[Fic] Cupcakes

[kamaete]

 Rating: Teen

Pairing: Gamzee/Karkat {◊}
Prompt: This post.  

Write about someone baking cupcakes for a specific purpose. What is it? Are they baking for an event? To eat their feelings due to tragic heartbreak? To poison someone? Be creative.  

Notes: 912 words of nonsense. :|

 

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       Baking is simultaneously relaxing, nostalgic, painful and bittersweet. It brings back memories of a simpler time, a time when you didn’t have to really be thinking too much and you knew what was miracles and never really gave a second thought to daymares. You used to bake pies: green slippery, soporific pies that about ate out your thought matter and chased away daymares for as long as you were indulging. If you just hadn’t run out, you think you’d be fine with the way that went on. Your thinkpan slowly rotting away never bothered you much before you had to actually get on with dealing with it and then you weren’t really all up and being cognizant of whether you wanted the sopor back and the hole bigger, big enough to drown in, or if you wanted to attempt to plug that wretched black abyss back the fuck up. Karkat made the decision for you and you’re not sure if you think it’s the right one.

 

 

You don’t dwell on things from the past, at least you up and give a stand up try. If you happen to cross a thought about something that happened before you aren’t just going to outright dismiss it, not before it has a chance to be proving itself amenable. You admit that a lot of the memories are not, in fact, amenable.

Quietly you hum under your breath; the beat to a slam you’ve been turning over in your think pan. You’re not all that sure of the actual words quite yet, but you’ll get there when you get there. There’s no use rushing everything, forced words always sound like trapped flutterbeasts thrashing wings against cage bars. You make nonsense noises in place of words, keeping you mouth busy as your hands stir batter and grab at ingredients.

With the consistency perfect as you’re going to get it, you pour the batter into the little cupcake molds, not really registering or caring when small droplets miss their mark and land on the counter. You’ll clean it up later, no use worrying about it now. The cupcakes go into the heatificator, you don’t set a buzzer, and you get out another bowl and start on frosting. You like making frosting; you didn’t frost your pies so you never knew how fun it was to whip up some good stuff and slather it on a cake and paint motherfucking amazing murals that you can eat. These little cakes aren’t going to be elaborate though, just some default non-colored frosting. Some sprinkles if you can be finding any.

There is no special occasion today, just Karkat coming to visit but in your heart you know what something as simple as a visit is a moment to be treasured and so you’re baking cupcakes. You’re palebro will huff and puff his cheeks out but you know that he really gets his appreciation on to sweets and baked goods and if you can make him happy you consider your job well done.

You finish whipping the frosting and shove it in the fridge. The smell of rising sweet bread permeates the cooking block and you check the little cupcakes. They’re starting to brown a bit, their fluffly little tops mushrooming over the lip of the container. You can stare at this for hours. You have before; those sweet treats turned out much less sweet and much more burnt then you’d hoped they’d be.

That had made you irrationally sad. They were the first time you tried your hand at baking non-pies and Karbro had been looking forward to the things and when they came out black and crispy and not so motherfucking edible he’d been really pissed off. He’d yelled some and you got mad some and all you’d been able to see were these charred little things that you’d destroyed and ruined and what even were you thinking trying to actually do something for your palest of pitymates?

What when your motherfucking damndest efforts gave back nothing but an upset moirail and you can’t even try to calm him down you’re so wound up yourself because you’re just a magnificent screw up aren’t you sopor addled and with your horns jammed crooked into your think matter—

You and Karkat had a wicked feelings jam though, and he’d papped your face enough for the both of you to calm down. It wasn’t a big deal, he said, you could make more later it’s not a federal fucking crime, sorry I got so upset with you, you’d think I’d accused you of killing grubs or something.

Of course you still stare at the miracle in the heating unit—those little pieces of flour and baking soda and cluckbeast ovum are rising all on their own, who even told them to up and do that?—waiting for their time to be taken out of the heat and cooled down and decorated. Little white diamonds, you think. That’d be motherfucking perfect.

And later, when Karkat does show up at your door he gets the best look on his face when he smells the cloying perfume of your treats. When he sees your palest affections laid right in front of him he gets that look that says you’re my miracle because you’ve done something romantic and good and perfect in that sloppy way that makes Karkat not really smile but mumble something not quite as vitriolic as normal. And you’re the luckiest motherfucker in this new planet.