#our very own Lukas Landmann

[everwitch-magiks]

dance with somebody (ch. 21)

start from ch. 1 | back to ch. 20

Louis is tired.

It's been a bit of a week. He's had two mock business proposals to finish, plus a pretty big presentation on innovative concepts in virtual-reality entertainment, and consequently, he's spent far too much time trying to recall annoyingly specific descriptors in the English language. And here’s the thing – Louis knows English, okay? He's got the fluency, and certainly the vocabulary. It's not his fucking fault that there's simply no way to translate skräckblandad förtjusning (meaning: mixed feelings of fear and delight, except not quite) while actually retaining that completely essential connotation of sky high adrenaline rush in the best and worst way possible.

He needs a fucking break.

On Saturday morning, he wakes up late and puts on his favorite jeans and a faded The Ark t-shirt. He packs his backup bluetooth speakers (Nursey's still hogging his best ones, but considering how that's somehow become a major factor in Louis's current strategy for dibs, he's certainly not about to ask for them back) and sets off to make the short trek across campus. When he opens the door to the Haus, he is for once not greeted by the pleasant smell of freshly baked goods.

Perfect.

Louis whistles as he sets up his speakers on the kitchen counter and puts on his playlist of ultimate guilty pleasures, aptly titled how can I resist you. He collects a bowl from the usual cupboard and digs through the pantry and fridge for the right ingredients. He doesn't need to look up the recipe. Hasn't needed to for years, now.

He's carefully stirring sugar and eggs together when Hops enters the kitchen.

“You’re baking,” Hops says, and really, he has no business sounding so surprised. Hops baked, like, less than two days ago. Someone’s always baking. “And, wait. Is that ABBA?”

Since the opening of Waterloo is literally blasting from his speakers, Louis doesn’t even bother trying to deny it. He shrugs, instead, and winces as Hops starts to hum along to the lyrics. It takes Hops approximately half the first verse before he realises that Louis isn’t actually playing the English version.

Hops quiets, and looks over towards Louis’s baking project, instead. He grins.

“Hey. Is that gonna be, like, a cake?”

“I mean, kind of.”

Louis starts measuring his dry ingredients in a second bowl, moving mostly on autopilot. Flour. Salt. Cocoa powder.

“You might wanna whisk those eggs, my friend,” Hops says, his tone annoyingly important. “That’s what Dex says, if you wanna get that cake nice and airy-”

“I don’t,” Louis cuts in. “It’s not that kind of cake.”

“Huh.” Unfortunately, Hops sounds completely fascinated. “What kind of cake is it?”

Louis sighs. Fuck. More terminology.

“I think it’s called a mud cake, in English,” he explains, wincing at the words despite the fact that he just chose them himself. “That’s not a literal translation from Swedish, though, and it honestly sounds dumb. Who wants to eat mud?”

“What’s it called in Swedish, then?”

Louis grimaces. “Uh. Sticky cake? Basically. Which sounds way more appetizing in Swedish, I promise. Anyway, it’s actually something of a classic.”

“So it’s, like, traditional?” Hops says, his eyes lighting up. “That’s really cool, man.”

“No, not really, it’s more…” Louis begins, only to trail off. This is actually exactly what he’s been trying to completely avoid, today. “Sorry, Hops, can I just finish baking?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Hops takes a couple of steps back. He looks mildly confused. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Hops wanders out of the kitchen. Someone else comes down the stairs, and Louis barely registers a hushed conversation in the hallway. Moments later, he’s joined by Whiskey, instead.

Whiskey nods towards him, and makes a beeline for the pot of coffee.

Louis finishes his batter and pours it into a springform pan. He pops it in the oven and sets a timer on his phone. There.

When he looks up again, he finds Whiskey watching him over a cup of coffee.

Whiskey doesn’t look merely tired. No, Whiskey looks fucking exhausted. Louis belatedly remembers that he hasn’t actually seen Whiskey for a few days, that there's been hushed whispers all week about Whiskey’s sudden and completely unexplained absence. Yet despite all of that, Whiskey has evidently found the time and energy to stick around in the kitchen, just now, and wait for Louis to look his way. Their eyes meet, and Whiskey raises both eyebrows slightly, his expression one of mild concern and careful curiosity.

“It’s nothing,” Louis says, before Whiskey has even asked. “I’m just… I get really tired, sometimes.”

“I get that,” Whiskey says. He’s nodding slowly. “It’s been a really tough season.”

“It’s not… This is different.” Louis pauses. It’s a little easier, this time, to find the right words. “I’m tired of people not getting things. I’m tired of having so many things nobody gets."

"Like cake," Whiskey says lightly, and okay, Hops has definitely put him up to this. "Do you wanna tell me about it?"

Louis shakes his head.

"I'm so fucking tired of telling people shit, I just… I miss just being. I miss not constantly looking for the right words. I miss home."

"Ah," Whiskey says. He's nodding again. "Okay. I don't exactly get that, but that's kind of your whole point, isn't it?"

"A little bit, yeah." Louis almost smiles. "Sorry, I don't mean to dump all of my shit on you. You probably have enough going on, at the moment."

"Let's not talk about me," Whiskey says evasively, and alright, apparently that's not a conversation they're about to have, right now. "Listen, do you wanna… Okay, this might sound sort of stupid."

Louis raises both eyebrows.

"Try me."

"Talk to me in Swedish, for a bit."

"What?" Louis frowns. "I'm afraid you'd find that entirely incomprehensible."

"No, I know." Whiskey smiles slightly. "I promise I'll still nod and hum in all the right places. Okay?"

Despite that reassurance, Louis hesitates. It honestly sounds really fucking dumb. Whiskey is watching him sort of expectantly, though, and fuck it, he might as well try. Because if Whiskey has for some reason made it his mission to cheer Louis up despite the fact that Whiskey’s clearly got some sort of huge, unacknowledged crisis of his own to deal with, the very least Louis can do is humour him.

"Det kommer dröja minst fem månader innan jag får träffa min lillsyrra igen, och alltså, hon är skitjobbig, men det är ändå fan inte okej."

Louis pauses. Whiskey is nodding, as promised, and his expression actually looks just the right level of sympathetic.

Huh.

Louis keeps talking.

He tells Whiskey about his other siblings, too, about his two older brothers who are actually occasionally even worse than his sister. It's kind of a miracle that he misses them all as much as he does. He talks about his stupidly boring home town, about that one coffee place that's clearly superior to all the rest and the outdoor rink that's right by the lake, about his mom's cinnamon buns and a fresh sheet of ice and that gorgeous sunrise and his best friend right there, lacing up her skates next to Louis and prattling on about some new band she's just discovered that Louis absolutely must listen to, and-

Louis's phone buzzes.

Immediately, Louis cuts himself off mid-sentence and practically lounges for the oven mittens. He carefully takes out the cake, which to the untrained looks like it's not quite done, yet. 

Fucking perfection.

"Hey, now," Whiskey says. He sounds amused. "I'm sure five more seconds would've been fine."

"Är du dum på riktigt, eller, tänk om…" Oh. Right. "And risk overbaking this baby? Not on my watch."

"If you say so." Whiskey looks a bit curious. "I think I actually caught, like, two or three words out of all that. One of them was definitely idiot."

"Probably." Louis shrugs. "You should meet my siblings, sometime."

"I'd have to brush up on my Swedish, first."

"Nah. Clearly, you're a natural."

Whiskey smiles, and Louis actually finds it fairly easy to smile back. He feels a little less tense, compared to before. A little more grounded.

"So. Turns out that wasn't completely pointless." Louis grins. And then, because it feels like that kind of moment, he continues. "I'm gonna vote for you, you know. As captain."

Something very complicated passes over Whiskey's expression.

"I know you're gonna do great," Louis adds. God, why is Whiskey looking at him like that? He must know that he's basically guaranteed to be chosen, already. Everyone knows. "And we're all gonna have your back. Alright?"

"Thanks, man." Whiskey's not quite meeting his eyes. "I should, uh. I've got to go."

"You should have some cake," Louis says firmly. He digs out a spoon from the top drawer and carefully traces it along the inside of the springform pan, before removing the sides. The slice he cuts only just holds together. He grins in satisfaction as he hands Whiskey the plate. "Here. You won't regret it, I promise."

Whiskey barely smiles. He still looks a bit shaken up. Louis wonders if he should mention this to Dex, or Tango and Ford, or maybe to that one water polo kid who's always hanging around the Haus, lately. To someone Whiskey actually talks to about stuff.

"Oh my God."

Whiskey has taken his first bite. He's staring at his plate in disbelief.

"What the… This is, like, some sort of fucking chocolate heaven. In my mouth. What the fuck." He takes another bite. "Why aren't you making this every day, always?"

"Kitchen's usually busy, isn't it?" Louis serves himself a generous slice. "Glad you like it, though."

"I'm gonna need more of this, like, yesterday," Whiskey says decisively, just as at least three people enter the kitchen at once.

"You baked, Louis? 'Swasome."

"Fuck, that smells so good."

"Plates! We need plates!"

Even in the middle of the general mayhem that ensues, Louis doesn't miss the fact that Whiskey cuts himself an extra slice before he's even finished his first, locates a second spoon and quietly leaves the kitchen. Which all seems a little excessive, maybe, but Whiskey's evidently going through some shit right now, and if plenty of cake and a high quantity of cutlery is what's gonna get him through it, Louis won't judge.

"Hey," Jader says, already halfway through his second slice. "That guy on your shirt looks pretty hot. Who is he?"

"He's a singer." Louis reaches for his phone. The best thing about music is, it never needs to be explained. "And a fucking legend. Take a deep breath, okay? You're in for quite a ride."

He puts on It Takes A Fool To Remain Sane, and serves himself a second slice.

ch. 22