Care for me (L. S.)

19

Tuesday the 22nd of September | Harry

Niall and Harry were leaning against the kitchen counter with confused looks on their faces.

"It says you need to whisk until smooth," Niall read out loud, holding the cookbook in his hands.

"That doesn't sound right. Give me that," Harry demanded, not trusting Niall for a single second.

Niall held the book behind his back. "What?! You think I'm making this up? Harry, you know that I can't cook for shīt, right?! How am I supposed to make up instructions?"

Harry raised one eyebrow, thinking about the last time Niall helped him cook and accidentally read an instruction from the wrong recipe. He ended up ruining the birthday cake by putting vodka on it and setting it on fire. Turns out, figgy pudding and chocolate cake are not the same thing!

"Just give me the book, Niall!" he said, losing his patience a bit.

Niall put on a pout. "But...but I'm supposed to be your little helper! If I can't read the instructions or hand you things- because you think I'm gonna drop them- then how am I supposed to help you?"

"Well you can start by giving me the instructions so I can make sure you didn't read the wrong ones."

Niall blushed at that, remembering the events from Liam's birthday party last year.

"In my defense, both instructions were typed in the same font style! They really should forbid that. I mean it's seriously deceiving, so..."

Harry was absolutely not going to agree with him when he was acting so ridiculous.

"I agree actually. It's obviously the cookbook's fault. If I were you, mate, I'd demand the publisher to write me a personal apology. Or even better: they should be banned from all kitchens for the rest of their lives."

Niall looked at the cookbook and then back at Louis. "S not funny," he said, placing the book in Harry's outstretched hand dejectedly.

Then he shuffled away, claiming he'd help set the table.

"I didn't take you for a waffle man," Louis said, grinning at him out of the corner of his eye. He looked far too pleased with the fact he bullied Niall out of the kitchen.

"Really?" He wiped his flowery hands on his trousers and looked at him in surprise, his heart fluttering slightly because Louis was in his house and he looked soft even though he was covered in about-to-be-yellow bruises.

If you had told him yesterday he would be baking waffles with Louis Tomlinson smiling at him, he'd tell you to stop joking. Ok maybe he'd tell you to 'shut the fuck up': he was really angry at everyone yesterday. He really didn't mean to ask Louis to come over at his house, but it somehow just happened, and he was a smidge proud of himself for doing it.

"Well I am, obviously. But I'm also big on pancakes." He dipped a spatula in the batter, forgot what he was doing and read the instruction for the twentieth time. Not that he was distracted. No. Nope. Not in the slightest.

"Is this the point you tell me you're a baker?" If Louis had stood closer, he would probably have nudged him or something. Instead he rolled his eyes. "I was a baker," he corrected, while adding a bit more salt to the batter. "I'm not anymore. But I still make pancakes and cookies all of the time."

"Pancakes are my favourite food," Louis said, yawning behind his hand. Harry had no idea when Louis had started to open up to him, but now that he shared this piece of information about himself, as small as it was, he wanted to know all of it. He wanted to ask why he liked pancakes so much, if his parents made it when he was a child, if he can make his own and what he likes to put on top. He also wanted to ask him a million questions unrelated to pancakes.