Coldflash, Valentines Day
“You’re drowning it.”
Barry glances over at the familiar sound of Len’s judgemental drawl, dismissive and disinterested at first, but quick to snap his attention back from the enriched dough kneading in the stand mixer as his boyfriend’s atypical state of undress registers.
Len leans against the butt of the counter, sleep pants riding scandalously low, chest bare. Ghostly remnants of bedsheets well-loved trace intricate lines across the left side of his face. His eyes are swollen and slitted, skin flush, stubble speckling the cut of his jaw like silver starlight.
“Good morning,” Barry says, clearing his throat and blinking fast as his eyes snag on the protrusion of Len’s Adam’s apple along the column of his throat.
The stand mixer groans, a malcontented whirring of gears overworked, and Len purses his lips, nostrils flaring. “What’s happening here, Barry?” he asks, tight and impatient, like a school-teacher giving lessons.
“Wha–” Barry starts, then jumps as milk sploshes from the side of the large, metal bowl, spreading unceremoniously across the counter. He scrambles to turn the mixer off, and tries answering again. “I’m making cinnamon rolls.”
Pulling the top half of the mixer upright, Barry frowns at the gloppy mess that clings to the dough hook in place of the smooth, elastic ball that’s meant to have formed. “Except the dough’s not coming together.”
Len pushes off the side of the counter and stalks to Barry’s side. He casually lifts the measuring cup from its place among of spilled sugar granules and eggshells, all the while bracing himself effortlessly against the wall to Barry’s left.
“And you used two cups of milk to how much flour, exactly?” Len asks, raising an eyebrow. A single furtive glance at the measurer was enough to read the volume from the faint ring of residue caught around the circumference of the glass, of course.
“That’s what it called for,” Barry defends. Len’s never truly asking when he asks like that.
Len tuts and drops the measuring cup on the counter with a sharp thunk . “Now, Barry,” he says, neck rounding like an athlete at warmup. “When adding your liquid, did you at any point stop and think, 'does this make sense?' ”
Barry’s hackles instantly rise. “Why wouldn’t it make sense?” he snaps. “That’s the recipe.”
The noise Len makes is a cross between amused scoff and abject disgust. “Barry, you’re a scientist.”
“It’s five a.m. on a Wednesday,” Barry yelps, the creciendo of his voice correlating directly with the dawning realization of his mistake. “You try thinking rationally.”
Len raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure I am,” he rebukes, cool as ice.
Barry turns back to his failed baking endeavour and frowns at it, mouth left adorably agape. Len reaches out and grabs him by the chin, thumb pulling at the centre of Barry’s lower lip until he can see teeth.
“I was trying to do something special,” Barry says, words distorted with Len’s thumb in the way.
Len huffs a laugh. “The bakery on Bute is open all hours,” he says. “I like their donuts.”
In a zap of lightning, Barry is gone and back, wind kicking up a duster of flour in his wake. He holds up a brown paper, and Len takes it, carefully extracting the offering held inside.
“They were a special,” Barry explains as Len examines the heart-shaped donut, lines of white and caramel glaze drug in chevron patterns, glossy, across the top of dense, pillowy dough. “Dulce de leche. You like that, right? Or I can go back and get something el–.”
Len cuts him off with a look. “Barry,” he says.
Barry’s answering smile is nervous and tight.
Len sighs. He sets the donut down on the end of the counter, licks the sticky remnants of melted glaze from his thumb with an appreciative hum. Barry shivers, pupils blowing wide, and leans unconsciously forward as Len reaches out to smooth the lines between his brows.
“You don’t need to work yourself up so much over little ole me,” Len says. Whispers.
Barry frowns again. Len sighs.
“But it’s–”
Len stops him with a thumb over his lips, then a hand curved possessively around his jaw, mouth pressed to mouth.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Len says when then part, even as Barry sways forward, chasing after him. Len keeps their foreheads pressed flush, and he feels Barry sigh into him.
“You are worth the effort, you know,” Barry says.
Len tilts his head, considering. “Maybe the effort,” he concedes. “But not the anxiety. Never.”
They’re quiet then, just the two of them, pressed chest to chest, hands roaming, breath mingling.
“Hey, Barry,” Len says.
Barry hums.
“It’s officially stupid o’clock,” Len continues. “Even for an early bird like me. Come back to bed?”
Barry nods, but as he pulls himself reluctantly from the warmth of Len’s arms, he stops short. “You’re not gonna have your donut?” he asks.
Len smirks a wicked smirk and trails his fingers egregiously low against Barry’s stomach. “Can’t have dessert before eating something a little more substantial, now, can I?”
Barry eyes go wide as saucers. He flushes into his hairline, even as the muscles in his abdomen vibrate wildly in anticipation. “Yea–yeah,” he stammers. “That’s probably a good idea, actually. So. We should go. Do that.”
He grabs Len by the hand and tugs, leading them from the kitchen and nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.
The unsalvageable mess of milk-flour-yeast goes forgotten on the counter.