Mila
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Nostalgia — P Martens
🕑 Added 2023-08-30 19:40:52 +0000 UTCThere’s flour in their blonde hair, smears of chocolate over their hands. P’s sure that there’s even some smeared on their cheek.
Art is their usual go to. Pencils, acrylic paints, a fresh sketch pad to put their ideas onto a canvas — but now they’re trying something else — baking. P would tell you that they’re not entirely sure how or why baking came into their thoughts, but in the back of their mind they know it brings them that bit closer to home.
They had texted you earlier: firstly in the group chat, and again personally. The latter had them debating whether they should, but P typed out the message and pressed send before they could even think. Thankfully, you messaged back quickly and you were happy enough to meet them at their apartment.
When you arrive P’s absolutely sure they’re doing this baking thing to keep them busy, but doing so with you only makes it more enjoyable.
“Stop!” you exclaim with a laugh as P approaches, a spoon in their hand as it drips cake batter over the counter. “You’re going to get it on me.”
“That’s the point, obviously,” P says coolly with a broad grin, all before the next few moments happen in a quick motion.
As you jokingly walk backwards, P edges closer, their hand gently wraps around your wrist and pulls you forward. In that moment, though it’s such a cliché saying, it feels like time stops. P’s touch is comforting, it’s light, electric even — but that could be the magic flowing through them.
P’s lips part ever so slightly, and even though you’re standing under LED lights in their kitchen, you notice they easily illuminate the blue colour of their eyes. How can you not notice them? They’re one of the first things you notice about P — especially when they’re staring at you in such an adoring way.
Their eyes bore into your own and you feel yourself lost in a slight trance until you feel something a little cold fall over your hand. You break the stare and glance to the side to see cake batter falling onto them.
“You succeeded,” you whisper with a breathless chuckle.
“Hm?” P asks, completely oblivious.
“You got batter on me.”
P’s eyes widen a little. “Oh, sorry.” They quickly pull the spoon away and drop it into the bowl. It isn’t often that you see P flustered, and you’re not sure if that’s exactly what you’re seeing now by the way they smoothly slink away, but it’s extremely close.
“Don’t be,” you utter before bringing your hand up to your mouth. “It tastes good.”
P gives you a soft smile. “Small victories, then.”
—
With the cake in the oven, the two of you move to sit in P’s living room. It’s as you remember it, the same way you saw it when you visited the first time after the gala and the Grand Royalton. ‘The embodiment of a Pinterest board,’ A mentioned. The only difference now is that P’s cat, Ciro, is happily strutting around.
“Where’s Stella?” you ask casually as Ciro comes near you. He stops at your feet, tilts his head, reaches out a paw to touch you… but decides against it and walks away.
P chuckles as their cat walks past. “Stella is with one of my neighbours. She loves people,” they say. “Ciro on the other hand…”
The corner of your lips curl upwards. “Is introverted like his owner.”
P playfully rolls their eyes. “Not that introverted.” They pause for a moment. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”
You can tell by their words that they are said in a tone that’s slightly hopeful. The hope that you’ll want to visit again, the hope that you enjoy their company as much as they enjoy yours.
“Very true,” you answer, “and it’s not terrible being around you. Especially when you’re trying to get chocolate all over me.”
That brings a laugh out of the two of you, and you realise the two sounds are harmonious together. Maybe a little too perfect, if that could ever be an issue.
“I haven’t baked anything in years,” P muses.
“Yeah? How come?”
They shake their head lightly. P’s features morph into an expression that’s almost pained. You’re ready to tell them that they don’t have to share anything at all until they do.
“It reminds me of my childhood, is all,” P answers.
This is the part when you shouldn’t pry, but you can’t help yourself — especially after that gala. “Good memories?”
P takes a moment and then nods. “The ones that involve baking cakes and pastries and whatnot, yes.” They lean back in their seat. “I don’t know. I’m probably just feeling somewhat nostalgic after the gala.”
How could they not? That night was hard on everyone. Them, you. A whole night of questions, trying to solve supernatural mysteries whilst clearing your names of one of the worst crimes possible.
“Nostalgia is a good thing,” you murmur, “especially now. Keep and create all the good memories that you can,” you say softly.
You’re both staring at each other again. And you’d be lying if you said that your gaze hadn’t darted down to P’s lips once or twice.
“And this moment,” P murmurs, their eyes still on you, “is it a good one?”
It is. It would be better if you kissed me, you’re tempted to say but you settle for a nod.
“All my moments with you are good ones,” you answer, not realising the two of you have been moving closer to one another.
There’s so many things to think about.
You’re certain P’s going to kiss you.
The oven timer is going off.
Your phone is vibrating in your pocket and you’re certain it’s the group chat.
And Ciro suddenly seems to think he likes humans now because he’s gliding towards you.
The first of those comes true… sort of. P wets their lips quickly, tilts their head and leans to the side. Their lips hover over your cheek before they’re pressing a light peck to it.
For something so feather-light and brief, it felt glorious. A sensation you wouldn’t mind feeling more than once… yet you groan.
P pulls away and they instantly raise an eyebrow. Not in confusion, but in slight panic and curiosity that they’ve done something wrong.
“I wanted you to kiss me… properly,” you admit.
It pulls a grin out of P, a broad one that you’d happily snap a picture of and look at at least once a day. They rest their hands on your thighs, and as you wanted, they lean forward. Their lips brush over your own, and you’re sure that what you want is going to happen until…
“I promise I’ll kiss you properly after we eat cake,” they mumble against your lips, “and after I take you on a real date.”
