august | dead poets society

𝐈. midnight bake

𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄: oneshot.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒: none.

𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐃: fluff!!

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒: they/them (any gender)

𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀/𝐍: alright, lets start this again. (also this is set outside of Welton)

Flour sprinked over wooden floors. Warm light from above. Can't Help Falling In Love playing on the radio. He pranced around the kitchen.

"Cant help falling in looveee, witthhh, yooouu", Knox belted. He was off key and loud.

I loved it.

The night was cold, and there had been nothing I could've done to go to sleep. Blankets piled on top of me, warm tea, his kisses. Just eye opening insomnia. Another second like that would have been torture. So instead, I pushed the covers off and marched into the kitchen, opening the pantry.

"What aree you doingg?", he slurred. He wasn't drunk, just like this when he was sleepy.

I didn't respond, looking past the shelves, turning cans and moving bags. There really was nothing here to work with. I should've known before visiting Knox's holiday house to bring food.

I turn to him, "Theres no ingredients to make anything!"

He thinks for a minute, still in the hallway in plaid bottoms and a jumper. Slowly, he approaches the door before looking into the very back. A hand outsretched, he reaches for something.

Chocolate chips.

And then baking soda.

And eggs.

And butter.

A small laugh erupts from inside of me, I must have been too delirious to see those ingredients. Soon, bowls and baking paper and ovens were ready and he handed me the whisk. Bowing down his eyes met mine, mischevious and knowing.

"With great power comes great responsibility"

"Shut up, Knox.

"Hm. I love you."

I poured baking soda, salt and flour, winging the measurements even when he warned me not to. Not much has been done but a mess was already created, littering the floor. Next, Knox pulled out another bowl and mixed butter and sugar until it was like dough. His measurements were exact to the milligram and he left nothing to chance. A serious baker.

I glanced at the bowl of chocolate chips. We had sneaked a few into our mouths while mixing, until we had barely enough for the cookies. I racked the pantry, but to no avail.

"Fuck, we gotta stop eating these chocolate chips!", I exclaimed in defeat. 

"No."

"Wha-"

Knox ran off with the bowl into the living room, holding it above his head in a smug grin. As he picked a chip up, I gave him a deathly glare.

"Don't. You. Dare"

Cross, he lept off the couch he was standing on and poured the chips into the mixture, along with the flour, baking soda and sugar mixture. Then came putting the dough onto the cookie sheet, and we sprayed dough onto eachother as we balled up the dough. My face was covered, at one point. He was relentless.

In went the cookies, and we passed the time listening to the music on the radio, and reading. He had just started Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. I listened to him read, devoured every word that slipped out of his lips, drank in his cheeky glances when the poems got sneaky.

Eventually, we heard a familiar ding of the oven, and Knox and I hurried to take the cookies out. An aroma filled our senses, and I used my sweater to carefully take the pan out.

"Damn. Damn good cookies," Knox smirked and took a giant bite, waving his hand like a critic. He was right, the cookies were really good. I shot him a smile and took a second one.

Snow pattered out the window, I liked that. And I told him that I liked him. Because I found out that love doesn't always have to be loud, and angry. And love can be quiet, and soft.

Like no sleep, and cookies.

𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀/𝐍:

weee lovee sleepyyy annnddd hungryyy knoxxx...