Work Text:
Lambert ran a hand through his hair, smoothing back the strands that had fallen in front of his eyes. He sighed not a second later when he remembered he hadn’t washed off the baking powder from his fingers, now coating both the side of his head and the sofa cushions which he sat on. Lambert didn’t have the energy to be angry at the blunder, even considering how much his hair meant to him on regular occasions.
His current task, baking a Christmas cake for Coen, had sapped all the life out of him and more besides. That afternoon, Lambert felt as if he’d descended into the stages of grief, but stopped at ‘depression’ without the lift that comes afterwards. He’d wanted to have it done by the time Coen got home from work but that would be cutting things fine. The fact that Coen had texted and told Lambert he’d be late was a godsend, even if Lambert could only use the time to make yet more mistakes.
Baking definitely wasn’t a talent Lambert had in his repertoire. He wasn’t good with anything vaguely kitchen-related and once even managed to stab himself while washing up. Lambert had started making the batter only to realise they’d had no four, and then when he’d returned from buying that, he’d found they’d only had one egg too. On top of that, the recipe he was following (which seemed dubious at best in Lambert’s opinion) had told him he was supposed to put raisins in a Christmas cake. Lambert didn’t have any of those and refused to drive to the supermarket a third time so settled with using chocolate chips instead.
He just hoped Coen wouldn’t mind the adaptation to his mother’s recipe, even if Lambert knew and minded the deviation very much. He knew that Coen missed his mum more around Christmas time, and that his boyfriend had been a little down about it recently. Lambert had wanted to do at least one thing to make up for that.
The redhead was tense as he waited for the timer on his phone to count down to zero, the cake safely in the oven. He’d checked it every thirty seconds or so since he’d sat down on the sofa, a mixture of weariness and tenseness preventing him from focusing on whatever was playing on the TV. Lambert didn’t want to jinx things by going out to check on the cake. Momentarily, he even debated just driving back to the shop and buying one to pass off as his own work. But Coen knew that his cooking skills were lacking (to put it mildly), if the cake was too good, Coen would know something was up.
When the shrill timer on his phone sounded, Lambert practically bolted from his seat and over to the oven. He barely remembered to put on their oven gloves before opening the door. Inside, the cake looked.... Perfect.
Despite the adaptations and the stress that had gone into making it, the cake looked better than Lambert could have dreamed. His shoulders sagged as he relaxed, the majority of his tension melting away when he realised he’d succeeded in the endeavour. Lambert could only hope it tasted as good as it looked; but, presentation wise, it might have been his best work. ‘Maybe I’m not too bad at this baking lark, after all.’ Lambert thought and allowed himself a smile as he reached inside.
He handled the cake tin with the utmost care, hands feeling strange in the thick padding of the oven gloves. ‘How the fuck can Coen do anything with these on?’ He wondered as the tin wobbled precariously as he moved it into one hand, closing the oven door with the other. Lambert moved to adjust the tin and secure his grip but-
The cake slipped from Lambert’s grasp, tin and all.
It landed on the floor with a dull splat.
Lambert stood, staring down at the now ruined cake and blinking rapidly for a long moment. He’d spent the majority of his afternoon on that cake - practically sold his soul for this to go well. It felt as if God was laughing at him, guffawing at Lambert’s ineptitude when it came to baking.
He wanted to punch something. But everything within arm’s reach, Lambert liked and didn’t want to ruin. Instead, quite uncharacteristically for Lambert, he simply started crying. Dry sobs seized him, followed quickly by tears. He was glad there was no one around to see him as he cried pathetically in the kitchen over an upturned cake. The fact that Lambert was crying over something so trivial only made him cry more, frustrated at himself. Can’t fuckin’ do anything right!’ He thought biggerly. Lambert was such a failure, considering so many things, and Coen was too nice to say anything about it. His boyfriend was out of his league and everyone knew it, Lambert most of all. He’d always been the fuck up and it was only a matter of time before Coen realised that. Some things never change.
Elsewhere in the house, Lambert heard the front door slam. His head snapped up, alarmed. Coen wasn’t as late home as he’d expected.
“Lamb? I’m back! Sorry I took so long, you wouldn’t believe-” Coen cut himself off as he entered the room, Lambert’s red, tear-stained cheeks and the mess of the kitchen immediately obvious to him.
Fuck, Lambert had forgotten about the mess. He recoiled in shame. Coen might not show it, but he was probably angry with the state of things. ‘Shit, why am I such a fuck up?’
“Sorry… I’m about to clean up…” Lambert sniffed, trying and failing to keep his voice steady.
For a heartbeat, Coen was silent. But then his face softened immensely and he paced over to where Lambert was slumped, wasting no time in taking the other by the hips and drawing him into a tight hug. Lambert resisted briefly before he let him.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” The question prompted a resumption in Lambert’s tears. The redhead didn’t realise how much he’d needed to be comforted until then. It was rare he even allowed himself to. But once lambert caught himself leaning into the embrace, he began to fight it.
“I’m fine…” His voice wobbled, indicating that he was certainly not fine. Lambert pulled back and rubbed desperately at his eyes to remove any traces of tears, but it only served to make them redder and more blood-shot. He tried to pry Coen’s hands from around his waist but the other man wouldn’t budge.
“What happened to make you this upset?” Coen regarded the floor and the mess that still covered the worktops before he continued. “Was it whatever you were making?” He sounded so sympathetic that Lambert was powerless to stop himself from nodding reluctantly. Coen hummed. “Can I help?”
“There’s no point.” Coen looked down, head almost on Coen’s shoulder and sniffed again, nose becoming blocked from his crying. “Whole bloody thing went on the floor… fuckin’ ruined now…” To illustrate the point, Lambert kicked the upturned cake tin, sending it flying and clattering into the cabinets, chunks of cake flying out and littering the floor. Immediately, Lambert felt guilty for making even more mess, especially since he knew Coen would insist on being the one to clean it.
“Hey, hey, you’re ok…” Coen was there immediately to placate him. And, the bastard, knew just how to do it. “It’s just a cake, no harm done…” Lambert tried to relax but couldn’t quite let the failure go.
“I wanted to make it for you… like your mum used to… I know you’ve been stressed too so I wanted to make this special…” He grumbled. Although he spoke of his own volition, Lambert sounded very like a child who’d been forced to apologise for a prank. Coen only sighed in response and drew Lambert back into another hug, guiding Lambert to wrap his arms around him too.
“Thank you for trying, darling - I mean that. This evening can still be special, I promise it will be…” As Lambert settled into his hug, Coen was keenly aware of his hands at his waist, tantalisingly close to the bulge in the back of Coen’s jean pocket, the engagement ring and it’s box at the forefront of Coen’s mind.