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Felix presses dough-sticky hands against the counter and rolls his shoulders, wincing at the sharp pain in his back. No sport has ever made him half as sore as this nonsense. At least it’s only for a week.
“Oh my, are you out of dough already?” Mercedes asks, making Felix jump. He had no idea she was behind him. She’s not a naturally sneaky person, but she drifts through the home ec kitchen space like a damn ghost.
Annette loudly gasps from the table where she’s sitting. “Felix, you’re so fast!”
She hasn’t been allowed near the ovens since the introductory home ec class in eighth grade. Felix didn’t take it the same semester as her, but he’s heard the stories. Everyone’s safer if Annette stays at the frosting table.
It might be wise for him to join her, just for a little bit. He’s been standing at this counter rolling dough for…he glances at the clock on one of the microwaves. Huh. Three hours. That’s probably too long to stand in one place, very slightly leaning over a counter while using a rolling pin.
“You’ve already finished all the pre-chilled dough.” Mercedes says, gently transferring three more cutout hearts from the counter to a baking tray. She and Dedue have all five ovens going, including the weird old one next to Felix’s rolling station. “Maybe you should take a break. There’s no need to overwork yourself. We still have three full days before Valentine’s Day.”
“Yeah, and we already have five hundred cookie orders.” Felix is pretty sure they already baked at least five hundred over the weekend, and four hundred of the orders are the expected requests from locals who’ve been getting them since Felix’s father was in school. It seems impossible that Ms. Sitri’s been around for that long, but Felix has never been good at judging people’s age by their appearance.
Getting a hundred orders from students on the very first day of sales means they’ve lost the advantage of their headstart. That’s good for the sake of the fundraiser, but Felix knows they’re all due for late nights this week. It makes him reluctant to rest, but it’s not like there’s more dough for him to roll just yet.
“Is it already five hundred?” A loud thud punctuates Dimitri’s question as he drops another five gallon bucket of dough on the counter. Felix flinches. How is he not noticing anyone’s approach today? “It’s a good thing we always start early. I wonder if we’ll beat our record this year.”
“That would mean at least eleven hundred, right?” Annette frowns at the bowl of frosting in front of her. “Dimitri, would you pop this in a microwave for me? It’s getting a little stiff.”
“Of course.” Dimitri weaves through the rest of the students easily, in a way he never could’ve during their first year. He’s grown confident in his place here. Felix lets himself feel proud of Dimitri for exactly seven seconds, then does his level best to set the thought aside. There’s work to be done. This isn't the time to get mushy.
“Felix, you really should take a break.” Mercedes nudges him with her hip. “How long has it been since you even took a drink of water? We don’t want a repeat of last year.”
Last year, Felix refused to tell anyone that his usual backache had escalated to the point of involuntary tears whenever he tried to adjust his posture, much less actually sit down. He only got called out on the last night before Valentine's Day, when Dedue came back to use the counter space for dyeing carnations, and Felix accidentally made a tiny sound of pain.
Dedue is better than anyone (even Felix, which is fine) at catching Dimitri when he’s pretending not to be in pain. Felix should’ve known to be more careful. He’d all but hissed like a damn cat when everyone tried to stop him from finishing the last batch of dough, but after he did, he was sent home and forced to call in sick the next day. Dimitri literally sat on him, which admittedly helped with the soreness, but still felt incredibly undignified.
He’s still annoyed that he wasn’t allowed to help pass out the orders during classes. He likes going with Annette, because she can’t seem to stop herself from singing while they walk through the halls with bundles of gifts. It’s a nice stress reliever after a week of soreness and sweating.
“Felix?”
Someone is touching his elbow. Felix stands a little straighter, blinking when it makes him light-headed.
“Okay, I think you need to sit down. You’ll never hear the end of it if you collapse.” It’s Dimitri’s hand on his elbow, Dimitri who is gently leading him out of the room, Dimitri who smiles when Felix tries to pull away so he can at least cover the dough. “Don’t worry. I already took care of it.”
Felix glances back and sees that the dough is, in fact, covered with plastic wrap. The bucket has also been moved to sit in the sink, so it’s easier for Felix to reach in and scoop out more dough. It’s such a tiny bit of consideration, but it still makes him feel wobbly. He’d like to blame the dehydration, but he’s too aware of both himself and Dimitri to manage it.
“We should take it down to the fridge.” Felix says, a bit slower than he intends to. He really should’ve taken a break before now. Mercedes is going to hold this over him forever. “No point in letting it stay warm if I’m not even using it.”
Dimitri rolls his eyes, but he glances over at Dedue, who nods. Felix relaxes and allows himself to be tugged through the halls, until they’re far enough away not to hear even the faint echo of Annette’s music.
It’s strange to be in the school after hours, especially in places where the lights are off. He can still see, especially in a hall with windows overlooking the street, but the dimness makes the world feel hushed. It’s nice. Peaceful. Exactly what he needs after three hours on his feet under bright lights, surrounded by people.
Dimitri pulls him down to sit against the wall beneath one of the science classroom display cases. The stone is cool on Felix’s back, and in the quiet and the dark, he almost forgets to be nervous.
A bottle of water nudges against his hand, and Felix takes it without complaint. He drains it without pausing for breath, then crumples the plastic up and tosses it at the recycling bin by the window. It knocks against the far edge, but still falls into the bin. Thank god. He really isn’t in the mood to go fetch the damn thing.
Dimitri laughs and offers him a second bottle. Felix takes it, smiling despite himself at the image of Dimitri with bottled water stuffed into his ridiculous cargo pants. He drinks slower this time, mind already clearing up. He knows better than to go right back to work. He’d push through if it was the end of the week, but they have three more days of sales, and he knows Ashe and Ignatz will still be piping on Friday morning.
“I counted a hundred and thirty-six cutouts on the counter.” Dimitri says, voice soft to match the gentle hush of the hallway. “And that doesn’t include whatever’s already been baked. I know you started rolling as soon as you got in, and Dedue and Mercedes are prompt with the ovens. You’re better at math than I am, but I’m fairly sure that in three hours, that’s at least a hundred and fifty more.”
Three cookies per tray, five ovens, and eight minutes of baking time…
“A hundred and eighty-seven.” Felix says. “Assuming that it took half an hour before we actually had cookies in the ovens.”
“Perish the thought of such inefficiency,” Dimitri chuckles. Felix glances to the side and smiles, too tired not to let Dimitri cheer him up. “We’re on schedule. Raphael started another batch of dough as soon as I took the last one up, and we'll make at least one more tonight. We all know what we're doing.”
“I know,” Felix admits. He sighs and leans his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling panels. Even though he's sitting, somehow they seem closer than they did four years ago. “It's just…”
“This is our last year.”
The light in the hallway shifts as clouds roll over the moon. Felix frowns, not quite intentionally. “Yeah.”
Felix remembers freshman year, when Annette and Mercedes had tugged him into the home ec room with promises that it would just be one day of helping, and he didn’t even have to join the club. He never should’ve volunteered to roll out dough. Ms. Sitri is extremely particular with her recipe, and it turns out that the thickness of the cookies before they go in the oven is far more important than Felix would’ve guessed. He went from signing up for one day of just being another set of hands to becoming the only person Ms. Sitri trusts with a rolling pin.
He’s not sure if that counted as him joining the club, or if he’s still just the guy who gets dragged in a few times a year to help with fundraisers. At least none of the other fundraisers are as involved as this one. Doing a job well is always satisfying, and he gets a certain kind of pride from personally handling over a thousand cookies, but he doesn’t think he could take more than one week of this per year.
Still…he’s going to miss it. It's only the fourth time he's gone through this crucible, but it's not just the cookies and the sore back and Annette’s singing.
It's the steadiness in Ashe’s hand while he pipes a border of perfect white stars. It's the taste of the sandwich braids Ms. Sitri bakes for them during late nights. It's the laughter from the frosting tables piled with cookies and stained with food coloring.
It's Dimitri finally letting Dedue talk him into helping dye the carnations, and the look on his face when he doesn't crush a single one. It's the way Felix and Mercedes dance around each other when she takes the dough he's just cut out, and he moves so she can open the oven door. It's the satisfaction of being the one person who handles every single cookie.
It's nothing important. Not really. At the end of this, it'll only be four weeks of his life in total. Four weeks of later nights than any of his sports practices. Four weeks surrounded by ovens turned on for hours, making him sweat when the windchill is in the negatives outside. Four weeks of the worst backaches of his goddamn life. Someday in the future, he'll feel a twinge under his left shoulder blade and get slammed with the sense memory of flour coating his fingers and the taste of ham and cheese sandwich braid that Annette and Dimitri take turns feeding him, because his hands are busy, busy, busy.
“Did I even join this club?” Felix asks. “Or is it more like a cult. Is that what the C stands for?”
Dimitri bumps his shoulder against Felix's, just hard enough that it would take effort to stay in place. Felix goes with the movement instead, letting Dimitri sway them both gently. “There are two Cs in Family, Career, and Community Leaders of America, which is a national organization, not a club. And yes, technically you officially joined in sophomore year.”
Felix frowns. He doesn't remember that, but it also doesn't really matter. For him, this is a single line on college applications to prove that he did more than just sports in high school. He doesn't go to the conferences or competitions, and doesn't care about the difference between calling a subject ‘family and consumer sciences’ versus ‘home ec.’
It does mean something to Dimitri, who goes to every conference and competes in four different categories (after they managed to talk him down from six). Dimitri likes using his hands for more than accidentally breaking things, even if it's just scooping dough and putting it in freezer bags for the fall fundraiser. He likes dissecting and debating interpretations of the FCCLA creed. He likes smiling at the people who don't understand why a jock would be in a leadership position of home ec club, and explaining to those people that it's more than that.
Felix doesn't get it. That's alright. Dimitri doesn't understand why Felix cares so much about League of Legends. He just listens when Felix needs to vent about shitty teammates and how the latest patch absolutely ruined balancing. When Felix finally hit Challenger rank, Dimitri got him an actual bouquet of flowers.
Felix still doesn't know exactly how those flowers make him feel. People ask what they are. Boyfriends, best friends, all-but-brothers. Two guys going for the world record for longest game of gay chicken. By Sylvain's last count, there are six different betting pools, two of which include teachers. Not that Felix has any desire to know this information, but Sylvain stopped even pretending to listen to Felix’s complaints years ago.
Sometimes Felix wants to kiss Dimitri. Sometimes he thinks Dimitri might let him. It’s a good thing they’re sitting side-by-side right now, because Felix is too tired to look at how beautiful his best friend is without doing something stupid about it. He’s literally been surrounded by hearts for the past three days, and he has four more ahead of him. Felix prides himself on self-control, but he’s only human.
Felix keeps his eyes on the floor between them, because looking at Dimitri is out of the question, and staring out the window is making him feel vaguely nostalgic in a way he can’t handle tonight. His hand fills most of one of the tiles, disrupting the dingy flecks of color over white.
Dimitri’s hand just barely crosses over the line between tiles. If Felix spread out his fingers a little more, the top knuckles of their pinkies would brush against each other. He’s hungry and probably still a bit dehydrated. He wants to hold Dimitri’s hand. He wants to run down the length of the hallway and down the stairs, crash through the door, and feel the cold air on his skin, desperate for it to clear his head. He wants Dimitri to need him as much as he needs Dimitri.
“Are you ready to go back?” Dimitri’s fingers twitch, and the very edge of their pinkies touch. Felix keeps breathing. He’s not brave enough to do more than this. Someday he will be. He’s already promised himself that he won’t let this sit stagnant between them forever.
He nods. There’s a lump in his throat, and his jaw is tingling from tension. “Yeah.”
They stand, and there’s a moment where Dimitri almost reaches to help Felix up, but his hand falls awkwardly back to his side. They both let the moment pass.
It’s good to know that Felix isn’t the only one thinking about it. That’s enough for now.
“I’ll go grab the dough,” Dimitri says. His voice is a little breathy, a little rough, a little bit acknowledging the fact that neither of them know what they’re doing. “It should be chilled enough that it’s easier to work with now. Not that I doubt your skill.”
The corner of Felix’s lip twitches. He lets it curl up, just a little. “You’d better not.”
They split off at the stairwell, and Felix continues back into the heat and laughter and pop music blaring from the mobile speaker Annette always forgets to charge unless Felix reminds her to plug it in.
“We’re going to start putting your next rollouts onto trays to take down to the cooler, Felix.” Mercedes says, as soon as Felix gets back to his counterspace. “Ms. Sitri told us that we should start cleaning up in an hour, and Dedue and I want to make sure the last batches of baked cookies are firm enough to store before we leave.”
Felix nods and tugs out his hair tie so he can pull his hair back up more cleanly. Being pressed against the wall for however long he and Dimitri sat there made it shift just enough to feel annoying. “Alright. I’ll probably just go through one last bucket, then.”
“Wonderful.” Mercedes smiles at him gently, as though he really believes that she’s not going to fuss over him for waiting too long to take a break. “I also put some water next to your workstation, and there will be sandwich braid ready soon. Do remember to eat and drink, won’t you?”
“Fine,” Felix sighs. He knows better than to argue with Mercedes this early in the week.
She pats his shoulder fondly, then drifts off to pull another batch of cookies out of the oven across the room. Felix washes his hands and breathes deeply, willing himself back to something like normal. Dimitri comes in with the bucket of dough just as Felix dusts the counter with flour.
“I smell ham and cheese,” Dimitri hums. “Raphael will be pleased. You’re going to eat, right?”
“Yes, you pest.” Felix says evenly, pulling out a hunk of dough and slapping it onto the counter. He dips his hand in a bowl of flour and spreads it along the rolling pin in a familiar motion, feeling calmer now that he’s back in his element.
“Good.” Dimitri’s smiling. Felix isn’t looking at him, but he can hear it in his voice. “Will I have to feed you?”
Felix raises his eyes to meet Dimitri’s. He’s teasing, but he’s also genuinely asking. Annette can do it, or Felix can theoretically learn how to be less stubborn, stop rolling dough, and take a second break.
“That’s up to you,” Felix says. It’s a challenge. A dare. A question with no wrong answer.
He doesn’t know what to make of Dimitri’s expression. Someday he’ll understand Dimitri easily again. Someday they’ll break the tension and know each other in that complete and confident way they did as children.
The timer for the sandwich braids goes off, and Ms. Sitri pulls out their late dinner. Dimitri keeps looking at him, until Felix has to glance away. He flattens the dough in a few easy strokes, then sets his hand on it to judge the thickness. Someone else would measure the height, but Felix’s intuition hasn’t failed him yet.
Felix is not a patient person by nature, but he doesn’t mind waiting for Dimitri. This is the last year of a thousand cookies and a backache, but there’s a whole lifetime still ahead of them.
Felix glares down at the rolling pin, gripping the edge of the counter tightly enough that his fingers ache.
He has their container of flour to his right, two baking trays set up with parchment paper on them, and a massive problem in his way.
It’s a nice rolling pin, is the thing. It has rings for different heights that click onto the side, for people who don’t have ingrained instinct (or for recipes that aren’t the exact cookie dough Felix rolled out for four years). He can admit that it’s a cute gift, and he didn’t mind how Annette and Mercedes cooed over his blush when they gave it to him to celebrate the first Valentine’s Day he and Dimitri will have in their apartment.
Four years of cookies and backaches. Eighteen years of friendship. Four years of cracking, of talking past each other, of Dimitri leaving in a way Felix didn’t understand, unable to follow after him for the first time in their lives.
Then therapy for both of them, medication for Dimitri, and eventually—this. An apartment. A life they can share. Tension broken, their edges healing, and the ability to kiss Dimitri whenever Felix pleases.
The door opens and shuts, followed by the sound of Dimitri kicking off his shoes and the thump of his workbag landing on the short table next to the entrance.
“Felix?”
It’s not a large apartment. Dimitri’s voice doesn’t echo, and he’s in the kitchen within seconds. Felix doesn’t look up, but he feels Dimitri’s eyes on him. “Felix, what are you doing?”
Felix presses his lips together, then breathes out long and slow. He can control his frustration. He doesn’t need to snap at Dimitri. He can admit this without feeling absolutely humiliated.
“I don’t know how to make cookie dough.” His voice is flat, but that’s better than anger. “I was planning…”
He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing again. It’s absurd for this to affect him so strongly, but there’s no point in pretending that it isn’t. Dimitri won’t judge him. He knows that. He does.
Dimitri stands behind him, leaning against his back, and Felix can feel gentle laughter rumble through Dimitri’s body. He lets Dimitri pull his hands away from the counter, and stares down as their fingers lace together easily, thoughtlessly, an entirely automatic response of their hands being next to each other. Dimitri’s chin hooks over Felix’s shoulder, and his hair brushes against Felix’s temple.
“May I confess something, dear heart?”
Felix flushes, even though Dimitri’s pet names are nothing new. He makes an effort not to go stiff from the well of emotion rushing through him. “What.”
“I don’t know how to make small batches of dough.” Dimitri’s laughing again, and Felix is helpless like this, held in Dimitri’s arms, surrounded by warmth and love and the promise he’s still keeping from five, ten, twenty-three years ago. “And I doubt we need upwards of a hundred cookies, especially given that you don’t even like them.”
“They’re fine if they’re unfrosted.” Felix shrugs, though Dimitri isn’t wrong. “Look, I just wanted to do something nice, okay? Annette and Mercedes gave me this rolling pin, and I don’t care about Valentine’s Day, but I care about you.”
Dimitri tilts his head just enough to brush his lips against Felix’s neck, and Felix sighs, turning around so he can take Dimitri’s face between his palms and kiss him properly. Dimitri’s lips are chapped, because he never remembers to take chapstick with him, no matter how often Felix nags him about it. That’s alright. Felix doesn’t need pure softness. He just needs Dimitri.
“I love you.” Dimitri murmurs, pulling back enough to rest their foreheads together. “I’m sure we can find another recipe for sugar cookies if you’re really set on this, but I don’t need us to observe the holiday. Every day with you is special.”
“I love you too, you ridiculous sap.” Felix says, as though he doesn’t have a little box with a ring in it shoved in the far back of his nightstand drawer. It’s not well hidden, and sometimes he imagines Dimitri finding it. His eye will get so wide, and he’ll tear up even before Felix does. He’ll look so surprised, as though it’s hard to believe that Felix intends to spend the rest of his life at Dimitri’s side.
“What do you want?” Dimitri asks. It’s a simple question. He’s asking about the rolling pin and the baking sheets, about if they should order takeout or make a real dinner so they can take leftovers for lunch tomorrow. He’s not thinking about a ring in a little box in a drawer in a room with a bed they share every night.
“This,” Felix says helplessly, unhelpfully, too uselessly in love to be anything less than painfully honest right now. “Just this.”
Dimitri hums, leaning forward just enough to brush their lips together again. “How convenient. That’s what I want, too.”
The oven is still heating up for cookies that probably won’t get made, but Felix knows that’s not why he feels so warm. There’s something sticky and too sweet and malleable in his hands, but it’s not dough. It’s much better than that.
He spent four years getting good at handling cookie dough. He’s got the rest of his life to keep learning how to handle this love. It’s a nice thought. It’s a beautiful promise. It’s two hands, holding tight.