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Scott and Wallace’s apartment smelled like butter, garlic, and dough. The oven hummed relatively quietly in the corner, its heat battling the December cold seeping through the not-quite-closed windows. Scott sat in front of the oven in a flour-dusted shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, intensely watching the bread cook. He had been helping Wallace tie the dough into a loose knot, but felt drawn to the oven’s light and the rising of the bread. Wallace leaned back against the fridge, glass of red wine in one hand and an oven mitt awkwardly hanging off the other.
“Having fun there?” Wallace asked, raising a brow at Scott’s staring contest with the oven. The dough was twisted in odd ways, not quite as uniform as the two of them would have liked.
“Yes.”
“Oh?”
“I want to see the pretzel bites get, like, bigger and junk.”
Wallace took a sip of wine. “Those don’t look like pretzel bites.”
“They’re pretzel bites,” Scott insisted, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Except not bitten yet. You’ll see.”
“Not if you keep mangling them,” Wallace sighed.
Scott scowled but didn’t look away from the oven. He tapped the glass door lightly, as if encouraging the dough to hurry up. Wallace smirked and after setting his glass down, stepped closer.
“Alright, dough whisperer, move over,” Wallace nudged Scott with his bare knee (he was pantsless as usual). “I need to check these before you make another sad knot.”
Scott scooted aside. He still crouched on the floor, but made just enough space for Wallace to kneel and peer into the oven.
“Not bad,” Wallace admitted, inspecting the golden hue starting to form. “But next time, let me tie the dough. You were supposed to help, not sabotage.”
Scott made a face.
“It’s rustic.”
“I can’t believe you know that word. And no, it’s lumpy,” Wallace stood back up. “Come one. You can obsess over your little dough babies later. We still need the dipping sauce.”
Scott reluctantly pulled himself away from the oven and trailed Wallace to the counter. The latter had already lined up the ingredients: cheese, mustard, and spices—all three neatly arranged in bowls. Immediately, Scott picked up the mustard and sniffed it.
“Don’t eat that yet,” Wallace warned, grabbing it out of his boyfriend’s hands. “Focus. Cheese sauce first.”
“You’re so bossy…” Scott muttered but reached for the shredded cheese anyway.
“And you love it, guy!”
They worked in rhythmic tandem, Wallace stirring the sauce while Scott grated more cheese and occasionally snuck bites when Wallace wasn’t looking. The oven timer dinged just as the sauce thickened, and Scott practically lunged to pull the tray out.
Scott yelped, nearly dropping the tray and fumbling for the oven mitt that Wallace had discarded earlier.
Wallace rolled his eyes, slipped on the oven mitt, and calmly slid the tray out.
“You’re hopeless.”
Scott ignored him, wide-eyed at the golden pretzels.
“They look awesome.
“Told you. Not bad for lumps.”
The two of them carried the food to the center of their living space, cheese sauce balanced precariously between them. Scott flipped on the TV and popped in a DVD copy of the movie Die Hard —apparently it is explosions 101, according to Scott. Wallace didn’t protest, its not like he knew anything about explosions anyways (other than the ones that he had to proactively put out every day thanks to his clumsy boyfriend). They sat tangled in blankets, passing the tray back and forth until the pretzels were gone.
By the time the credits rolled, Scott had fallen asleep with his head on Wallace’s shoulder. Wallace didn’t move, only brushing stray crumbs from Scott’s hair, and letting the warmth of his boyfriend settle in.
Wallace adjusted the blanket over Scott and carefully reached for the remote. He muted the TV and glanced down at the pretzel tray, now holding only crumbs and a few sad streaks of cheese sauce. Scott stirred at the movement, mumbling something incoherent before resettling against Wallace’s side. For once, Wallace didn’t pinch his nose to yell to wake him up (oh god, was he getting soft for Scott Pilgrim?). Instead, he leaned back, letting his arm rest lightly around Scott’s shoulders.
“You better clean this mess tomorrow,” Wallace whispered against Scott’s hair, even though he doubted Scott could hear him—hopefully his dreams were filled with dishwashers and vacuums.
Scott grunted, eyes still closed.
“You love me.”
Wallace huffed.
“Unfortunately.”