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Footsteps sound from the doorway on the other side of the room to the couch where Nezumi is lying, freshly awoken from his nap. Lazily opening his eyes, he’s met with the sight of Shion looking down at him, arms crossed.
“You’ve got that look on your face.” He says wearily. Shion blinks.
“What look?”
“The one that tells me you’ve got another ridiculous idea and you’re going to rope me into helping you with it.” He murmurs, shutting his eyes and throwing his arm over his face.
Shion pouts.
“It’s only baking.”
Nezumi lifts his arm, peering at Shion from underneath it.
“Isn’t that Karan’s thing?” He asks. Shion’s face lights up with a sly smile, and Nezumi knows he’s said the wrong thing.
“Mum is taking the afternoon off today! She only agreed to it because I promised her we’d take over. So we really can’t let her down… she hasn’t had a break in so long.”
Nezumi contains the sigh building up inside him, instead pulling himself up on the couch and giving Shion a long look.
“Can’t you do it by yourself?” He enquires. Shion’s confident gaze falters, his expression switching to slightly crestfallen. Something stabs at Nezumi. Shion tries to shrug it off, mumbling a disheartened affirmative in reply.
“I guess.”
Nezumi swallows another sigh and wonders when he became so susceptible to any dejection shown in Shion’s face. He stands up slowly, reaching out to fluff Shion’s hair.
“Fine. You’d probably burn the house down if you were by yourself anyway.”
Shion stares at Nezumi blankly at first, before beaming at him and grabbing his hand, pulling him into the kitchen while chattering excitedly about what recipes they were going to try. Nezumi nods along, wishing he could stop seeing the fondness he felt for Shion as a weakness and the hand around his as a trap.
Shion sets down the metal bowl with a decisive clunk, then puts his hands on his hips and stares the kitchen bench in front of him down. He looks endearingly determined, and Nezumi lets his lips pull into a slight smile.
“We’re making cherry cake.” Shion announces to nobody in particular. Nezumi nods, despite Shion having his back turned to him, and walks up beside the other boy.
Shion looks over, surveying Nezumi.
“Have you washed your hands?” He asks. Nezumi inclines his head. Shion furrows his eyebrows, looking Nezumi up and down, searching for the other thing that’s missing, before his face lights up in realization.
“Oh! You don’t have an apron!” He exclaims. He turns to the clothes hanger, pulling off a dark blue apron.
Nezumi deadpans at him.
“I am not wearing an apr-”
“You have to!” Shion cuts in immediately, and they lock into a staring match, Nezumi’s narrowed eyes against Shion’s resolute gaze. His jaw is set stubbornly, the apron hanging out of his proffered hand. Nezumi lasts all of 20 seconds against him, which he considers an achievement, seeing as the look Shion gave was so imploring a locked door would have opened for him. Grudgingly, he reaches out and grabs the apron, pulling it over his head roughly. He ties it around his waist with a careful bow, and then crosses his arms, glaring at Shion.
“Happy?” He snaps. Shion nods, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Alright! Let’s go!” He declares, turning back to the empty bowl. The determination in his eyes has increased tenfold, and Nezumi feels he looks more ready to fight a war than bake a cake.
Shion turns to Nezumi, his strong expression abating into something softer. “Can you grab the flour?”
“Your wish is my command, your Majesty,” Nezumi drawls, giving a small mock bow. Shion rolls his eyes and starts reciting the other ingredients with mechanical rhythm, and Nezumi can’t help but be impressed at his memory. He swings around the kitchen from cupboard to cupboard, grabbing the things Shion requires with as much efficiency as he lists them. They work together well, and soon enough the kitchen bench, once occupied with the metal bowl only, is filled with all the ingredients needed.
Something like eagerness lights up in Shion’s eye, and he grabs the flour, ripping the bag open resolutely.
“Shit!” Nezumi hisses as a cloud of white erupts from the bag, covering them both in a fine layer of flour as white as Shion’s hair. When the cloud settles, Shion is left blinking his eyes in surprise at Nezumi, who’s glaring at him irritably.
“Oh. Oops.” He says, breaking into a sheepish giggle as Nezumi groans, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, oops,” he replies mockingly, but his annoyance is short lasted. Shion has already started measuring out the flour, giving Nezumi no time to be annoyed. Reluctantly, he rolls up his sleeve, reaching for the nearest measuring cup and the bottle of milk, and together, they set to work.
After 34 minutes, two more spills and one impromptu dance around the kitchen, they’re finally pouring the batter into a baking tray. Shion’s face is set in concentration, wholly focused on the task of tipping the cake batter, while Nezumi holds the tray still with bated breath.
As the last few drops of batter flow in, neither of them realize they’re both holding their breath, until Shion sets the bowl down with a loud exhale. Nezumi stares at the filled baking tray in his hands, viewing the brown batter with awed skepticism. He’d become more invested in the cake than he’d first thought, probably half pulled along in Shion’s enthusiasm and his own desire to excel.
Shion’s face appears in his field of vision, grinning and triumphant.
“Well! Come on! Put it in the oven!” He urges Nezumi, who blinks out of his daze and nods.
“This is it.” He states. Shion nods.
“This is it.”
Shion pulls the oven door open, and Nezumi slides in the cake expertly. Shion watches it for a second, before almost slamming the door shut and stepping away from it.
They both watch it expectantly, as if they thought the thirty minutes would pass without them knowing if they looked away, and it takes 2 minutes of silence for Nezumi to break it.
“What now?” He asks, gaze turning to Shion.
Shion hesitates, opening his mouth as if he had something to say, before closing it again. He thinks for a few seconds, before responding.
“We wait.”
They stare at each other some more, before Nezumi shrugs and wanders off to his room. Shion remains where he is, watching Nezumi retreat into the bedroom curiously. Then, he realizes he’s alone, and starts towards the other rooms.
“Wait, aren’t you staying out here with me?”
Shion gets no reply, and he’s almost tempted to leave his post and drag Nezumi back out, but before he can the other boy reemerges, this time with a hairbrush in hand. He offers Shion a half-smile, waving the hairbrush in his direction.
“Time to get that flour out of your hair your Majesty. I’ll even do it for you.” Nezumi says, pulling up a chair for him and for Shion. “I figured I’d need something to do while we wait.”
Shion runs a hand through his hair and watches it come out dusted in white, surprised.
“I totally forgot.” Shion murmurs, embarrassed. Nezumi laughs lightly, ruffling Shion’s hair affectionately. His hand retreats almost immediately, coming out covered in flour as well.
“Of course you did, airhead. That’s why you’ve got me.” He comments dryly, pulling Shion down into a chair. He settles into the chair behind Shion, and starts working out the knots in the soft white locks.
“I think I preferred Your Majesty,” Shion remarks, resisting the urge to turn around and face Nezumi. The other boy flicks him lightly on the head, and he does turn around this time, an indignant glare ready on his face. Nezumi is watching him fondly, a soft smile to match Shion’s glower.
“Sorry, Princess.”
Shion huffs, turning back around with his arms crossed, but the feeling of Nezumi’s hands running through his hair and the even strokes of the brush soon work loose any ill feeling. He relaxes back into the chair and Nezumi’s strong presence, the scent of cherries filling the air.
“Read me a poem, recite me a play.” Shion murmurs. Nezumi scoffs slightly, giving Shion’s head another flick.
“Pick one, don’t be greedy.”
Shion hummed, stretching out on the chair. “Fine. Read me something. Something romantic”
“You always want something romantic.” Nezumi’s voice is soft.
“If you’re just going to argue, then why don’t you pick?” The response has no bite, Shion blinking sleepily and too drowsy to bicker.
Nezumi catches himself before another sigh, and instead starts mouthing the first lines of some British poem, working his way up to an utter than echoed softly around the room.
Two poems later and Nezumi is sure Shion had slipped off to sleep, the peaceful expression on his face almost a rarity nowadays. Nezumi leans back in his hair as well, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. He’s fairly sure that the afternoon shift of the bakery was starting soon, and considering their progress so far, he doubts that they’d be able to keep open the bakery like Karan wanted.
He’d have to apologize to her later, for Shion and himself.
Nezumi doesn’t register that he had slipped off to sleep as well, for when the oven goes off ten minutes later, they both jolt awake, Nezumi immediately on guard and Shion immediately off guard.
Shion takes a few seconds to come to properly, blinking his eyes until his vision focused. The first thing he sees is Nezumi, leant over him with muscles tense, staring at the oven apprehensively. Reaching up a hand, he pokes Nezumi in the forehead, making his head snap down to stare at Shion.
He smiles up at Nezumi, and the dark haired boy relaxes with an exhale.
“Cake’s ready.” Nezumi says offhandedly. Shion mutters in agreement, standing up out of his chair and stretching out his arms. Then, he turns to face Nezumi with a grin.
“Are you ready?” He asks. Nezumi rolls his eyes.
“I doubt a cake is going to kill me. Well, unless you poisoned it somehow, which isn’t all that unlikely.”
Shion gives Nezumi a light shove, turning up his chin and marching towards the oven. He pauses, apprehensive, and then closes his eyes and places his hands on the door handle.
He pulls it open, and Nezumi is there, oven mitts at the ready, and soon enough the cake is in hand. He places it down on the benchtop carefully, and they both step back and study it. The room is silent, apart from a nervous swallow from Shion.
“It’s a little lumpy...” he ventures.
“Could’ve used some more milk, it looks awfully dry.” Nezumi replies, equally as hesitant.
“Maybe we put too many cherries in as well...” Shion says, musing. His face clears, and he shrugs. “Oh well!”
Nezumi turns to Shion at the happy outburst, eyebrows raised at the grin on his face.
“You look pretty happy for such an ugly cake.” Nezumi says, only half joking. Shion turns to him, grabbing his hands and clasping them together with an exhilarated laugh.
“It’s perfect.” Shion breathes.
Nezumi looks down at it.
“It is?” He says, questioning. Shion nods furiously, releasing Nezumi’s hands.
“Of course it is! It’s the first thing we’ve ever made together, and even if it tastes like dry cardboard, it’ll still be perfect to me.” Shion’s eyes are shining triumphantly, and Nezumi is taken in by Shion’s enthusiasm. He cracks a smile, shrugging.
“I guess it’s pretty damn good for a first attempt.” He concedes. Shion nods along happily, pulling Nezumi towards the fridge, where he pulls out a bowl of icing. Nezumi stares at it.
“I made it this morning.” Shion tells Nezumi, who was just about to ask. “Come on, let’s make this cake less ugly then!” He goes on to declare brightly, and Nezumi nods in response.
He slides over to Shion, dipping a finger into the icing and licking it off, murmuring his approval.
“Alright, but only if I don’t eat it all first.” He teases, reaching for another dip. Shion slaps his hand away, eyes narrowed.
“Don’t you dare, we have to have something to show for when Mum gets back.”
Nezumi nurses his hand, nodding in defeat.
“Fine then Captain, where do you want me?” He says, mock saluting.
Shion rolls his eyes, waving a hand in Nezumi’s direction.
“Go get me a knife. Also, be more consistent in your nicknames, I can barely keep up.” Shion orders, preoccupied with sliding the cake out of its tray.
Nezumi laughs softly, and replies with “Sir yes sir!”, weaving his way towards the cabinets. He dances around the chairs and milk puddles on the ground, and maybe, finds a strange sort of freedom in the domesticity of it all.