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The smell of flour hung in the air, mingling with the clatter of a spoon against porcelain and the sharp crackle of firewood inside the stove. It was clear someone was busy experimenting here. Normally, the kitchen was Louis's territory. He was the one who took care of most of their daily meals, from simple breakfasts to warm evening soups, making sure they never ran out of bread or tea.
But this morning, it wasn't Louis standing by the counter.
Albert, sleeves rolled halfway up his crisp white shirt and his tie already discarded to keep it clean, was hunched over a large bowl, stirring with unusual focus. His brown hair was slightly disheveled, dusted here and there with flour after he'd wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes were fixed on the dough, though it was obvious he wasn't entirely sure of what he was doing. The oak table in front of him was a piles of flour scattered over the surface, butter melting too fast in a half-used block, and a small jar of red fruit jam waiting to be the filling of whatever pastry he had in mind.
He was trying something he almost never did. Why exactly, he wasn't sure. Maybe just a simple wish to give William something sweet.
The kitchen, however, wasn't Albert's domain. He was trying to follow the recipe book's instructions, but vague measurements like that were torture for someone used to precise, military-style orders.
Add as needed.
Until it feels right.
Mix until smooth.
Yes, none of it resembled the clear, precise orders he was used to in military life.
He tried imitating the movements he'd once seen cooks use. Butter cut into pieces, mixed into flour, rubbed between his fingers. Except instead of turning into fine crumbs, the mixture clumped into sticky lumps. His mouth twisted in mild frustration as he sprinkled in more flour.
His movements were stiff as he scooped and measured. The dull kitchen knife Louis usually used for butter wasn't much help, and before long the warmth of his hands had melted the butter into a gluey mess. Exactly the opposite of what he wanted.
Albert sighed but refused to give up. He added a splash of cold water and pressed the dough together again. The wooden table was dusted white now, and flour clung stubbornly to his sleeves.
The creak of the kitchen door suddenly broke the quiet and Albert glanced up.
"Brother?" William's voice was soft, but Albert startled hard enough to nearly drop the wooden spoon in his hand.
William stepped closer, his gaze immediately falling on the chaos of the table. Flour scattered across the floor, bowls teetering on the edge, and a lump of dough that looked anything but promising. His lips curved into a small smile.
"What exactly are you doing?" William asked, trying not to laugh at the sight.
Albert cleared his throat, covering his embarrassment.
"Just trying to make pastry. It shouldn't be this hard."
William's gaze flicked from the dough back to Albert, his eyes bright with amusement.
"That sounds fun. Mind if I take a closer look?"
Albert gave up pretending he had things under control. He pushed the bowl toward William.
"See? It's supposed to be light and soft. This feels like a brick. I don't know what I did wrong."
William poked at the sticky surface with his fingertip and chuckled. "You pressed it too much. Pastry dough falls apart if you handle it too long and your hands melted all the butter."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
Albert tried again, this time adding fresh cold butter while William hovered beside him, offering instructions.
"Cut it in with a knife, not your hands," William said, watching intently. "That's it. Leave some bits of butter whole so the pastry comes out flaky."
Even with William's guidance, things didn't go smoothly. Flour puffed up into the air, coating Albert's face until he looked like he was wearing white powder on his cheeks. William couldn't hold back a laugh at the sight of his brother scowling seriously through the mess.
After a few tries, they managed a dough flat enough to roll. Albert spooned jam into the center, folded the dough, and pressed the edges down with a fork. The shapes were lopsided at best.
"They've got character," William said, trying to sound encouraging. But Albert just shook his head, looking a little defeated. "At least they'll taste all right, won't they?"
They set the pastries onto a tray and slid it into the hot oven. The crackle of firewood deepened, and the room filled with the buttery scent of baking. For a while, the warmth of the kitchen felt almost comforting. William pulled out some of Louis's stored cookies from the cupboard, and the two of them munched on them together, quietly wondering how Louis always made everything seem effortless.
But the cozy mood didn't last. Soon, a faint burnt smell drifted out. William rushed to open the oven, coughing as smoke curled around them. The pastries were blackened on the edges and raw in the middle.
William picked one that looked least ruined. He blew on it, bit down carefully and immediately grimaced, half-choking as he tried not to cough.
"You probably shouldn't swallow that," Albert muttered, passing him a glass of water.
Still, William forced it down with a sip of water, then gave a small smile. "I'm fine."
In the end, they dumped the tray into the bin. There was no way either of them could eat the failed batch, and they both knew it was better to clean up the mess before Louis came home and found his kitchen turned upside down.