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“Let’s bake a cake!”
Mu Qing snorts heartily, with a vigorous eye roll. Hua Cheng shoots him a one-eyed glare, standing up to attack him. Xie Lian manages to grab onto his hand and pull him into a sitting position quickly.
“No fighting, it’s okay! Mu Qing, don’t you have any faith in my baking abilities?”
Mu Qing starts laughing, then tries to stop when he catches the hurt look on Xie Lian’s face. “I’m sorry, dianxia. It’s just… you know.”
“I know? Know what?”
Feng Xin pipes up. “Would you like to see… um… the pictures we took last time?”
He starts to pull his phone free from the pockets of his khakis, but Hua Cheng hurls a pillow at him, knocking the device to the floor.
“Hey! Fafa, what the fuck?!”
“I’ll eat it, gege,” Hua Cheng says sweetly. Xie Lian looks caught between laughter and tears.
“It isn’t for you guys,” Xie Lian explains.
“Who are you inflicting food poisoning upon?” Mu Qing asks. He looks genuinely concerned.
“Don’t worry about it! And, hey, that’s not nice. If you guys help me, I’m sure it’ll turn out okay… right?” Xie Lian asks, looking hopeful.
Feng Xin doesn’t want to crush his dreams, so he settles for an affirmative nod. “Sure, dianxia. We can try.”
“Sorry, but have you forgotten? Even with all three of us trying our level hardest, nothing comes out well,” Mu Qing insists, refusing to get up even when Hua Cheng saunters to stand in front of him, one hand outstretched to pull him up.
“Be mean to our boyfriend one more time, I dare you,” Hua Cheng challenges. His voice holds no real anger. “Come on. Up you go!”
Reluctantly, Mu Qing takes Hua Cheng’s hand and lets him yank him forward, long silver hair catching the sunlight falling through their apartment window mesmerizingly.
“To the kitchen we go!” Xie Lian chirps, bouncing on the heels of his feet and walking backwards. Feng Xin smiles fondly, following him.
All the while, he mentally prepares himself for the daunting task ahead.
“Oh. I don’t think…” Xie Lian tries to fish the dropped eggshells from the egg white and sugar mixture desperately, the bowl tilting precariously off the side of the counter. Feng Xin’s hand shoots out to steady it. Xie Lian doesn’t seem to notice.
Mu Qing heaves a dramatic sigh. “Give it to me, A’Lian.”
Sheepishly, Xie Lian passes the bowl over to Mu Qing. Expertly, he twirls a pair of chopsticks and sticks them into the batter, pulling out an eggshell fragment. Then another. And another.
“Christ, A’Lian, what did you do?” Mu Qing grumbles, dropping a sixth eggshell piece onto the napkin he laid out. Xie Lian smiles nervously.
“I just cracked and separated the eggs. I didn’t think they would shatter like that.”
“Leave the egg cracking to Feng Xin next time. I’ve made him an expert,” Mu Qing declares. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he pulls the last of the shells from the mixture and hands the bowl back to Xie Lian.
Who promptly gives it to Feng Xin. “You take it. Mu Qing doesn’t trust me anymore.”
“Anymore?” Feng Xinn asks, setting the bowl back on the counter. Stainless steel meets smooth white marble with a cheerful clack!
“You’re right… I don’t think he ever trusted me,” Xie Lian says sadly, leaning against the counter to watch Feng Xin. He cracks the remaining egg open and separates the yolk, letting the whites spill into their mixture. He deposits the yolk into another container, which Hua Cheng takes.
“There, there. We can’t all live up to Mu Qing’s standards. Actually, I don’t think any of us do. Pass me the hand mixer?”
“Talking about me behind my back? That’s not very polite of you, Ju Yang,” Mu Qing snickers as Xie Lian hands Feng Xin the whisk.
“I will fucking hurt you,” Feng Xin answers levelly, setting to work whisking the mixture.
“I’d like to see you try .”
“Would you?”
“No fighting,” Xie Lian interjects peacefully. “San Lang, are you done?”
“Mm,” Hua Cheng hums. “Almost. You?”
“These look stiff enough, right?” Feng Xin asks Xie Lian, picking the hand mixer up and letting Xie Lian study the blend.
“Looks okay to me,” Xie Lian answers. Mu Qing shakes his head and shoves his face between the pair, studying their creation.
“Hm. Passable,” he concedes, retreating to Hua Cheng’s side.
“That’s what I said!” Xie Lian reminds him.
“Just had to make sure. I told you, I don’t trust you two,” Mu Qing says.
“Okay, I’m done. We mix these, right?” Hua Cheng asks.
“Mix? No, fold ,” Mu Qing tells him.
“That’s the fucking pretentious way to say it. Just say mix! It’s the same shit!” Feng Xin shouts.
“No, it’s different! It’s about the motion you use to combine them, you can’t just mix it. What, you wanna use the whisk, too?” Mu Qing snarks.
“You little— so what if I do?”
“I’ll do it!”
All three heads turn to Xie Lian. His smile is innocent.
“I’ll do it. San Lang, pass that to me.”
Hua Cheng wordlessly gives the white-clad man his own bowl. Xie Lian accepts it with a nod and yanks a drawer open to rummage around for a spatula. Without speaking or looking at one another, the entire group shuffles closer to watch Xie Lian.
He scrapes the egg yolk mixture into the egg white mixture and begins to fold it demurely.
And that’s when it happens.
None of them really understand how or when, exactly, all of Xie Lian’s dishes get well and truly fucked up. It seems to just happen, in some curious, magical way that they never grasp but desperately want to understand. So they peer into the bowl, waiting with bated breaths.
In one fold to the next, the entire combination changes from a friendly, normal looking yellowish-white to a vile, almost toxic shade of purple-brown. The shift is instantaneous and almost awe-inspiring.
Mu Qing breaks the silence. “What the actual fuck was that?!”
“How…” Feng Xin is speechless.
“Hm? Oh, my…” Xie Lian says, frowning. “Well… it’ll be okay! Right?”
“Wh— no? ” Mu Qing yelps. “You fucking killed it! How did you kill it?!”
“I— I don’t know!” Xie Lian says, looking panicked now. “You can fix it, right?”
“ No? I don’t… nothing in this world can fix that, A’Lian,” Mu Qing tells him flatly.
“No, no, it’s okay. Let’s just keep going,” Feng Xin cuts in.
“Let me redo it,” Mu Qing pleads.
Hua Cheng sticks his head into the refrigerator and delivers the final blow. “Qing’er, we don’t have any more eggs. Me and A’Xin can go get more, if you really, really want it—”
“No! No, it’s… fine. This is fine…” Mu Qing grits his teeth. “Next step. It’s fine. Fafa, did you cool the espresso?”
Hua Cheng takes the cup out and holds it up to show Mu Qing. “Got it.”
“A’Lian, get the ladyfingers. I’ll help you dunk them. Just… just to make sure,” Mu Qing commands, puffing out a long breath. Hua Cheng gives him a pitying look, brushing a strand of loose silver hair out of his face.
“I’ll mix the amaretto into the espresso,” Feng Xin offers.
“Okay. Don’t fuck it up, I swear to the gods above —”
Xie Lian places a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry for messing it up, Qing’er.”
Mu Qing sighs again, then shakes his head. “It’s okay. Follow my lead on this one, okay?”
Somehow, despite Mu Qing’s watchful gaze and constant guidance, every one of the ladyfingers Xie Lian dipped into the espresso-amaretto combination fell apart. Mu Qing decides against going insane, only picking up the pieces and rearranging them as properly as he can within the dish.
“It looks good,” Hua Cheng says, utterly calm and serious. He fetches the egg and mascarpone mixture and begins to spread it over the first layer of cookies.
“Oh, lord,” Feng Xin breathes, watching the mixture (which appears to have darkened in color) stick to the spatula stubbornly. Hua Cheng gives it a few shakes and smiles.
“You should be able to just… pour it,” Mu Qing says despairingly. Feng Xin laughs.
“It’s okay, gege. You did your best,” Hua Cheng says, finishing his task. He hands the dish over to Mu Qing to line with another layer of ladyfingers.
“Mm. Thank you, San Lang!” Xie Lian sings happily. Mu Qing rolls his eyes teasingly.
“Only A’Lian? Why are we getting neglected?”
“You’re doing great, Qing’er. You too, Feng Xin. I guess.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
Hua Cheng laughs and slings an arm around Feng Xin’s shoulder, dropping a small kiss to his temple. “I’m kidding. You’re doing great too.”
Half an hour later (“Too long!” Mu Qing scolds, “What the hell is going on?!”), the quartet manages to complete the last of the layers.
“Now what?” Xie Lian asks, still looking eager. Mu Qing shoots him a horrified look and Hua Cheng manages to hold back his snicker.
“Now, nothing. Take four steps back, please,” Mu Qing says. “I’m telling A’Xin to wrap it. Who knows what’ll happen to it if you touch it again? Haven’t you done your damage?”
It was true; with each layer they added, the tiramisu managed to look more and more horrifying, from almost-normal to entirely inedible looking.
Even the ladyfingers, dipped in nothing but the mixture that Hua Cheng and Feng Xin had so carefully prepared, had abruptly transformed from plain brown into a murky greenish-black. Mu Qing just barely managed to hold back a gag.
“Well, at least it’s over. I pity whoever has to eat that,” Mu Qing sighs, leaning exhaustively against the kitchen counter. Xie Lian moves closer to snuggle against him, looking guilty.
“Not us. I’m giving it away.”
“To who? And how’s their immune system? Their health insurance plan? Their life insurance policy, if things really go the way I think they will?” Mu Qing snarks, but he places an arm around Xie Lian. Hua Cheng begins to dutifully clear the kitchen, placing used dishes into the sink and wiping down the counter.
“It’s for her birthday,” Xie Lian informs them all. He looks immensely pleased.
Simultaneously, all three of his boyfriends send up a mental prayer on her behalf.