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Flour covers so much of the counters and floor that Dream wonders if any made it into the bowl. He rests with one elbow on the kitchen island, tracing the lines and swirls that pattern the calloused wood with a similarly patterned finger. The sun has started to set, leaving the kitchen in a haze of burnt orange light. Before long he will have to light the candles placed strategically within the little cottage, and when that is done he would do well to start on dinner, but for now he is content just to watch two delicate hands dance across shelves in search of ingredients. One eggshell already lies broken next to the large wooden bowl, dripping remnants of yolk onto the counter and soon another joins it, then another. Dream thinks George has forgotten how many eggs a pumpkin pie needs because he hovers over the half-empty carton for a moment, before deciding to leave it alone.
The breeze blowing through the open window on their right unsettles George’s fringe, and he swipes at the hairs with the back of his hand, smudging a bit of flour onto his forehead. He doesn’t seem to notice and reaches for the butter, feeling for the shape with the tips of his fingers amongst the cluttered counter. The light fades a little more from the room. With a deep breath, Dream pushes himself up from his seat and wanders away from the kitchen. He finds the box of matches on top of the fireplace, just where he left them the previous evening. George’s home hidden beneath a hill is the definition of an organised mess, a wonderful jumble that no one but the two of them could navigate so easily. After using a match to light the long candle they keep on the mantel, Dream replaces the box where he found it so that he may use it again tomorrow and begins to move about the room, lighting the rest of the candles with the first. The metal candle holder catches any dripping wax as little dots of light begin to fill the space, and Dream listens to the light scrapes and stirs as George continues to craft what will hopefully be their dessert.
By the time the sun has fully disappeared, the room is well lit with a different, but no less warm, orange light. It is just as Dream is returning the first candle to its place next to the matches that he hears his name called from the kitchen. George is pouting, he isn’t tall enough to reach the cinnamon from where Dream last placed it on the top shelf. It is the last ingredient to the pie, and as tempting as it is for Dream to be a nuisance and deny George that which he wants most, Dream decides to be kind and plucks the seasoning from the shelf without a fuss, handing it to his beloved with a kiss on the cheek. George’s face turns a flushed pink, visible even in the dim lighting, but he makes no response, not even a thank you for the cinnamon. Instead he turns back to his bowl, sprinkling a teaspoon of the light brown powder over it.
He continues to not respond when Dream wraps his arms around his waist, leaning forward to rest his chin on George’s shoulder. It’s a bit of a hassle to get the mixture into a tin and that tin into the oven when he has a person attached to his back, but George doesn’t say anything about it. When he finally does speak, it’s to ask Dream if he’ll stay after dinner. He knows what the answer will be. He still asks every night because maybe, just maybe, one night Dream will tell him things have changed. That he doesn’t have somewhere else to be, someone else’s bed to return to. Tonight isn’t that night, so George just holds the arms around his stomach a little tighter. Neither of them let go until the little egg timer sitting between the dirty spoons and discarded shells and empty bottles and flour covered surface goes off with a startling ring. The pie is done.