Compared to Miriam, Malachi’a hands were burning.

Arthur had never been so happy to touch fire.  It was refreshing, comforting, cleansing.  For just a moment, his fingers tightened against Malachi’s leg.  I’m okay, he wanted to say.  We’re okay.

“Bake is - a generous word, for what I do,” he answered sheepishly.  “I’ve been trying to learn my whole life, but I always seem to beg something wrong, even if I follow the recipe exactly.  Same with cooking -ah, I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”

Truly, he couldn’t give less of a shit about the food he ate if he tried.  Food was fuel, and he wasn’t picky about it, as long as it kept him going.

Malachi said he could cook, and Arthur wondered how proficient he was at it.  Regardless of his skill, Arthur would devour anything he made, and… perhaps he’d make an effort in any food he made for Malachi, too.

When Arthur glanced at the man’s plate, he had barely touched his dessert.  The main dinner dish had been much the same.  Again, he worried about his diet.

Just a little higher up and a little further back was Malachi himself.  Looking at him like this, Arthur could see the elegant shape of his nose and the flutter of his eyelashes.  His soft lips, bitten and bruised.  As always, he was gorgeous.

“Something as delicious as this cake, though, I think it would break my heart not to bake it to perfection.  Really, I must get the recipe from someone before I go.  Whitby cannot live without this cake!”