Work Text:
Whiiiirrrr…
The mixer’s clang and hum provides a pleasant backbeat to their conversation, punctuation to Matthew’s every word. It’s fair to say the young blonde seems almost feminine as he bustles about the kitchen, clad in a plain white apron to keep his sweatshirt safe from spills. Perhaps it’s in the swing of his hips, an almost hypnotic movement that captures most of Arthur’s attention…
“Arthur? Are you all right?”
Dazed emerald eyes snap up to the younger male’s face, observing his slightly concerned expression. “Er, wot? Ah, yes, I’m quite all right, lad.” He plasters a slight, reassuring smile onto his face, though he’s certain that Matthew can see through it. The Canadian holds his gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment before simply nodding and turning his attention back to the bowl he has removed from the mixer stand.
The Brit attempts to keep his focus on Matthew’s busy hands, watching silently as he transfers the buttercream-hued batter into separate cake pans. Goodness, even the boy’s hands had a feminine quality to them; whether it is the pale, smooth skin, marked by several scars but few other blemishes, or simply his long, slender, nimble fingers, the elder isn’t sure. His focus is once again broken as Matthew moves out of his range of sight, edging around the table to pop the pans into the oven. Arthur’s eyes follow his every movement, fingers twitching absently against the wood grain.
Whirr, clink, clank
Matthew clears his throat and attempts to speak above the sound of whisk meeting bowl as he beats the frosting. “I, ah, I’m sorry that I don’t have much for you to do.”
Bollocks. Complete and utter bullshit. Matthew had blatantly refused to allow him to help with the baking, albeit in a much politer way than he expected. And so here he sat, sipping at a cold cup of tea and plastering false smiles onto his face as he reassures, “No, no, love, it’s fine, really. I enjoy watching you work.” That last bit, at least, wasn’t a complete lie. With a tentative smile Matthew turns his attention back to his baking.
Cracking the tab off of an unlabeled tin, he spikes the fluffy white frosting with molasses-thick, golden liquid. Another quick, enthusiastic stirring, and the Canadian seems satisfied. Shooting Arthur a smile, he picks his way over and settles lightly into the older male’s lap. The elder rolls his eyes, but does begin to gently stroke through Matthew’s hair, which has the desired effect; a quiet, contented noise escapes his lips, and he leans, cat-like, into the Brit’s hand. His eyes slide shut in bliss as the light, affectionate motion continues.
The gentle touch of lips to his cheek is unexpected, and Matthew’s eyes flutter open in time to catch Arthur’s retreat.
No explanation is needed; no excuse is given. Matthew carefully squirms around to face him, pressing in for a longer, more satisfying kiss. Deep, but somehow chaste. Eyes closed, each enjoying the other’s taste, the warmth of their bodies.
As Matthew pulls away, he can smell the cake burning.