Archive of Our Own ^beta

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. It was too warm; it always was when he baked. The flour had been warmed. The salt, the remainder of the yeast, and the malt syrup had been added to the risen biga with the rest of the warm water. He found kneading therapeutic. It was a chance to think. Think about what he was doing. A chance to think about what he was about to do. He felt a burst of adrenaline just from the thought of it. He calmed himself. He was glad he didn’t follow the recipe verbatim. They usually advised for a machine with a special dough hook to be used, but he’d always followed his own path. It was his husband’s favourite recipe. They only baked bread when they had something to apologise for. He didn’t think he could bake enough bread to compensate this time.  

Sweat wet his knuckles slightly as he wiped his brow.

He looked at the clock on the fridge, ignoring the loving notes from Marco surrounding it. He didn’t have long left, thirty-five minutes or so. He did not have any time to spare. He had to hurry. He felt his muscles twitch as his kneading became more frantic. Its previous calming effect, gone. He felt more sweat run down his face, warmth spreading more intensely through his cheeks.

He still had to write a letter. He hadn’t written the letter yet. Time was running out. He left the dough.

He turned around and opened the bottom drawer. The contents, still cluttered from last night when Marco had refused to tidy it saying that there would be plenty of time tomorrow. He felt compelled to organise it. It would be a twisted kind of apology.

Stop, and breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

He could not afford to waste time recalling the small spats that always ended with a sweet kiss. They laughed at the silliness of the argument. Those arguments somewhat soured as the weight of what he was about he do pressed down on him.

He grabbed a baking tray and shut the drawer, but couldn’t help hearing the loud rattling of trays inside as it slid shut. The memory closed off.

He took the brown baking parchment and quickly tore off a piece. There was no time to cut it with the scissors. They had bought them together during a sale at IKEA, 30% off.  He placed the bread on the tray and then into the pre-heated oven. Step one, done.

A pang of regret ran through him as he realised he didn’t have time to tidy. Yet another task added to the list of messes Marco would have to clean up when he got home.

He looked over at his bag, completely packed, ready to go, the corner of a white leather notebook peaked out of the top. It had been a gift for their 15-year anniversary. Their 16-year anniversary was tomorrow. The guilt thickened. But it wasn’t enough to make him stop, and somehow, that made it worse.

The notebook was something he wouldn’t dare leave behind. He would keep it. He’d never been sure what to write in it. Well - until now.

The letter.

A letter to say goodbye in a book to commemorate 15 years of being together.

He retrieved the notebook and tore out a blank page. No ink yet stained the pages.

What would their friends think? He was only now ready to tell Marco fifteen minutes before he was leaving, and even then, not to his face. He was at work at the flower shop five blocks away.

Irina would probably understand. She’d ended her relationships similarly to how he was about to end his.

Garret wouldn’t want to take sides, but ultimately would always be there to offer support and comfort, and hopefully help to fill the void he knew would be there.

Sebastian would be crushed. He had been left too, with only a text for explanation. He hadn’t even got a response when he asked ‘Why?’.

He would not be so crass. He was, at least, leaving a letter. Yet again, he realised he’d let his mind wander. Time was running out. He didn’t even have a pen in hand. He snatched one of his drawing pencils from the desk. It would have to do.

What he was writing surely wasn’t an accurate representation of his thoughts, but he didn’t have time to do any redrafts. This was not one of his university essays. This letter should have been something he spent more time on.

He glanced at the clock. 10 minutes. He’d taken too long writing this. He scribbled his name at the bottom, no salutation. He folded the letter into an envelope effectively stopping himself from ripping it into shreds. That wouldn’t benefit anyone.

How was the bread? Had he even put in the correct oven? He didn’t check. He could smell it. He could feel the heavy heat of the oven’s warmth permeating the room.

He could remember the few times they had baked bread for one another.

When he had shouted at Marco’s homophobic mother. They’d just announced their engagement. She hadn’t reacted kindly. “Too young” was her excuse, but they both knew she hadn’t thought it was “right”. Her views hadn’t softened since her split with her husband. They had come home from work the next day barely talking. Things were tense. Marco had gone out for the evening with co-workers, a monthly event where they drank tequila and watched baseball. His husband had come home to the smell of freshly baked bread, a smell that did not come from the still-warm brown paper bag clutched tightly in his left hand. They had a bakery not two minutes away from their apartment.

He smiled faintly.

They’d both been sheepish as they ate the bread they had baked or bought for each other. It became tradition after that. Any time they messed up enough for the atmosphere to become tense they would bake fresh bread. This time he would not be here to gain forgiveness, to share one last supper.

He strode to the front door and wrestled on his shoes, his house keys left on the table.

A key turning in a lock echoed through the house, tears not quite falling from his eyes. He glanced at the clock. No minutes left.

The front door clicked shut. Boots scuffed on the wooden floor. Keys clanked against the glass of a vase full of white lilies as they landed on the hall table.

“Is that bread I smell? I bloody hope so! You were a little sparky this morning, but I’m not sure it deserves bread baking!”

He hoisted the bag on his shoulders and prayed for the tears not to fall.

“Sorry, darling. I was just heading out, help yourself to the bread though, it should be done in 15 minutes. Remember to let it cool. You always eat it too quickly and burn your mouth.”

He could hear his husband’s protests and confused exclamations as he shut the door behind him, the sound of his husband’s shouts disappearing behind the thick mahogany. A quick departure, but not painless.

He didn’t look back as he got into the waiting car.

“How did he take it?”
“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I left a letter.”

There was a long pause.

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“What we’re doing isn’t very nice.”

He felt lips press against his cheek. The car pulled out.

He still didn’t look back. He knew he’d have to at some point.

Just not now.