Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,
Marco had come home not only to the sound of the t.v. on full blast to a Bronco's game, but also to a mysterious clanging and crashing sounds coming from the kitchen. The game being on means Jean must already have come back, but that still didn't explain the strange noises coming from the kitchen area.
No, no, no, no, no, no,
Jean was never one for cooking, and most of the time he was conked out on the coach by the time Marco got home on Friday nights, already half drunk and needy. He treaded carefully, bracing himself for what might lie around the corner.
The counters were an absolute war zone: broken egg shells littered the granite, still sticky with what was left over of their insides. The pots and pans covered the floor, all seemingly pulled out in a hurried rush to find something important, and flour had even managed to reach the cabinets, smothering the wood in splotches of white.
And in the center of it all there he was, covered in spatters of dark chocolate and puffs of white powder, fervently mixing some muddled mess in a glass bowl.
"Shit." Jean muttered, still not noticing Marco leaning against the doorframe, loosening his striped tie and clearing his throat quietly. He knew when Jean got like this you had to approach him gently, Marco knew from experience. When they had first moved in together Jean had been trying to fix the light in the dining room for 2 hours and ended up almost breaking the table in half when Marco interrupted his work with a kiss on his head.
"Jean?" he finally whispered, clearing his throat again and taking a step into the kitchen, the floor totally covered he realized not only in pans, but also a stream of milk and piles of white sugar scattered about.
Marco said his name again, this time a little louder, "Jean?"
Even though he had been standing in the same room for more than five minutes, Jean still jumped with wide eyes and almost slipped on the mess from the floor to find Marco treading carefully through the same disaster area.
"You're home already?!" he said, louder than originally intended. He hadn't been keeping an eye on the clock and glancing down at his watch realized that it was much later than he thought. Marco was actually late coming home tonight. When he heard Marco's reply it only confirmed his disbelief,
"Already? Jean it's 10 o'clock."
All he could manage to get out was
"O-Oh sorry I didn't realize it was so late. I just...decided to do some late night...baking?" feeling the embarrassment climbing up his neck and into his face.
Marco stopped staring at the floor trying to navigate across the mess and looked up to where Jean stood red-faced just a few feet away. He couldn't help but feel the smile break across his face almost subconsciously.
"Jean?"
"What."
"Were you...baking something for me?"
He could tell by the bright crimson Jean's face turned and the way his grip on the glass bowl tightened that his guess was right.
"Maybe. Why, does it really matter anyway?"
"Oh it doesn't, I was just curious."
Jean turned his face away and set the bowl with the failed cake mix down with a slight clatter.
Then he felt a pair of arms slowly encircle his hips, a head firmly nestle itself into the crook of his neck and head where it always fit so perfectly.
"Why are you so sweet JeanJean?"
He felt a tick of annoyance but still smiled in spite of it,
"I told you to stop calling me that stupid nickname."
Marco stepped closer, pressing his chest into Jean's back and planting a kiss on his ear. "You know you like the stupid nickname."
Jean sighed but said nothing, only confessing to himself that he only liked the stupid nickname when it was Marco saying it.