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“Okay, now add…” Noel says, leaning over the counter to peer at the recipe, “one half cup of sugar.”
“Got it,” John says, enthusiastically pulling off the lid of the canister and shoving the measuring cup into it.
The measuring cup scrapes the side of the canister as he pulls it out. Sugar spills out from the heaping cup, the scattered sugar dusting the worn counter. John pays the mess no mind, grabbing a butter knife to brush off the excess, aiming for the canister while spilling most of it over the sides. He holds the cup up and squints as he inspects it, ensuring its level before he dumps it into the mixing bowl in front of him.
Noel tries to hide his smile as he sneaks glances at John, busying himself by reading the recipe over in an attempt to memorize it. He resists the urge to offer assistance, allowing John to dirty the counters so that he doesn’t feel like Noel is interfering or pestering him. John’s hard earned independence is important to him, and Noel figures wiping up sugar is a small price to pay for the feeling of accomplishment John gets when he successfully does something new.
“One cup!” John says, proudly sliding the bowl across the counter for Noel’s approval.
“ One cup?” Noel repeats, looking into the ceramic mixing bowl.
“Yes?” John says, suddenly filled with self-doubt.
Noel looks up at John, his heart tugging as he looks into his wide, hopeful eyes. He recalls his mother’s stern voice in the back of his mind, the echo of being scolded as a boy reminding him to be patient.
“I said half a cup,” Noel says, gently.
“Will it make a difference?” John asks, his face falling.
“Too much sugar might make them grainy,” Noel says, “but that’s okay, we can just double the recipe, it’s not a big deal.”
“Won’t that make too many cookies?”
“Since when has too many cookies ever been a problem?” Noel asks.
“Good point,” John says, smiling softly at Noel’s nonchalance, “should I grab another stick of butter, then?”
“Make it two, we’ll need it for the frosting as well.”
John nods, turning to fetch the butter from the well stocked fridge, grateful that Noel had the foresight to buy more than they needed in case of mistakes. Noel starts to measure out the dry ingredients, dumping them into a separate mixing bowl while John crosses the kitchen.
John sets aside the extra stick and carefully unwraps the other. The butter thunks as it hits the bowl, the ceramic clattering against the counter when the added weight shakes it.
“Oops,” he says, “I forgot we needed to soften it.”
“That’s alright,” Noel says, “it’ll just take a little more elbow grease to mix it.”
“Elbow… grease?” John asks, bending his elbow to look at it with knitted eyebrows before turning to look at the cupboards.
“It’s a figure of speech,” Noel says, trying to suppress a laugh, “it means it’ll take a little more effort to mix it.”
“Stop laughing at me,” John says, pouting as Noel lets a chuckle slip.
“I’m not,” Noel says, “it’s just…endearing. I like watching you learn new things.”
John huffs, grabbing a fork and driving it into the hard butter, the prongs bending slightly as he fights to cut through it.
“You mix that,” Noel says, changing the subject before John’s mood can shift, “and go preheat the oven.”
John grunts at him, gripping the side of the bowl as he dutifully mashes his fork into the butter. He quickly falls into the task, humming to himself as he falls into the rhythm of it. Noel ducks his head, once again swallowing a laugh as the warmth in his chest tries to spill out, his affection turning physical inside of him. He looks over his shoulder as he turns the knob, catching John’s eye and smiling wide.
He crosses the kitchen to retrieve the rest of the ingredients from the fridge, zigzagging so he can trail his fingers along John’s back while he passes. He leans up to place a kiss to the back of John’s neck, feeling John’s small shiver when Noel’s lips touch his skin. Noel presses his forehead to John’s back before getting back to the task at hand, his feet shuffling against the tile as he forces himself to move.
The fridge door whines when Noel pulls it open, a burst of cold hitting his warm cheeks as he searches for the eggs. He plucks the milk off of the shelf with his free hand, propping the door open with his hip and letting it fall closed behind him.
“I’ll get you to start on the frosting when you’re done with that—” Noel says, leaning against the door until it clicks shut, “ John, do not eat that!”
“I’ll get you to start on the frosting when you’re done with that— John, ” Noel says, “don’t eat that!”
“Why not?” John asks, with a scoff.
“It’s just butter,” Noel sputters, “and sugar.”
“It’s good,” he insists, eating another fork-full.
“And your stomach won’t be feeling good soon if you keep that up,” Noel says, putting the eggs and milk down and playing fully snatching the fork out of John’s hand, gesturing with it as he continues, “plus, it’s not sanitary. No one wants your germs in their cookies.”
“They’re for Arthur,” John says, “and the only other people eating them will be you and I. If I have germs, the cookies are the least of your worries.”
“Fair enough,” Noel says, laughing as John tugs him closer to prove his point, slipping two fingers into his belt loop to pull their bodies together.
John presses his lips to Noel’s cheek, trailing quick kisses across his jaw until Noel reluctantly bats him away. Noel leans up to give him a chaste kiss before moving away, his face flush from the sudden bout of affection.
“Enough of that,” Noel says, “we’ve got four hours until Arthur gets home, and you’re the one who insisted on surprising him.”
“Fine,” John says,rolling his eyes “what’s next?”
“Eggs,” Noel says, grabbing one from the carton and holding it out to John, “you want to crack them or should I?”
John juts out his bottom lip, recalling last week’s breakfast attempt and the shells he had to pick out of the scrambled eggs that should have been over easy.
“You can do it,” John says, sliding the bowl toward him.
“On it, boss,” Noel says, earning himself another eye roll from John that only makes Noel’s grin widen.
Noel taps the eggs on the side of the bowl, feeling John’s watchful eye trying to memorize the movement as he drops them into the bowl with a small splash. He repeats the process with a second egg, then adds a splash of vanilla, not bothering to measure it out.
“Do you want to start on the icing while I finish this up?” Noel asks, watching John’s interest wane as he finishes up.
“Sure,” John says, “how do I do that?”
“Turn the page, it should be the next in the book.”
John nods, wordlessly grabbing the stained recipe book off of the counter and carefully reading it, determined not to make another mistake.
“One cup butter…” he says, reading aloud out of habit, “one cup icing sugar.”
John continues to narrate his actions while he carries out the recipe, talking himself through each step. Noel lets himself zone out as he scoops balls of dough onto the greased cookie sheets, enjoying the sound of John’s voice without taking any of his words in. They work without speaking to each other, falling into a comfortable near-silence, John’s murmuring is the only sound between them as they fall into a rhythm.
“Is it supposed to be this runny?” John asks after a moment, holding up the fork and letting the mixture dribble back into the bowl.
“No,” Noel says, turning away to put a sheet in the oven, “add more powdered sugar.”
“I thought you said that would make it grainy?”
“No, that’s just the graduated sugar,” Noel says, twisting the little white timer on, “frosting is a little more forgiving. Just sprinkle some in until it thickens.”
“Baking has too many rules,” John grumbles.
Noel putters around the room, collecting stray dishes and putting away the ingredients they left out while he speaks.
“Agreed,” he says, tossing a fork into the sink with a clatter, “that’s why I prefer cooking.”
“Cooking also has too many rules.”
“I suppose,” Noel says, with a chuckle, “but cooking is more intuitive, at least to me.”
Noel watches John in his periphery, smirking when he notices him check behind his shoulder before sneaking a taste of the frosting.
“Well,” Noel says, laughing when John jumps at the realization that he’s been caught, “at least it’s better than eating straight butter.”
“It had sugar in it too,” John says, running his finger through the bowl, “it was basically the exact same thing.”
Noel quiets, captivated by John’s movement. His eyes trace the action, his eyes intent as they watch the pink frosting transfer from finger to mouth, his heart picking up speed as John sucks it off with an exaggerated, wet sound.
He pulls his finger out with a pop, immediately returning his finger to the bowl to run a slick finger around its edge. Noel tries to find his voice to scold him for his bad hygiene, but his voice evades him when John holds his finger out toward him.
“Want some?” John asks, his voice low.
Noel inhales sharply, somewhat dazed as he grabs John’s wrist and pulls his finger into his mouth. His eyes fall shut as he tastes the overly sweet frosting, his tongue curling around John’s finger for much longer than necessary.
His mind flashes back to the first time he did this, when a hand was all John had, the memory strangely nostalgic despite how much better it is now that he can interact with John without barrier.
John hums softly, the sound cut off by the oven timer buzzing across the room. He startles, pulling his hand away from Noel as he’s snapped out of his haze. Noel turns to move toward the oven but John stops him, wrapping his hand around his waist to pull him into a kiss.
Noel presses his hand to John’s chest, kissing him back with as much enthusiasm, titling his head to deepen it before slowly pulling away.
“I need to grab those before they burn,” Noel says.
John whines as Noel shakes off his grip to reach around him for a second tray. He hurries toward the oven, grabbing the oven mitts off of the counter and pulling the finished batch out. The sound of the metal tray scraping against the rack makes John recoil, his new ears still sensitive to unpleasant sounds.
“We give Arthur so much shit for burning food,” Noel says, “we will never live it down if we burn his Valentine’s gift.”
“He doesn’t care about Valentine’s Day,” John says,“if anything he’ll be annoyed that he wasn’t here to suck frosting off of my fingers.”
“Mm, you’re probably right about that,” Noel says, smirking.
John turns his attention back to the bowl of frosting, running the fork through the fluffy pink mixture with fascination.
“If you don’t stop eating it we won’t have enough for the cookies,” Noel says.
John turns around and leans against the counter, catching Noel’s eyes as he pointedly runs his pointer finger through the bowl. He makes a show of bringing it to his mouth, his eyelashes fluttering as he runs his tongue along the length before popping the whole thing into his mouth.
“On second thought,” Noel says, running his hand along John’s hip, “eat as much as you’d like.”
“What about the cookies?” John asks, grabbing the hem of Noel’s shirt to pull their bodies together tightly.
“Fuck ‘em,” Noel says, leaning up to kiss John, the taste of sugar sweet on his lips.