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“Are you… sure it’s supposed to look like that?” Meteor asks, as diplomatically as he possibly can.
Ardbert steps back from the counter in their shared kitchen, crossing his arms over his aproned chest. His brow is creased in clear concentration, his eyes fixated on the lumpy object that sits sadly on the marble countertop. Meteor offers him an apologetic half smile, but Ardbert doesn’t seem to notice it, his attention far too focused on the thing that’s sitting before them.
“Well, I don’t know,” he says, after a moment’s pause. He sounds equal parts frustrated and sheepish about this fact. “It’s not like there were pictures in the damned cookbook.”
Meteor glances at said book where it remains open on the counter. He inches closer to it, leaning forward in an effort to see if he could make out what recipe it was that Ardbert had been trying to make.
It’s a bit too far to read effectively, but from what he can see, he thinks that it’s meant to be a cake.
Seven hells…
Meteor has seen more horrors in his tenure as the Warrior of Light than any one person should see in a lifetime, but he thinks that none can quite compare to the wiggling mass that now sits in his kitchen. Were he in the Void, he’d think it was a Hecteye, most likely–but no, they are securely back in the Source once more, and the only thing that’s dangerous around them is, apparently, Ardbert’s baking skills.
“Did you… follow all of the directions?” Meteor asks. He’s trying not to hurt Ardbert’s feelings, because Nymeia knows the other man has been trying hard since his sudden return to life several moons ago.
This, however, is almost impressively bad. He’s seen children have more success baking cakes. The food item–and he hesitates to call it that, but he feels far too guilty to not afford it at least that moniker–is little more than a soggy pile of melted frosting.
Ardbert huffs. “Aye,” he says, turning to the cookbook now, slapping his hands down on either side of it like pinning it in place with his glare will make it fix the monstrosity he’s created. “Mix the ingredients, pour into the pan, and bake.”
Meteor looks back to the cake. Somehow he thinks it’s not as simple as that.
“And the ingredients?” He presses, scanning through the typical ingredients in a cake through his mind. He’s not a top tier chef either, of course, but his duties as the Warrior of Light are varied, and he’s picked up a decent skill in the culinary arts.
Here Ardbert pauses. He shifts his weight between his feet sheepishly.
“We were out of some things, but that can’t have made that much of a difference…” Ardbert turns, fixing Meteor with what is assuredly the most pathetic expression Meteor has ever seen. “Right?”
He doesn’t really have the heart to tell Ardbert that ingredients, in fact, make all of the difference with a cake, so instead he simply steps forward and rests a hand on Ardbert’s shoulder. He can feel Ardbert deflate under his touch, his shoulders sagging as if the cake failure is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.
It makes Meteor smile, although he can tell that the smile causes Arbert’s embarrassment to increase, his cheeks going red with a faint flush.
“I think… that perhaps we had best throw it away.”
Meteor glances back toward the cake, and Ardbert follows his gaze. They stare at it, as if they’re worried it might sprout extra appendages and fling itself from the counter. With how the thing looks, Meteor wouldn’t be surprised if it did. He thinks Ardbert’s creativity in pouring the batter and slathering on the frosting into that particularly lumpy shape would give even the Ancients a run for their money in the Creation department.
Ardbert steps forward. He reaches out and swipes a finger through the frosting, bringing it to his mouth with what is absolutely a pout.
“At least sugar’s hard to ruin, eh?”
Meteor joins him at his side, but before he can reach for a bit of frosting for himself, Ardbert beats him to it, trailing a finger through the alarmingly gray topping before offering it up to Meteor.
Meteor gently clasps his hand around Ardbert’s wrist, bringing his hand to his lips before slowly–and quite thoroughly–licking the frosting clean. By the time he’s finished, Ardbert is openly gawking at him, the flush of embarrassment replaced now with a different kind of flush.
“I think it’s good,” Meteor says, and Ardbert rolls his eyes.
“Did you even taste it,” he grumbles; but he doesn’t seem to mind, not really, and he pulls Meteor in for a kiss.
(Meteor takes the opportunity while Ardbert is distracted to push the cake, tray and all, into the garbage bin.)