Magnolia in May [H.S]

Part eighteen

***

Harry

The consuming heat of the kitchen engulfs me, the sweet vapor of cinnamon, and washed-out vanilla wafts through the air. I callously wipe the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve, fixing the red-orange bandanna around my curls. I take a step back, sighing at the chaotic picture bestowed upon me. A mountainous tray of chocolate chip muffins and apple turnovers. And more baking in the oven, waiting to drown out this setting further with goods.

You might have a problem.

What can I say? The thing I do to cope with stress happens to be making baked goods. So being a stress-baker and guilty meant I spent six hours and a half, slaving away in the kitchen. And for what? It's not like I had anybody to share it with.

When I shake awake at eight in the morning, instantly I'm hit with the not so docile wind. Tepid, from the window I forgot to close beside me. Mindlessly I track, watching the snowfall with my drowsy hungover eyes. I couldn't go back to sleep with everything I did plaguing my conscience, so I laid awake.

Taking mental Polaroids of each and every little flake that fell. Eventually, an hour had passed and it seemed like a rational idea. 'Go ahead Harry.' I told myself, getting up from the comfort of my warm sheets. 'Get up and make a nice batch of muffins'. And I did, I got up out of the bed, shivering at the flurries pilling outside, the cloud cover that darkened the sky so intensely it didn't look like morning time.

Next thing I know I'm surrounded by endless trays of baked goods. One muffin batch turned into five dozen and then I decided I wanted turnovers. Big mistake. So a singular turnover spiraled into three dozen.

What the fuck am I gonna do with sixty-five muffins and thirty-nine apple fucking turnovers.

I stare at the abundance of sweets, rubbing my bottom lip with deep thought. How did I end up here? Oh, I don't know Harry, maybe because you feel like shit and figured mindless baking would fix that. News flash! it didn't. And now I've got tons of food that are just gonna go to waste, way to make yourself feel like a worse person.

My head throbbed as I scurried around the kitchen cleaning up, distracting myself further from last night's happenings. But with the pester of my hangover, it was all I could think about. Like a constant punishing reminder for my behavior. I sigh running both my hands through my tied-back hair.

The door down the hall creaks open, Niall trudges out. Slumped over, he sauntered over to the kitchen. Shielding his eyes from the bright yellow fluorescent light, rubbing them like a tired child.

"The hell are you doing...." He mumbles duly, blinking his eyes intensely.

"Drowning my sorrows..." I reply, taking the last tray out of the oven, he scowls. Sitting on one of the stools by the breakfast nook.

"Since when have you turned into the muffin man..." He scoffs, watching me at an anxious pace around the counters. I shrug my shoulders at him, handing him a muffin. He gives me an impressed look, taking the muffin in his hands.

"So... what's with the baking frenzy? What sorrows are you drowning with cinnamon and sugar?" He utters, stuffing the muffin in his mouth like a savage. I keep my eyes to the floor shaking my head.

"This is about last night... isn't it."

"No shit Sherlock." I sass, rolling my eyes.

"Woah, you need to get that temper under control.." He smirks, I grimace.

"I'm not in the mood Niall... can you just fuck off...." I say bitter, taking the wrapper from his muffin and chucking it in the bin.

"Alright... what're you gonna do with all this.." He remarks, tracking the entirety of the kitchen with his tired blue eyes.