(no subject)
It's not simply a matter of Quatre not knowing his way around a kitchen. In fact, it could be argued that Quatre does know his way around a kitchen: Trowa points to the fridge and Quatre gets the butter, and the milk, and the carton of eggs; and without any sort of mishap he lines them up on the counter and smiles at the ingredients all laid out.
He knows his way around a kitchen, and this is why it's so surprising when Trowa leaves to find a rag to mop up the spilt milk from the floor and a shriek echoes down the hallway to where Trowa's standing in the laundry room.
He drops the rag and slides down the hall, skidding on the hardwood floors and grabbing ahold of the doorframe to stop himself at the kitchen; he pushes his bangs from his face and, wide-eyed, looks around the kitchen for the source of Quatre's dismay.
Quatre stands in front of the oven, holding the muffin tray in one oven-mitted hand. He's blinking rapidly, his eyes large as saucers -- and he drops the tray when it's too hot, even through the mitt.
He and Trowa watch it fall and clatter, chunks of uncooled blueberry muffin breaking off and bouncing along the floor.
"Are you all right?" Trowa asks simply, and Quatre nods and slips the oven mitt off, massaging his hand.
"They looked like they were bubbling over," Quatre explains, chagrined, and Trowa half-smiles at him. "It was probably just a blueberry," he continues, and pulls a piece off one of the more-unblemished muffins, blowing on it. He holds it out to Trowa and Trowa raises an eyebrow -- and Quatre smiles encouragingly, so Trowa lets himself be fed, closing his lips around two of Quatre's fingers.
"Is it still good?" Quatre asks, and Trowa is aware of how certain things Quatre says mean more than what they seem to mean; and Trowa nods.
Quatre beams at him, and reaches for more muffin.
He knows his way around a kitchen, and this is why it's so surprising when Trowa leaves to find a rag to mop up the spilt milk from the floor and a shriek echoes down the hallway to where Trowa's standing in the laundry room.
He drops the rag and slides down the hall, skidding on the hardwood floors and grabbing ahold of the doorframe to stop himself at the kitchen; he pushes his bangs from his face and, wide-eyed, looks around the kitchen for the source of Quatre's dismay.
Quatre stands in front of the oven, holding the muffin tray in one oven-mitted hand. He's blinking rapidly, his eyes large as saucers -- and he drops the tray when it's too hot, even through the mitt.
He and Trowa watch it fall and clatter, chunks of uncooled blueberry muffin breaking off and bouncing along the floor.
"Are you all right?" Trowa asks simply, and Quatre nods and slips the oven mitt off, massaging his hand.
"They looked like they were bubbling over," Quatre explains, chagrined, and Trowa half-smiles at him. "It was probably just a blueberry," he continues, and pulls a piece off one of the more-unblemished muffins, blowing on it. He holds it out to Trowa and Trowa raises an eyebrow -- and Quatre smiles encouragingly, so Trowa lets himself be fed, closing his lips around two of Quatre's fingers.
"Is it still good?" Quatre asks, and Trowa is aware of how certain things Quatre says mean more than what they seem to mean; and Trowa nods.
Quatre beams at him, and reaches for more muffin.