For those of you who read this earlier, don't panic! I broke chapter 1 into 2 chapters. Continue reading to the third chapter for the new stuff. This just made it less dense and easier to read. I hope you enjoy and sorry for the confusion.
~Kuro.
Part 2: Mix
After about two hours of Francis drilling Arthur about baking and how to avoid making inedible food, he was finally free to go. With the occasional awkward touch and comment made by the Frenchman he was oddly tame. Then again he had confessed over a century of feelings for the difficult Englishman. Resting in his hands was a stack of recipe cards, as predicted Francis had a way to make scones edible by French standards. If the French frog would eat it, chances were Alfred would too. Fortunately he had all of the ingredients to make this batch at his house. Francis took the liberty of walking Arthur through the steps not once, but five times to ensure he didn't mess them up. There were even "idiot proof notes," as he affectionately called them, in the margins. He walked up the steps to the door of his house, in moments the door was open. "Alfred?" he called curiously as he entered, "Alfie?" he called once again.
The house was still and he felt alone again, it was a feeling he was accustomed to after both of his brothers moved. Arthur's shoulders heaved a sigh before he continued into the kitchen and looked at Francis' cards. He was determined to do this, he had to get this right for Alfred. "Okay so preheat the oven to 204°C," he muttered as he read the card allowed and did as instructed. Francis had emphasized that it was important to make sure the oven was at temperature and remained stable as they cooked. "Angleterre, if it is off by the slightest degree they will not puff up and then turn out like bricks, or your excuse for a scone," Francis had explained. As much as his English pride was hurt by the comment he knew it was true. His eyes were locked on the card as he read the next set of ingredients, "Flour, unprocessed sugar, baking powder, salt, an orange, unsalted butter, 4 eggs, heavy cream," he read allowed.
All he wanted to do was make something he knew Alfred would love, in moments he had the ingredients out on the counter and was grabbing his electric mixer from the corner. Francis suggested that another reason his scones constantly failed was the fact that they weren't mixed properly. Arthur preferred to do the batter by hand, however, Francis made it quite clear that it was ineffective and suggested using the mixer instead. The image of the Frenchman keeping his distance as he explained what the batter should look like as they went along, insisting that Arthur make notes so he would remember what it was supposed to look like. In truth he didn't expect Francis to confess, the frog was always flirting with everyone. His wounded expression lingered for a moment before Arthur continued making the mixture. Oddly, the Frenchman was considerate after stating his feelings and didn't make a pass again on him.
With a silver measuring cup from the drawer he measured out the flower and used a tablespoon for the baking powder. The two white substances sat for a moment in the bowel as he looked at the cards again, "Add sugar, orange zest and a little salt," he read allowed. The smell of oranges filled the room as he slowly shaved the rind of the orange and allowed it to fall into the bowel. The smell was heavenly, a welcome wake up from the scones which he had been producing before. Perhaps this would get his point to Alfred, "Cooking is about expressing your feelings to another person through food, to create taste which leaves the person happy and warm," Francis had commented as he adjusted the speed on the mixer, "Good food brings people together, and when the chef's heart is in it, magic happens at the dining table."
Even though he was English he could understand Francis' point, it wasn't that his food was bland, it was, but it also lacked something the French had passion for, heart. Food with heart and soul, a taste which made the person eating it understand what the chef was thinking. He had witnessed this with Francis', Yao's, Kiku's and even Antonio's cooking. Even Ludwig and Vash were affectionate when they cooked. Green eyes fell on the silver bowl of the mixer, it was time to add the butter. As directed he slowed it and reached for the carton of unsalted butter. "Three quarters of a pound of butter," he said as he felt it soften in his hands. He had seen Francis soften the butter before putting it in, it seemed to make mixing easier. "Add slowly so it becomes pea sized chunks for smooth blending," he muttered as he took a knife and meticulously did so. "What if he doesn't like them?" he whispered as he watched the blades beat the batter into a stiff mix.
In truth, there was only one person Arthur made scones for, and that was Alfred. He always had one pot of tea, one of coffee and scones waiting for their meetings. It was his excuse to keep Alfred with him longer. "4 eggs," he commented as he cracked them into a separate glass to prevent shells from getting into the batter, once he had broken all four eggs. He lifted the glass to the silver bowl and watched the yellow yokes slip out of the clear glass. He slowed the blender again, and walked across the kitchen to the cabinet, he needed a container to flour the cranberries. By doing this Francis had explained that it would prevent them from clustering in the middle, which often happened. He placed some flour in the container and then gave the withered dried berries a quick toss so they were all coated. The cranberries were sweet and would accent the orange zest which, he had put in the bowel earlier. He looked at the mixer as he tapped the cranberries out of the container, the combination of the fruit and the orange was to die for. It made his stomach growl in anticipation.
Once he had finally gotten the last few cranberries out of the container, he turned his attention to the glass cutting board. All he could think about was how much he loved Alfred. He paused for a moment and whispered, "What did he mean by that?" Alfred's harsh tone and bitter words hung in his ears, he understood everything about Alfred, the only thing he didn't was what he had meant by "Is that all you think of me?" Naturally he saw Alfred as a guest, but he also saw him as so much more. He was the young man he admired, a powerful one who was determined to protect not only his beliefs but those he cared for. Those large hands cradled those in need and fought those who would harm others. The batter had firmed up a great deal and was finally ready to be pulled from the bowel, folded and cut into triangles. He had a pan prepared, it was lined with brown parchment and ready for the scones to be placed on it. The oven was up to temperature and he was making quick work of folding the dough over and over again. With each fold he thought about Alfred, his smile, his curiosity and most importantly his touch. Arthur wanted to keep it all for himself, he didn't want a woman to indulge in it. He knew it was wrong to be selfish, but he honestly couldn't stand the thought of Alfred being with a woman.
Alfred was sitting in the garden with a guitar on his lap, he didn't expect to see Arthur storm out of the house like that, he was always level headed, to see him that irritated was something new. He had called Antonio to relax and hoped that somehow the Spaniard had some divine wisdom for him. He nearly confessed his feelings for the Englishman, he knew he would have to eventually, but that didn't feel like the right moment. To tell him that he had been in love with Arthur since he was a teenager would disturb him. The sound of his guitar carried as he gently strummed, Antonio suggested that he should just confess to him, it was clear that he wouldn't be able to hide his feelings much longer. "What do I do?" he muttered as he looked at the neck of his guitar. He didn't want to yell at Arthur, he was sweet, gentle and had a smile which made him weak at the knees. At times he was serious; however, he also knew that playful and whimsical side of him. The Arthur which, loved fairies and telling folklore, who would read him tales of what it was like during medieval times and of the clash between nights, the magic of pirates on their ships, and the wonders of the world. "I'm not being much of a hero right now," he muttered as he leaned against a tree, "I'm being a coward."