Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a late Saturday afternoon in Harrow, London, and Eönwë, a man who usually whiles away such time curled up in bed with a good book and his partner nestled against his lap, found himself in the kitchen, thoroughly occupied with mincing, toasting, and mixing ingredients for a cake. The townhouse he shared with Gothmog, his boyfriend of many years, was empty this day save for him—Gothmog had not yet returned from the trip he took on behalf of his company, and his flight was not expected to land for at least another hour. It left Eönwë enough time to prepare his surprise.

The clock had just chimed a quarter past four, and the air already possessed a chilly nip to it. Eönwë looked up from the chopping board and peered out the window to his left, curious about how the weather was progressing. A light, persistent drizzle had begun to fall, making the road dark and slick, and it was plain that it would continue without ceasing throughout the night.

Eönwë sighed.

This was far from the kind of weather one would expect to come home to. And Gothmog would be wet and cold and miserable by the time he stepped through the door and into the warmth of the house they finally bought for themselves a year ago, after much planning and economising. He would need something to revive him and uplift his spirits. With this in mind, Eönwë swiftly returned to the task at hand, not wanting to delay even for another second.

He finished chopping the puhul dosi, the delectable chunks of sugar-coated winter melon that Uncle Mairon, a friend of Gothmog’s late father and a friend of his family, had sent over to him during the week. It was sticky work. Tiring work. But still, he enjoyed it. He enjoyed watching what slowly took shape because of the skill of his own two hands. He enjoyed the thought of Gothmog walking into a house that smelt of Christmas and sitting down to something that reminded him of home. It was not always that Eönwë could create something like this. Work and other obligations often kept him busy, and, when he went home, it was to meals that took little time for him and Gothmog to prepare. This cake, however, was different. It was a special treat, one that required time, meticulous attention, and effort. He hoped against all hope that he would not mess it up. 

By the time he added the puhul dosi to the bowl of cashews he had already minced and set aside, his back was aching. Yet he smiled and reached for the bottle of rose essence. Two teaspoons were all that were needed, but the smell it produced was like heaven. He checked the little recipe card he had propped against the microwave and smiled again, this time with relief. The preparation of the ingredients was complete. Now all that remained for him to do was to fold everything together and pour the mixture into the baking tray. 

Semolina that had been toasted and added to butter after it had cooled was carefully turned over into a much larger bowl filled with egg yolks and soft sugar that were beaten together with vanilla and almond essence. The minced cashew and puhul dosi mix was added next, followed lastly by egg whites that had been whisked to stiff peaks. The smell was better than before, but Eönwë restrained himself, no matter how much it pained him to do so, by fighting back the urge to dip a little spoon in and taste. He knew it would not end with a single spoonful if he did. So, he poured the contents of the bowl into the tray that had already been lined with sheets of old newspaper and oil paper.

'This is the way it had to be done,' Melian, his aunt, had warned, when she gave him a copy of her grandmother’s family recipe. 'You cannot cut corners in any way. Do you understand me? The cake could be ruined if you did.'

Eönwë had nodded solemnly that time, and had taken his aunt’s words to heart. Now, he was glad he had done so. He slipped the tray into the warm oven, pleased with the results thus far, and set both the time and the temperature. Then he looked around the kitchen, his hands resting on his hips, for there was little else he could do for the cake except wait. So he waited, cleaning up after himself as he did. Counters were wiped down with a damp cloth. Broken eggshells were disposed of, and cartons and packets and bottles were returned to their places in the pantry and the fridge. Certain implements were washed and left on the dish rack to dry. Others were arranged in the dishwasher or simply put away. By the time he had finished, the counters sparkled, the kitchen gleamed, and everything was ready for further use. Eönwë took a deep breath, satisfied. He filled the kettle and put it on the stove, having decided a fresh cup of tea was sorely needed. 

The minutes ticked by slowly—too slowly, in Eönwë’s opinion—even as the rain kept falling. He dropped a teabag and some thinly sliced ginger into his mug and waited for the water to boil. Then he checked the little wall-mounted clock, impatient to take the cake out of the oven, and impatient for Gothmog to come home. Or perhaps, he thought, he was simply impatient for Gothmog to return home, and this impatience was simply bleeding into everything else. They had been together for fifteen years now—seventeen if one also counted the years they had known each other as acquaintances and friends—and they had been inseparable that entire time. No one had expected what grew as a result of their friendship, least of all their respective families. The shock of the discovery and how each family dealt with that discovery were spoken of even after all these years, and the scars inflicted by it all ran very, very deep. Eönwë shivered and rose, his thoughts drawn from the past to the sharp, shrill whistle of the kettle. It might be best not to dwell on the past now, he told himself, not when Gothmog was on his way home. 

He took his seat by the breakfast nook, a steaming cup of tea now in hand. Even as he did this, his gaze kept turning toward the oven timer, and his thoughts kept churning over the possibility of failure. And there was a real possibility of failure. The cake could come out overbaked and too dry, or it could come out a soggy, underbaked mess, which was even worse. He would be left with nothing to offer Gothmog when he came home.

Stop it, he chided himself. Nothing is going to go wrong.

With a deep, steadying breath, Eönwë sipped his tea in peace, having decided to push away all thoughts of a poorly baked cake out of his mind. Meanwhile, the rain pelted incessantly against the windows, and a pleasing hush settled over the world just beyond them. It was a picture-perfect scene. He wished Gothmog was already here to enjoy it with him.

Much later, with the time close to six, the cake tray was sitting on the counter, having long been taken out of the oven to cool. Eönwë looked at the clock once more. Gothmog must be making his way home by now, and he was indeed making his way home, seated comfortably in the taxi he had arranged to pick him up from the airport. Eönwë had wanted to come fetch him, but he advised against it, and he was now glad that he had done so. It had been raining in earnest now, and fat drops of water beat incessantly against the roof of the car as it drifted slowly down one street after another, its driver taking care not to drive too fast across the large puddles that had formed alongside the pavements. Gothmog bit back his impatience. The driver could not go any faster, no matter how badly he wanted him to, so he had to bide his time as the taxi seemed to drag itself across the road.

One week, he told himself. He had been overseas for only one week. The trip had been necessary, not just for the sake of his company, but for his own advancement also. Yet that one week, short in time as it may have been, felt drawn out and torturous, with each day ending late in a cold room and a colder bed. But it was over now, and he was on his way home. He wondered if Eönwë was up and about. He usually was, but he could have retreated to bed just as easily, and fallen asleep with a book open beside him. That was just the sort of thing he would do. Gothmog smiled. He wanted to see Eönwë again, to take him into his arms and hold him, and let the weariness of his journey seep out of his limbs. Oh, he would be drenched and cold to the very marrow of his bones, but at least he would be with Eönwë again.

When the taxi neared his home, his notion of being drenched soon proved to be without foundation as Eönwë, having seen it through the parlour room window, hurried out the door, carrying a large, black umbrella in his hand. He rushed to the car and held the now-open umbrella aloft after it stopped, then shivered when a biting gust of wind blew through their little village. Gothmog beamed, his eyes displaying his visible pleasure at the sight of his partner coming out to greet him, even as he reached for his bags. A quick glance confirmed he had everything with him, and, after having paid the driver his fare, he stepped out of the vehicle that brought him home and into the cold, damp evening that had followed him from the moment his flight landed at Heathrow. 

Eönwë made haste to usher him inside.  

“How did meetings go, babe?” He asked, curious about the outcome of Gothmog’s trip. “Did you guys get the contract?”  

Gothmog set his bags down by the door and slipped out of his damp jacket. “The client signed the contract,” he announced merrily, hanging it on the coatrack to dry. "And they agreed to our asking price. Mister Bauglir is chuffed to bits. He gave the team a day off on Monday. He said he’ll be taking everyone out to dinner next Friday to celebrate. You’re invited,” he finished, taking the umbrella out of Eönwë’s hand and dropping it into the little bin that served as an umbrella stand. When a delightful smell wafted out of the kitchen to greet him, he sniffed at the air and arched a quizzical brow.

“Vanilla,” he remarked, his mouth already watering. “Rosewater. Almond essence? Have you been baking?”

“I have,” Eönwë leaned against the wall and told him, his arms folded across his chest. “Can you guess what it is?”

Gothmog didn’t have to. The smells gave him all the clues he could have possibly needed to form an answer. “Love cake?” 

“Yes!” Eönwë cried, grinning. “It came out better than I expected. I thought you might like it.” 

“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, sweetheart,” Gothmog returned, touched. “But I won’t be the one to complain. Did you really make it for me?” 

“I did,” Eönwë replied. “I know it's not yet the season to make it, but I wanted to surprise you. I thought it would be nice to have a taste of home.”

Gothmog drew him into his embrace and held him close, his senses overwhelmed by the faint scents of baking clinging to Eönwë’s hair. Now he knew he was finally home and in the arms of the one he loved. “Thank you.”

Eönwë hummed contentedly as they stood in the little hallway and cuddled. The gesture may have been a simple thing, but it was soft and soothing all the same, and it made him wish he had the power to make it linger forever. At length, however, he let out a shaky breath and said, “I missed you.”

 “I missed you, too,” Gothmog whispered, and reluctantly let him go. “Lead me to the kitchen. I’d like to have a piece of that cake now.”

Chapter Text

My notes: 

The pumpkin preserves mentioned in this recipe are the sugared chunks of winter melon called puhul dosi in Sinhalese, not the syrupy kind.

I do not use lime rind

For the semolina+butter mixture: simply toast the semolina in a pan until it is nice warm, let it cool properly, and then add the butter (it should all hold together.) Let this rest in a cool area (so the butter does not melt), and then see to the rest of the preparation. You do not have to leave the butter+semolina mixture out overnight.