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It starts at midnight with Rafayel clicking on a link and then another and another, hopping from one blog to another.
“For inspiration!” He shouts over to Zayne who is doing the dishes after letting them sit for five hours. They’d been playing a game of who could tolerate the dirty dishes longer and, of course, Zayne lost. They do this every weekend.
“You know what’s good for inspiration? A clean kitchen.”
He’s right about that, Rafayel looks up from his screen and beams at him. “Thanks, Doctor. You’re doing such a good job.”
Zayne sighs and shakes his head with the barest hint of annoyance but smiles fondly. He’s almost done anyways, but it had to be said. Since it’s the weekend and he got days off he wants to laze, to let someone else do the cleaning. Naturally, Rafayel is the same way. Besides, since they are at Zayne’s place this week, if they let the dishes sit until Monday he’ll end up washing them anyways.
Rafayel has his face two inches away from the computer screen when Zayne comes over after finishing up. He barely acknowledges Zayne when he rests himself against the arm of the chair.
“These look so good…”
“Yes,” Zayne answers tentatively as he eyes the never ending column of cupcake photos and corresponding recipes.
“Zayne.”
“No.”
“Let’s make cupcakes tomorrow.” He turns to Zayne and smiles, batting his eyes ridiculously as if it’ll make a difference.
And then it’s midnight, it’s Saturday; here is the weekend.
Zayne likes to bake; his fondness for sweets motivates his interest in baking and he prefers to do it on his days off or when Rafayel isn’t over because he needs to focus when he’s baking, and Rafayel is distracting. (Or maybe it’s the other way around.)
They head to the supermarket after breakfast, after Rafayel has won him over with egg dumplings and fresh rice that Zayne can never be bothered to make in the morning. Zayne promises to make fried rice balls for Rafayel to sweeten the deal.
“And you’ll clean the kitchen after we’re done?”
“I’ll clean the kitchen.”
Zayne never stood a chance. He smiles, slowly, it spreads like oil on a pan. So even though it looks a little bit smug, Rafayel can’t find a good reason to not kiss him.
The supermarket is a short walk away. There are plenty of eggs and milk and flour at Zayne’s place but they’re missing a few things and Rafayel insists they need, raspberries and sour cream and chocolate hazelnut spread.
“What, why?”
“Because you have fresh bread at home.”
It’s impossible to go to the supermarket for one thing. Rafayel drops a few things into the basket as they make their way through. Since they’re here already, might as well browse and make the most of it. It makes sense and it saves Zayne a second trip to the supermarket during the week. The only problem is that Zayne had stupidly taken a basket instead of a cart. By the time they’re browsing through jams and spreads it’s almost overflowing.
They’d just barely made it through a quarter of the store and the basket is seriously weighing Zayne down. He sets it down next to Rafayel and shakes his wrist out a bit.
“I’ll go get a cart, just wait here.”
“No, I’m done! We can go home,” Rafayel stops him before he can take more than one step. He takes one of the handles and looks at Zayne expectantly until he takes the other one. They don’t even set the basket down as they’re waiting in line. (It’s close enough to holding hands.)
They make it back to Zayne’s place after the supermarket and after grabbing food to eat in. They make it back inside after Rafayel hands Zayne his bags so he can search Zayne’s pockets for his keys. Zayne squirms through the (too) brief struggle; it’s amazing nothing spilled or dropped.
He wonders if it’s something worrying that a trip the supermarket and a few tickles and a belly full of warm food is all it takes for him to feel lazy. It doesn’t take anything more than that to make Zayne want to set all the things they bought aside, wrap his arms around Rafayel and lie around, Rafayel’s warm back against his chest.
But then it’s like this every weekend. (Every weekend Rafayel stays over.)
“Do we have to make them now?”
“You said we would.”
Zayne reaches out to tug at Rafayel’s cheeks. “I don’t feel inspired.”
“Then it’s a good thing we have a recipe.”
Rafayel wins, he always does (though Zayne supposes he never really, really loses).
They both have their hair pushed back in a bunny and a cat ears headbands, as Zayne ties Rafayel’s apron for him, just because. Rafayel claps his hands together and pumps his fist, ready to jump right into things, crack eggs, and whip everything together in no particular order. Zayne can’t really stand to watch him work with the wet ingredients
“Wait,” Zayne commands, arranging Rafayel to stand aside and out of his way. He carefully measures out the dry ingredients, eases them carefully into separate containers, and lines them up, displayed so neatly Rafayel thinks he’s live in a cooking show.
“Sift it together,” Zayne tell him, before he moves away with everything else.
Rafayel is good at cooking, actual food; stuff not cakes and pastries, things that he can change impulsively and without consequence as he makes them. It’s his art, like splatters of bright colour on a canvas but his canvas is a plate and his paint is food. And maybe baking is like that too, but baking is also a science and Zayne is meticulous.
“I’m done,” Rafayel tells Zayne, drops his chin on Zayne’s broad shoulder and peeks around him. The electric mixer is whirring as Zayne cracks his eggs and measures out the sour cream and vanilla.
He turns just a little, enough to touch his lips to Rafayel’s nose. “Okay, now wait.”
It’s an easy recipe, so it’s fine if he’s a little distracted.
And Rafayel is too, distracted. He kisses Zayne with one eye fixed on the butter and sugar.
“Is it fluffy yet?”
“Wait.”
Bake at 175°C for 20 minutes, the over light is on so that Rafayel can peer in periodically to watch the cupcakes rise from runny to cakey. Rafayel drops the bowls and dishes into the sink but keeps a spatula, alternating between licking it and trying to get Zayne to.
Zayne dodges the drippy spatula as he works on the frosting until Rafayel lands a raw batter kiss on his cheek, it’s sticky and it’s sweet.
The consistency of the frosting is about right and the cupcakes would be done in another five minutes; he’s been distracted long enough. He sets the bowl down and wipes his cheek and he smiles. Slow, like drizzling honey, it’s a little smug but Rafayel is grinning right back when Zayne pins him to the counter and kisses him properly.
It’s sticky and sweet. Zayne doesn’t really like uncooked batter but Rafayel’s lips are soft and warm so he puts up with it for now. It gets all over his lips and on his cheeks and chin. He pulls back before Rafayel can get it on his neck.
“Gross.”
“Are you calling me gross?”
“Yes,” Zayne tells him with a laugh, and that earns him a sharp nip at his jaw.
His arms are around Rafayel’s waist, and if the oven timer did not go off just then he would have slipped his fingers under the apron and under his shirt. He would have anyways if Rafayel didn’t have his mind on something else, something warm and soft and sweet.
“Oh! They’re ready.”
“Oven mitts, Rafayel.”
They need to cool before they can top them with frosting but Rafayel is happy with the little yellow cupcakes dotted with fat raspberries. They’re way too hot, Rafayel’s solution is to pass the cupcake from one hand to the other, almost juggling it while Zayne just quirks an eyebrow at him.
Zayne doesn’t tell him to wait.
Rafayel peels the paper down and takes a bite, almost hissing and probably burning his mouth a bit.
“So good,” His mouth is probably too full to form a longer sentence so he just goes for a group hug: him, Zayne, and the cupcake.
“I love you.”
Zayne chuckles, gets his arms all the way around Rafayel again. “You love the cupcake.”
“No, Zayne. I love you.”
“You have my heart as well.”
It’s 4 PM when they finish icing the cupcakes, Rafayel promptly picks one up to take a picture and pulls Zayne into it too before wandering off to slowly enjoy it on the couch.
He posts the photo on Moment and writes just two words underneath.
six months
Zayne drops his head into Rafayel’s lap and beams up at him.
“What’s for dinner?”
Rafayel smirks and feeds him a bite of cupcake without frosting. “Me.”