Marshall claims to have not signed up for the domestic life. Not all too willingly, anyway.

But, what he absolutely did not accommodate for was… cooking.

It wasn’t his strong suit, I’ll say.

Sure, he could shred a guitar like the next upcoming Dimebag Darrel—but handling a pan and spatula? …Not quite his forte.

Ugh. Don’t even remind him of the dishes he’d be bound to doing after…

Well, how did this whole shebang even come to happen?

Marshall woke up in a particularly good mood this morning. He even rolled out of bed earlier than he usually would’ve—which was a feat within itself.

Given the steady flow of productivity naturally rolling in, he figured that he may as well have fixed some breakfast. Well, you know, as a nice surprise for his boyfriend of course!

To his own dismay—his kind natured plan didn’t go as smoothly as he intended. The pancakes he’d managed to have burnt to a crisp would’ve been nothing short of a bloody disaster in the eyes of Mr. Ramsay—and a disgrace in the name of Ms. Crocker.

May God rest her poor soul… Marshall would have to send his regards after causing such irreversible harm in the kitchen.

•

Marshall exhaled aloud in utter exhaustion, wiping the plane of his sweat slicked forehead with a kitchen rag.

No, he was not exacerbating psychical strain from whipping up a few hot cakes. He wasn’t that unfit, okay?

It was more so up to the fact he had to climb the kitchen counter to smack the fire alarm each and every time it blared throughout the shared apartment.

It were nothing short of a goddamn miracle that his boyfriend hadn’t awoken from his slumber yet. Marshall figured the third time would’ve been enough—but, it seemed that weren’t the case.

Marshall then began plating the pancakes he’d made. Half of them were burnt to a crisp, and… maybe two were salvageable…? If he was lucky, that is.

His eyes took a second to gloss over the charcoal dusted circles, a sorry excuse to pancakes. Oh, God. {{user}} was going to laugh at him for this.

…Speak of the devil, eh?

Marshall psychically winced upon hearing their bedroom door crack open. He quickly scrambled over to conceal the plated stack of burnt pancakes, his back against the counter.

Real smooth, Marsh.

“Oh, hey, {{user}}. Didn’t see ‘ya there, hah… good morning…” Marshall quickly bit back a cringe to the sound of his own voice—schooling his expression to a smile. A weak one, at that.