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You’ve never made brigadeiros before. You’ve had them, of course—they’re Pierrot’s specialty—but making them is an entirely different beast. One you’re determined to conquer, seeing as he likes them so much. It’s your present to him.
There’s no occasion, but he’s always doing cute things for you (not limited to: running you a bath, buying you your favorite snacks, putting on non-macabre performances that showcase his skill and have you up out of your seat to give him a standing ovation, and making you flowers—that aren’t always reeking of iron). You need to let him know he’s adored just as much as you are.
It’s hard to keep it a secret, though, what with the way he clings to you, so … there he is. At your dining table, sitting on his hands, as his hat nearly grazes the chandelier. He’s hunched over slightly, trying to make his gangly form seem small. Despite him usually performing with so much grace, he tends to lose control of his limbs—always aching to touch, to feel, to hold—when he’s around you, so you guess it’s warranted. He’s almost pouting with the desire to help, even though all he actually wants to do is be near.
You poke where you imagine his nose would be (some mask, huh?). “You stay there,” you remind him, while he visibly droops. Even though your heart pangs, you order yourself to remember that you’re doing something nice and that he deserves it.
“I know, my dear, and my soul revels at the thought of following your every order, but—”
“Stay there,” you reiterate. You kiss his cheek. For once, it’s not the only part you can reach without him bending down. “This is your present. You’re not supposed to help.”
“I—I—all right.” He looks like a red-and-black, top-heavy dahlia. Mixed with an obedient puppy.
Your heart can’t really take that, so you glance at his brigadeiro recipe (his handwriting is really neat! and he signs everything with little stars) instead. It calls for a can of condensed milk. You hate using the can opener, so you filch it from the drawer and shove it and the condensed milk toward him.
“After you open this, I mean,” you amend. “You’re not supposed to help after this.” Had you been planning to open the can yourself? Duh! You had every intention of this being a solo project! But if it means seeing Pierrot smile—which he does, from ear to ear as his yellow irises begin to spiral with barely-suppressed ecstasy—at being helpful, you’re willing to forgo some of your pride.
He takes the tool in his deft fingers and presses the blade against the lip of the can. “Of course! Should you require any assistance whatsoever, know that I am here.”
You sigh indulgently at that, before taking the open can. Using his long, gloved claws, Pierrot has removed the lid he’s cut out so you don’t have to deal with its razor-sharp edges. There’s a small bowl you’ve set aside on the table to use as a garbage receptacle, and he’s gingerly placed it inside. He’s seen you bleed before, owing to the countless times he’s marked you, and the times when you were too overwhelmed to whimper, “A—ah, Pierrot,” but it’s nice to know that he won’t let you get cut in any other way. Thoughtful, even.
Trying to concentrate—hard, when you have a six-foot-five clown sitting at your dining table watching your every move and practically leaking devotion—you glance at the recipe. Okay, so basically all the ingredients need to go into a saucepan. That’s easy enough.
Long, thick ribbons of sweetened condensed milk flow into the one you find in a cupboard, as you try to remember where your cocoa powder is. Oh, right, in the pantry.
You use a rubber spatula to scrape out all the milk from the can. You discard it and then move to measure out three tablespoons of cocoa powder. As you sift it into the condensed milk, dark plumes of powder blur the air, and you cough. Pierrot stares at you concernedly, but you fan the clouds away and turn to retrieve a pat of butter from the refrigerator. One tablespoon is all his recipe calls for, and you add it to the saucepan as well.
You place it on the stovetop and flick the dial to medium heat. “Um, Pierrot? The recipe says that I need to ‘stir’ and ‘cook until thickened.’ Is that at the same time or …?”
Pierrot clears his throat, clearly lost in … something that would probably amp up this fic’s rating (read: hand-holding) … and flushes. “I—er, yes, my dear! You have to stir the mixture constantly for about ten minutes. That’s when it’ll become thick enough to take off the heat.” He tilts his head cutely and puts a finger to his chin. “I know you’re strong and don’t need or want it, but it’s a slightly strenuous process, so, if at any point, you’d like some hel—”
“Nope!” you cut him off. You’ve already phoned-a-friend when you asked him to open the condensed milk. “Ten minutes, you said? That’s nothing. I can do that, no problem.” Even though your arm shakes at the thought. It’s fine. It’s fine, because it’s for Pierrot. You’d do a lot worse for him.
Pierrot dips his head in acquiescence, and you begin to combine the condensed milk, cocoa powder, and butter with a wooden spoon. The mixture takes on a rich, warm, brown color, and sticks to the spoon, but you continue to arc your hand and stir. It doesn’t require too much focus, just a steady effort as the contents of your saucepan start to glisten.
So you turn to Pierrot. The two of you chat about really important stuff—how much Harlequin sucks (that’s mostly him, though, ‘cause that little gremlin has started to grow on you like mold), how the Circus is doing, and how you had to deal with a really weird customer that morning—and, before long, seven minutes pass. Your arm grows tired and trembles slightly. You’re pretty sure it’s lost all its feeling, so you switch to your non-dominant one. Your movements are slightly awkward and exaggerated this way, but you stifle your discomfort to keep Pierrot from noticing. If he detects even a flicker of soreness that he didn’t cause from being too impassioned, he’ll worry. And try to help. And totally fuck up your desire to be the … the only one—the only one—doing this for him.
He’s just so sweet, and you’re so happy, and you have to finish, and, and, and, your arm is fatigued again.
You grind your teeth at your own limitations. Dammit! How did that phrase go again? “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak?”
You refuse to give in.
You steel your jaw, grip the spoon tighter, and try to smile at Pierrot, who’s gleefully recalling a dream he had about running Harlequin over with a car.
The brigadeiro mixture thickens spitefully under your careful ministrations. You have to exert even more force to keep the spoon from becoming one with the sticky concoction. The kitchen begins to fill with its molten, chocolatey fragrance. You notice the corners of Pierrot’s smile twitch even higher, despite himself. After all, brigadeiros are his favorites.
When you catch that ten minutes have passed on the oven clock, you appraise your brigadeiros with an entirely amateur eye. The mixture has definitely solidified somewhat and become even glossier. It’s starting to pull away from the sides of the saucepan in dense folds. Honestly, you could eat it with a spoon as is, but … yeah, you’re gonna need a second opinion.
You beckon Pierrot over, and he snaps upright, somehow not making a sound despite his bells visibly jingling. “Do these look all right?”
Pierrot looms behind you, his shadow swallowing yours, and you can feel his heat bloom against your spine. He cocks his head and squints, giving you a fair assessment. One that you know will be utterly cushioned by odes to your otherwise perfect self if you happen to have fucked this up.
He considers your saucepan for one second, two seconds. Then, he bends down slowly until the faint brush of his breath ghosts along the shell of your ear. One gloved hand ropes your waist, while his other wraps around your hip.
Your pupils shrink for a heartbeat as he murmurs, “They’re perfect, my dear. Yo—they’re—utterly tantalizing. As always.”
You flush violently. He—he really does have a way with words. You clear your throat and gently nudge Pierrot back half a step. Just so you can breathe properly.
“T—thanks. And, uh, o—okay. Now I have to … turn off the stove,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.
Less composed, you swivel the dial off and carefully lift the saucepan. He dutifully takes his seat again as you scrape everything into a buttered dish you’d prepared earlier.
As it cools (the instructions say it’ll condense even more as it does), you turn to him and reach up to cup his cheeks. He positively melts, his irises morphing into hearts, as you say, “Thanks for being so patient. I feel like you always manage to make them so much faster.”
He nudges his chin toward your cooling mixture. “That you would make anything for me at all, my dear … My soul has been pacing inside my ribs, scratching at my bones for a taste. It could do that for an eternity.”
You laugh at that. He really is too much. You know he’s being sincere, though, and you’re still reeling from being thought of that way. After gently sweeping back a strand of his bangs that peeks out from under his hat, you pull your hands away and return your attention to your brigadeiros. They’ve cooled now, and you know you’re supposed to grease your hands, pinch off a piece of fudge, shape it into a ball, and coat it with sprinkles.
Mise-en-place-ing has served you well, and you already have your station set up at the dining table. A touch of melted butter slicks your palms, and then you nip off a modest portion of the chocolate. It clings to your fingers at first, but as the warmth of your hand works through it, it begins to cooperate. Before long, it rounds into a perfect sphere. Er, okay. It’s not entirely perfect—it’s kind of convex, since you’re still figuring out your technique and how to move your palms—but you hope to redeem yourself in the sprinkle department.
Pierrot watches you roll your newborn brigadeiro in a generous pile of chocolate sprinkles. They stick easily, and soon, you can hardly see the fudge for the sprinkles. Which is fine, you think, since that’s how Pierrot’s always look. Of course, his are so much neater and the little pellets seem to interlock with each other instead of haphazardly crowding into each other, and … you frown.
No.
This isn’t for some random customer that you’re somehow assigned kitchen duty for—this is for Pierrot. Your Pierrot.
He always makes sure everything you have is perfect. You can’t do very much for him, so this small thing, this brigadeiro, has to be perfect as well.
Held delicately between your thumb and index finger, it suddenly feels inadequate. You’re seconds away from squishing it to start anew (ignoring the fact that the sprinkles will end up mixed into your fudge), when Pierrot grabs your wrist. You stop and turn to look at him from across the table.
He’s inclining his head to the side in the picture of confusion. “My dear?”
Pursing your lips, you glare at your singular brigadeiro. “It’s … not perfect. It’s lopsided and just …” You chew on the inside of your cheek, which you can feel warming in embarrassment. “Not good.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his grip on your wrist loosens just enough for him to guide your hand upward. He bends his neck until his masked face hovers inches from your fingers. You barely have time to realize what’s happening before his lips part.
The faint swish of fabric and breath skim your thumb and index finger as he leans in and, without breaking eye contact, closes his mouth around the brigadeiro. For a second, the warmth of him lingers against your skin. He straightens. His jaw works around the fudge.
Then, his eyebrows downturn. So does his mouth. Suddenly, he lunges forward, stretching his entire torso over the table until you and he are practically breathing the same air. “My dear, that was—that was—” He recoils.
All at once, a violent blush blooms across his cheeks, spills over the bridge of his nose, and races down the column of his throat into his ruffled collar. His eyes squeeze shut before snapping open again, pupils contracting and expanding in trembling, concentric hearts. A smile—all pointed teeth—leaks a bead of saliva from a corner. One gloved hand drags down the side of his face. Meanwhile, his fingers are splayed along his chin. A pinky hooks absently into a loose strand of his bangs, slowly twirling it around and around.
“That was,” he gasps, breathless, “that was exquisite!” The twine of his hair is pulled taut, now. “And you made it … with your hands.” His eyes flick to your fingers like they’re something precious, and his pupils splinter into yellow slits. “D—do you understand what you’ve done to me, my dear? You’ve ruined me. Nothing crafted by anyone else could ever compare now.”
He leans forward again, this time not lunging. “Your brow furrows so adorably at perfection,” he murmurs. “But please remember: I don’t crave perfect. I crave you.” After a beat, he grits out the syllable, “… rs.” His gloved thumb then presses against your cheek. “So make your brigadeiros lopsided. Make them ‘not good.’ Make them monstrous, if it pleases you.” It shouldn’t be possible, but his grin widens. “As long as they’re mine.”
You wilt into his touch and can’t help but smile at the sheer devotion in his gaze. Your eyes flick to your unfinished brigadeiros.
Yeah, okay, so.
Maybe your gift was a success.