“Meh,” he murmured, chopping lightly roasted pecans and popping one in his mouth. “Not so much.” Another lie, well, not technically. There were dozens of people who owed his father, therefore him, just not because of baking. They wish, he thought amused.
He was about to pour some elf-made honey when he noticed, and he almost didn’t, the slightly forced tone of the most recent joke. He quickly hid a pang of regret. Might have went too far with the flirting bit, he thought sadly, the mask on his face unbroken, I don’t even know if he likes guys.
He pushed that thought down, marshalled his will, as he was taught, and smiled yet again. “Thanks for not calling me snotty,” he continued, whisking the mixture, “though I’m sure Prince would disagree.” He reached for some cinnamon behind the boy, trying his best to look casual. “My mother,” he explained, “grew up rich, and pampered.” As all rich Purebloods are wont to be. “So she never got to cook for herself, even though she enjoyed watching their family’s maids do it.”
He added a touch of caramel, and a tiny hint of nutmeg, all with ease, and without pause, regardless of his inner turmoil. “So when she married my Father, she basically obsessed about cooking him meals, that all our maids had to do everyday was teach her hand-me-down family recipes.” He managed a fond smile, lost for a moment in memory. “being an only child, I guess she just sucked me in on the whole project.”
A grimace. “Even my grandmother, on my Father’s side, got into the whole project.” He made a funny face, a testament to the iron will that he used to reign in whatever he was starting to feel for the other boy “I guess I have a weird family.”
titsay
snowghoul
germansingergirl
origamiaround
gummygunk
theartofmadeline
janainaart
