Page 10 of Baking Battles

At first, he doesn’t register it. The warm skin against his own hand.

Then Mattias wakes up and he’s still holding on… to skin. Warm skin under his fingers, his phone screeching out with that ringtone he uses for his alarm. It annoys the crap out of him but it’s the only ringtone he trusts, living on his own and knowing his own penchant for slamming his hand down on the snooze button, then waking up minutes later with panic hammering in his chest.

His hand jerks away from Christopher’s arm, like he has been burnt. Then he puts it back, by instinct. Shaking vigorously. Like that is what he was doing all along. Waking him up, the man in bed next to him. The one who is curled up in all the duvet, wrapped up like a human snail in his cosy home, whilst Mattias is shivering in his t-shirt and briefs. He hadn’t noticed that either.

“Christopher!!” He urges. Shaking again.

“Comfy,” Christopher grunts back from somewhere deep under the covers.

“Up. We have like forty-five minutes until we need to be on a bus. Danijel will kill me if I make you late. He’s a real stickler for starting on time, you’ll notice.” Mattias tries, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and fumbling for his dressing gown. He’s cold. He’s so freaking cold.

“I’ve known Danijel since I was twelve. He won’t kill me. He’ll just hold a grudge for like years. We won’t be late, and anyway, Danijel loves me. Really. We’re getting a taxi, because I don’t do buses. Or trams. People asking for selfies at seven in the morning, when everyone looks like shit. Ugh.”

Christopher makes no sense, trying to sit up, still rolled up in the duvet. Grunting a little and yawning unashamedly whilst Mattias just shudders. Too many strange thoughts about the man sitting in his bed. Too much skin. Too much weirdness.

“Coffee?” He offers. Scratching his head. Wondering why this feels fine. It’s nothing even likefine, but somehow. Weird. It’s weird. Weird, but fine.

“Nah, never liked it. Have you got green tea? Scrap that, I have my own tea bags. Just some hot water. I can sort it.”

“I’m about to go on a baking competition today. I’m pretty sure I can manage to boil some water.” Mattias calls out, shuffling through the living room to the kitchen, as his stomach sinks again. Fuck. He was supposed to research. Figure out some recipes. Crap.

“Have you got your plan of action for today? What are you baking?” Christopher asks from over his shoulder, like he can read Mattias’s mind.

“No clue, mate.” Mattias huffs as Christopher’s laughter fills the room. “It’s not funny Christopher.” he scolds over Christopher’s now muffled giggles.

“Danijel said you were panicking. Don’t worry. I mean, it’s only pancakes for the technical.”

“I’ve never made pancakes.” Mattias mumbles. “I buy them ready made, frozen, you know, for ease.”

“Oh Mattias.” Christopher sounds sympathetic. Or maybe he is taking the piss. It’s hard to tell, with the little giggles that tend to follow Christopher around. Like he is constantly in a good mood. Like nothing seems to get him down. Apart from hotels, and apparently according to Christopher muttering beside him, an irrational fear of public transport. And normal people. And taking selfies with strangers before eight in the morning. Which does kind of make sense, maybe, Mattias thinks, as he hands Christopher a cup, and carefully angles the saucepan that he has been heating up on the stove as his Nespresso machine bubbles and spurts out it’s morning song of hot liquid gold into Mattias’s cup. He loves his coffee. Always has. Not that Sara approves of his extravagant coffee pods and stupid machines compared to her bloody smoothie maker and expensive wheatgrass shite. But anyway, it’s his machine. His coffee. And Christopher stirs his tea bag, flashing another smile Mattias’s way as he takes a sip.

“Sit down Mattias. Let’s hash this out then.” he says, and Mattias sits down. Like it’s a command and an order.

“Pancakes. Four eggs, and 400 ml milk and 200 ml flour. Pinch of salt. Add the flour to the milk through a sieve so it doesn’t go all lumpy, and make sure your batter is runny with a little thickness to it. Keep an eye on your heat, ensure that you do a small test pancake to get the colour right before you do your main batch.” Christopher stares at Mattias. Nods. “Are you following me?”

“Yeah. Think so. How do you know all this anyway?” Mattias has to ask. Because. Well. It’s a competition. Christopher could be setting him up for all he knows.

“I’m not setting you up or anything, promise.” Christopher laughs. “Don’t look so sceptical. My parents ran a restaurant before they retired, and we lived in the flat above it. Then I lived with a chef for a while, yeah, but you already know Isolde. She’s a fantastic chef, and she taught me stuff, and I kind of know the basics of kids food anyway, since I am a very good babysitter.” He’s still smiling, despite it being far too early in the morning for Mattias. “So… what are you doing for your showcase?”

“I was thinking a batch of muffins to start. I mean, it’s pretty easy and then throw some cardamom in to make it festive. Or shit.” Mattias is so out of his depth that it’s not even funny.

“Soooo, a plain cardamom muffin. It needs to be good. What are you using in your batter? Buttermilk is kind of essential for cardamom, it adds moisture.”

“Buttermilk.” Mattias replies, and lets his head fall down on the table with a thud.

“Chill, Mattias. You will be fine.” And there is that laughter again. Alongside a hand ruffling Mattias’s hair. Which is both comforting and bloody strange.

“You’re strange.” He blurts out.

“I know.” Christopher laughs back. “Danijel keeps telling me.”

“What do I do with the buttermilk?” Mattias sighs.

And Christopher just laughs. Like he seems to do about everything.

* * *

It’s hours later, under the hot studio lights where Mattias is already conscious of the damp patches forming under his arms, that things start to go wrong.

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