Arthur scoured the cabinets in his kitchen for everything he and Alfred would need. Flour was a must, along with baking powder and sugar. Did cakes require vanilla extract? Or was that just cookies? He couldn't remember for the life of him. You would think that after five years of making cakes from scratch twice a year he would have the recipe memorized. He didn't even know why he was bothering with getting out the ingredients.

Certainly Alfred would be too busy with Penny to bother with a tradition. But it was a tradition, one that Alfred dogged him about year after year after year, it wasn't something he could just cancel on because he got a girlfriend.

His phone on the counter, though, hadn't gotten a text all day from the American, even after he had sent him his usual Happy Birthday message. It was strange and unusual for Alfred, but his birthday was on a Saturday, so he had probably stayed up the whole Friday night, doing some stupid football thing or other.

It was tempting to search a recipe, but as much as he denied it, it was incredible fun to fuck up horribly every year. Only when Arthur turned thirteen did the two of them manage to make something that resembled a cake, but it was unbaked in the center. They put it back into the oven and turned the temperature higher, but ten minutes later black smoke was pouring out of the oven.

Arthur found himself smiling without thinking about it, the memory something very dear to him, despite how much he tried to convince himself he hated Alfred. At this point, he had accepted that that wasn't how he really felt, but it was easier to keep up the facade.

His phone lit up, and within an instant he was answering it.

"Alfred, I can't remember shit about what cakes need, I feel like it's been so long since we made the cake for my birthday, but it's only been a few months now," he said.

"Arthur."

He ignored Alfred and continued speaking. "I've got the flour and the sugar, the baking whatever-it-is, do cakes need milk or water?"

"Arthur, please stop for a few minutes," Alfred said.

Arthur couldn't be bothered, whatever the other boy had to say could wait. "What temperature do we usually set the oven to? Would somewhere around four hundred be okay?"

"Arthur, stop it,"Alfred snapped. Arthur instantly fell silent, it was strange to hear him sound so angry. Alfred groaned, Arthur could see him rubbing his face in an exhausted way. "Arthur I can't make it."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, his voice small. He could feel his heart practically tearing in two.

"I'm hanging out with Penny today, we're going to see a movie, we'll make a cake next year," Alfred said.

Arthur's fingers gripped his phone so tightly he thought he was going to break it. "Alfred, this is tradition. You're a stereotypical American, you're all about tradition! You can't just not!"

"Arthur, no," Alfred said, his voice crisp again. "Ever since I started dating Penny you've been mean, and you haven't been fun to be around. I know you're a naturally grumpy person, but you've taken it to another extreme. I figured maybe some time away from each other would be best." Arthur couldn't hink of anything to say to that. What was he supposed to say to that? Was that really what Alfred thought of him? "Arthur, are you there...?" he asked after the silence stretched on for far too long.

"Yes," Arthur said. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks."

Alfred ended the call, and all Arthur wanted to do was scream and throw his phone across the room. He knew it was immature, but Alfred was cancelling on a five year tradition they had. He'd even gotten everything set out and prepared, despite not having some of the ingredients.

Instead of throwing a fit, he dialed Francis' number, waiting just a few short rings before he answered.

"Arthur, please, if you're calling me on Alfred's birthday something must have happened, but honestly I don't care to know," he said.

Arthur curled his nose. "Listen here, frog, I've got ingredients to make a cake and Alfred flaked out so you're taking his place."

"As your unrequited love or as someone to poison with your so-called cakes?"

"If you keep up that attitude I really will poison you," Arthur snarled, "just get over here and help me make this piece of shit. You can't make it good, the point is for it to be horrible."

Francis groaned, most likely throwing a forearm over his eyes dramatically. "Arthur, cher, I am a chef, you know this. I attend a private school dedicated to furthering my culinary skills, there is no possible way I could ever make something horrible, but especially not on purpose. Why not, instead of wasting your already limited talents, we teach you how to actually cook?"

"I'll still do something wrong," Arthur said, "even if it's on purpose just so I can tarnish your reputation."

Francis laughed on the other end of the line. "Arthur, cher, I am not so famous to have a reputation. Only the people in my school and yourself really know about me. I would not call that a reputation to ruin."

"It would still be fun to see you screaming because of a ruined cake," Arthur said. "Besides, my parents planned to be gone for the whole weekend for Alfred, you might as well come over and make use of it."

"Arthur, next time you should pick your words more carefully, you sound as though you want me to have sex with you."

Arthur was stuttering and blushing within a matter of seconds. "Francis, don't you dare say things like that!"

Francis laughed. "I am only joking, please learn to take things less seriously, Arthur. I will be there in a few minutes. While you wait for me take four eggs, milk and butter out of your fridge."

"Cakes need all of those things?" Arthur asked.

"You have to be joking," Francis groaned. "No wonder you and Alfred always come down with mysterious cases of food poisoning every year."

Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes, ending the call with Francis without saying any sort of goodbye. However much he wanted to not listen to what he had said, Arthur took out all of the ingredients Francis had said and set them onto the counter next to the things he had already taken out.

.

"Arthur, that's stirring, not whisking."

"I'm doing exactly what you showed me!" Arthur snapped. He was furiously whisking together eggs, milk and vanilla.

"No, Arthur, like this." Francis snatched the bowl from Arthur and completed the task himself. The point of baking something correctly had been to teach Arthur, but really it ended with Francis doing everything for him. "Stirring is moving your whole arm, whisking is just in the wrist," he said.

Arthur groaned loudly and rolled his eyes, going over to the other side of his kitchen and watching Francis with an angry pout all over his face. Francis looked at him over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

"Stop being a shit, Arthur, and do something useful with yourself. Perhaps measure out the flour, I'm certain you can add properly."

Arthur was steaming furious, but he snatched the bag of flour and started to measure it out painstakingly into another bowl. Francis kept an eye on him as he did so, hovering closer than he needed to.

"Hopefully you know what one half added to one half is," Francis said.

"Of course I do!" Arthur had just about had enough as he continued to measure flour.

"Hm," Francis hummed quietly, falling silent after that and watching Arthur. "I'm not convinced you read the recipe either, Arthur. It calls for two and a half cups of flour, not four. Measure out the extra."

He set down the bowl of things he had been whisking, and then went to the other ingredients that needed to be measured. Arthur could have punched him, he was being obnoxiously pretentious, even for him.

"Is this how you always are in a kitchen?" Arthur growled.

Francis shook his head, finishing scooping out whatever it was he was measuring. "No, only when you're here. You're far too sulky for your own good, you know it will give you wrinkles, don't you?"

Arthur didn't respond, instead glancing from the back of Francis' head to the one-half-cup-ful of flour he had. The urge was far too tempting, but knowing Francis he would be murdered for wasting perfectly good cooking ingredients.

"Where's your baking soda, cher?"

"You put soda in cakes?"

"Arthur, please, it's a leavening agent. It's similar to baking powder. Try to use your brain once in a while. Sometimes I wonder how you are the tutor and Alfred isn't."

Arthur whipped around to stare at Francis, who was all too obviously avoiding eye contact. "I don't remember telling you about that," he said.

"Well, Arthur, maybe you should be less transparent on the internet," Francis said, punctuating each word. Arthur's stomach sank to his feet. "After all, how many British boys from Bristol are living in America with horribly American study partners who just so happen to be dating a girl he had never met until then. And how many of those boys are complaining about how horrible their lives are, even though really they are surrounded by amazing people and friends but they're just being too stubborn to see it?"

Francis went back to whatever he was doing, but Arthur was frozen. How long did Francis know? How was he ever supposed to stay active with his blog now? How many other people knew about it Certainly Francis' friends did, he was the kind of person to tell everyone about everything, as long as it wasn't something too all, Arthur only used his log to complain, it wasn't as though he was posting all of his deepest, darkest secrets for the world to see.

"You really are surrounded by many amazing people," Francis said.

.

Sometimes when everything seems wrong with the world, it might just be how you're seeing the world. A good, firm slap from a friend should help, even if they don't actually slap you just need a reminder, and that reminder feels like a slap. It happens quickly, and suddenly, but in the end it turns out to be everything you ever really needed to start seeing clearly again.

Now, none of this is to say that I've forgiven him or that everything between us is solved and everything will go back to being far less than peachy keen and squeaky, shiny happy, but at least now I know I've been being ridiculous. Sure, I don't like him,but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate his company.

Every year for both mine and his birthdays, we make cakes together, and the worse they turn out in the end, the more fun we had making them. How could I possibly say I hate those memories? I don' hate those memories, they are, in fact, some of the best memories of my life, I couldn't imagine life without biannual cake fests.

.

i saw francis car in your driveway what was he there for?

Well because you decided to ditch out on tradition, I invited him over and we made one.

Alfred didn't text back. Was he angry with Arthur? He had no right to be, of course Arthur was going to do something, with or without Alfred!

It turned out rather decently, if I do say so myself. Of course Francis did most of the cooking.

Still, Alfred didn't respond. Arthur, finally giving into the urge that had been itching at his fingertips all day long, threw his phone across the room. It slammed into the wall and then to the floor with two very loud crashes, and Francis was awake in an instant.

He rubbed his eyes and went searching for his own phone, groaning when he saw the time and Arthur still wide awake. "Cher, it's three in the morning. Please stop having a fit and get to sleep. Certainly you realize it is a vital human function?"

Arthur nodded, and shifted on the spare bed he had brought into his room. Francis, obviously, couldn't sleep on the couch or the floor or some nasty rotten old air mattress, so he had stolen Arthur's bed without a second thought, while Arthur was left on the floor on the nasty rotten old air mattress. It was uncomfortable and hurt his back, but he supposed it was Francis' way of payback after he had left Arthur alone for five minutes and come back to ruined frosting.

"How did you manage to make vanilla frosting brown?" he had asked.

"Well it said vanilla extract but I didn't read how much, so I just poured in what I thought was right," Arthur said. Francis looked like he was going to keel over and die right then and there.

"In five hours when I wake up I expect you to be asleep," Francis said. "If you don't sleep enough you'll-"

"Get wrinkles," Arthur interrupted. "I know, I know. I was talking to Alfred."

Francis was quiet for a few moments. "What did he say?"

"Practically nothing," Arthur said. He wasn't sure if he was angry or upset, but it definitely seemed to be some sort of mixture of the two. "Thank you for coming over today."

Francis smiled softly, his affection shown through throwing a rabbit stuffed toy as hard as he could in the general direction of Arthur's head. "You should be grovelling that I bothered to take time from my busy schedule to grace you with my presence."

Arthur hugged the rabbit to his chest. This one was King Henry, the only one he had kept when they moved from England. "Oh, pardon me for not realizing just how lucky I was."

"I will forgive it this time," Francis said, his words light and playful. They both stopped talking, but it was easy for them to tell that neither of them were asleep. "Please try not to let some stupid boy ruin your whole life, Arthur. He is just Alfred, and there will be one million Alfreds out there for you. In thirty years, it won't matter that he did not return your feelings."

It wasn't what Arthur wanted to hear, but he nodded. "Thank you," he said.

A/N: As a culinary student myself I really feel for Francis this chapter. The vanilla frosting turned brown due to an excess of vanilla extract is something that has happened in one of my classes and I have never been more horrified or more entertained in my life. We dared someone else to eat it for 20$ and he got sick everywhere it was a good day in the kitchen.