. At home his grandmother would have swatted his hand and told him to use more. She believed most problems could be improved with additional butter and cinnamon.
Arthur watched him sprinkle the spice over the apples.
"You didn't measure that either."
"I looked at it."
"That's not measuring."
Francis mixed the apples with his hands, turning the slices until they glistened with sugar and cinnamon. "It's exactly measuring. I'm measuring with my eyes."
"Your eyes are unreliable."
"My eyes have made excellent desserts for years."
Arthur folded his arms. "That's anecdotal evidence."
Francis laughed. "You sound like a textbook."
Arthur ignored that and pointed at the bowl. "What if it's too sweet?"
"Then I add more apples."
"What if it's too dry?"
"Then I add butter."
"What if—"
"Arthur." Francis set the bowl down and looked at him. "Has anyone ever told you that cooking is allowed to be fun?"
"Fun usually involves fewer variables."
That sounded so sincerely Arthur that Francis had to bite back another laugh. He instead handed Arthur a slice of apple coated in cinnamon and sugar. "Taste it."
Arthur accepted it with obvious suspicion. He chewed slowly, frowning in concentration as though the apple had presented him with a difficult exam question.
Francis watched him think about cinnamon—the realization was unexpectedly adorable.
Arthur swallowed. "It needs a little more sugar."
"How much?" Francis asked innocently.
Arthur reached for the sugar bowl. "About half a tablespoon."
Francis grinned. "And suddenly we're cooking together."
Arthur stopped with the spoon halfway to the bowl. "I'm correcting your mistakes."
"Of course you are."
Arthur added the sugar with the kind of precision that suggested he was performing surgery. Francis added another small pinch of cinnamon while Arthur wasn't looking.
Arthur noticed immediately.
"What was that?"
"Nothing important."
"You added more cinnamon."
"Did I?" Francis said, already reaching for the oats.
Arthur stared at him in disbelief while Francis mixed the topping with his fingers, rubbing butter into the flour until it felt right. He couldn't have explained the exact texture if someone asked. He just knew. The mixture stopped feeling like separate ingredients and started feeling like crumble.
Arthur watched him for a moment before asking, "How do you know when it's ready?"
Francis looked down at the bowl, squeezed a handful of the mixture, and let it fall back through his fingers.
"It tells me."
Arthur made the same expression he usually made when a teacher assigned a group project.
"Ingredients don't talk."
"Maybe they just don't like you."
Arthur's glare should have been intimidating. It lost some of its effect because he was still holding a measuring spoon like a tiny weapon.
Francis smiled and reached past him for the baking dish. The kitchen felt warmer now, the windows fogging from the oven heat, the smell of apples and cinnamon filling the room.
For the first time all day, England didn't feel quite so far away.
Arthur stood beside him, arguing about tablespoon measurements while the rain battered the windows, and somehow that had become one of Francis's favorite sounds in the world.
He decided not to mention that part.