Ionic Bonds, Lithium Salts - VI
Matthew was buying a cake.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been a perfectly normal task - step in, pay for the cake, step out - but if there was one thing Matthew had learned about New York so far, it was that ‘normal’ was a sad and neglected concept, one probably left to gather dust in a broom closet.
Especially when you added one Gilbert Beilschmidt into the mix.
Matthew Williams hadn’t expected to find Gilbert in a pastry store, much in the same way people don’t expect to find a tornado in Beverly Hills. But much in the same way quiet suburbs will always be subject to attack by bad CGI monsters, Matthew should have expected what would happen next.
“Whaddya mean, you don’t carry it?”
Halfway between the cheesecake and the tortes, Matthew froze.
That voice. That tone. That volume (and in a public place, too).
Matthew didn’t need to turn around to see the two figures at the bakery counter; he didn’t need to see the white hair, the shocked red eyes. He knew, had known, from the first sound of that voice - and, to be honest, he probably wouldn’t have needed even that, either. Gilbert had a presence, the type of aura possessed by mad scientists or especially dastardly B-movie villains.
Or tornados.
Slowly, surreptitiously, and completely unobtrusively, Matthew slipped behind a shelf piled high with confectionaries. Hidden behind a rack of cookies, cakes, and other manner of diabetic-shock inducing agents, he let out of a sigh of relief. Safe, once again. Invisible, once again.
Once again, however, invisibility - once inseparable from the name “Matthew William” - was proving difficult to procure.
Because hardly had Matthew ducked behind the doughnuts, that there was a call of, “hey, it’s you again!”, followed swiftly by a hand on Matthew’s wrist pulling him up and towards the (undoubtedly now traumatized) lady at the counter.
“So, look here, now, miss,” Gilbert said, practically shoving Matthew at the poor employee, “look at this kid here, will ya? I mean, I know I’m not exactly the most approachable character at times - the eyes, you know, people seem to think they’re scary or something - although I don’t know why, my opa always used to tell me that they made me look kind of cute - which I admit, they do, all the ladies do go for me - well, that is, until, they start hitting me with shopping bags and whatnot and - although it’s not my fault, it’s never my fault, I know it might seem like it and all, but I swear, it really-”
“Gilbert!” Matthew said, managing to finally wrench his hand free as he pulled back. “What are you doing?”
“Huh?” Gilbert asked, turning to Matthew. His eyes looked dazed and red - well, okay, they were always red, just redder than normal. Um. Not sick-red (though God knew how, especially as Matthew hadn‘t seen his roommate sleep once since he‘d started at NYU), more like - a bright kind of red. The type of brightness you only saw in poets or lovers.
Or madmen.
“Oh!” Gilbert said, seemingly coming out of his reverie as he turned to the bakery owner once again. “Right. Anyways, like I was saying - look at that face!” he said and grabbed Matthew once again, one hand underneath his chin and maneuvering his face so that Matthew stared in bewilderment at the equally bewildered bakery lady. “Cute, huh?” Gilbert asked, letting go of Matthew, who immediately bent over, gasping for breath. “Can’t lie to a face like that, can you? Now, c’mon, miss, I know you make it - you have to make it, every bakery in Berlin carries it - hell, even here on the other side of the ocean, everyone‘s had Kirschtorte-”
“W-What?” Matthew asked, still massaging his neck as he straightened up.
“See?” Gilbert victoriously crowed, all but clapping his hands as he beamed at Matthew. “Even Mattie’s had Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte!”
“I have?”
“Oh, right, you guys call it Black Forest cake and all, but the German name’s much better, you know? It gives it umph, it gives it strength, it’s a nice, proper name -”
“Oh,” Matthew said, somehow managing to pick out words from Gilbert’s babble. “Black Forest cake.”
“Yeah, exactly! Kirschtorte! Oh, God, that stuff’s the best - and here you are,” Gilbert cried, once again spinning towards the bakery lady, “telling me you don’t make the stuff? Telling me you’ve never had Kirschtorte? Miss, I don’t know why, but you’re lying to me, and I don’t appreciate it, because on my honor as a Catholic - actually, no, scratch that, I kinda failed as a Catholic - on my honor as - as a… as Gilbert Beilschmidt, cross my heart and hope to die plus the fact it’s just not awesome - anyways, the point is, I promise you, everyone has had Kirschtorte. Everyone.”
“Actually,” Matthew said, “I haven‘t. I mean,” he added, seeing Gilbert’s eyes on him, “I’ve always wanted to try it, it’s - it’s just -”
“You’ve never had Kirschtorte?”
“Um - well, um… I don’t think so?”
Gilbert stared at him for a long, long time.
And then, in the blink of an eye, he had grabbed Matthew by the wrist again, and was pulling him out of the shop with a violent tinkle of bells.
And then all was still inside the little bakery, all was calm. It was as though nothing had come through the store at all.
A tornado, however, always leaves a path.
The lady at the counter stared at the spot where Gilbert had been for exactly fifteen seconds. Then she stared at the door. And then back at the spot.
And then, without any further ado, she fainted.
***
“Um… Uh, excuse me - well, Gilbert,” Matthew stuttered, trying not to fall over as the subway came to another lurching stop, “but where exactly are we going?”
“Huh?” Gilbert asked distractedly, turning around to look at Matthew. “Oh, that. Isn’t it obvious? We’re going to Francis’s place!”
“What? But, um, what if he’s not there?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Gilbert said dismissively, letting go of the handrail and patting his pocket. “Key’s right here.”
Why exactly Gilbert would have Francis’s key, Matthew didn’t have the time to ponder, because in the next instant the train came to another jarring stop, one that nearly knocked Matthew off his feet.
“C’mon,” Gilbert grinned, somehow managing to not move an inch despite having his hands in his pocket, “this is our stop.”
Matthew was all too happy to follow.
On second thought, Matthew thought as he later leaned over the blue and white trashcan, maybe sudden movement wasn’t such a wise move.
***
Francis’s flat, it turned out, was empty.
“Lucille Greys,” Gilbert explained, tucking the key into his pocket as he padded, barefoot, onto the thick, wine-colored carpet. “Normally, any sane teacher would have kicked Francis out by now - at least once - but none of the culinary teachers have. Hard to argue with that, though. Francis makes a mean soufflé.”
“Did he buy those?” Matthew questioned, staring around at the various paintings that adorned the walls.
“Those? Nah, Francis’s parents might be French, but they’re actually not that filthy rich - I mean, after sending two kids to off college, who would be? He made those.”
“H-He made those?”
“Yeah,” Gil nodded, pausing in front of a painting of the Eiffel Tower at sunset. “They’re okay, I guess, but the Italian kid down my street could knock Francis off his feet when it comes to painting. C’mon,” he said and opened a door, “this is the kitchen.”
“Um, well-”
“Yeah?” Gilbert absentmindedly asked, rummaging through one of the drawers.
“What exactly are we doing here?”
“Making Kirschtorte, of course!” Gilbert said, standing up with several bags of flour, a large bowl, and a bottle of sherry. “You’ve been deprived all these years! About time you get some Kirschtorte into you! And the awesome me will be the one to bake it!”
Gilbert seemed rather insistent on that last point. And, from all prior experience, Matthew knew that it would probably be better to let an insistent and stubborn Gilbert have his way.
So he went back into the living room and admired the paintings on the walls, the soft leather of the U-shaped sofa, and the plush softness of the rug underneath his feet.
Admiring everything, that is, until he heard a crash from the kitchen.
“Gilbert!”
“M’okay Just an egg, but that’s alright! ’Sides, the shell gives it some crunch, you know?”
What -
Oh dear.
Matthew ran into the kitchen, where he promptly stepped on an egg, skid on the whites, knocked up a spray of flour, and fell flat onto his back.
“Mattie! You’re breathing, right - oh, shit, he’s not! Mein Gott Mein Gott, I don’t know how to do CPR, what am I going to do what am I going to do whatamI-”
“You can start by not waving that in my face,” Matthew muttered to himself, a little dazed as he stared at the mixing spoon flying about in his direct line of sight.
“Mein Gott, you’re alive!” Gilbert cried, the spoon flying into the air as he lifted Matthew into a (rib-crushingly tight) hug. “Roomie, that’s awesome!”
And before Matthew could blink, Gilbert was up and gone again, dancing through the kitchen and tossing random things about.
“Um,” Matthew said intelligently, slowly dusting himself off as he peered into the mixing bowl, “why exactly is the chocolate cake yellow?”
“Huh?” Gilbert asked, skidding over with two eggs. “Oh, that. Well, it’s an ancient family secret. Can’t tell you on the pain of death,” he said, grinning as he dropped the eggs in, shells and all.
“Um.” Matthew stared at the pieces of eggshell in the batter. “I - I’m sorry, but… I’m not sure you’re supposed to do that…?”
“Do what, roomie?” Gilbert glanced over, sliding through the flour.
“Well, um, most people don’t put eggshells in their cake.”
“Really?” Gilbert tilted his head, then shrugged and causally tipped a box of baking soda into the mix. “Well, then, they’re all-”
“Or that much baking powder!” Matthew almost shrieked, hastily tipping the box back up. “It’ll make the cake rise too much!”
“Awesome!” Gilbert exclaimed, suddenly (and ominously) much more interested in the batter than before. “Hey, I wonder what would happen if I added a weak acid to this mix - not a strong one, like vinegar, but something that wouldn’t decompose into a gas - d’y’think it’d turn blue if I added copper sulfate? And what if we added it just as we put the whole thing into the oven and it exploded from the carbon dioxide? That would be awesome! We should do it!”
“We should,” Matthew said, ducking to avoid being hit by Gilbert’s newly acquired mixing spoon, “but the problem is, we wouldn’t have any cake to eat then.”
“Oh. Right.”
He looked extremely sad then, with flour all over his nose and bits of egg white clinging to his clothes. Matthew was hit with a sudden urge to hug him.
All for about two seconds.
Because in the next, Gilbert was up again, tossing all the boxes of flour and sugar into the cupboards, humming something as he pitched the innocent utensils he had recruited into the sink, after which he turned the water on full blast.
Then, room suitably cleaned up, he sat down with the mixing bowl and mixing spoon still in hand, and began to eat the batter.
“Gilbert,” Matthew asked, staring at the bits of eggshell that decorated the outside of the bowl, “why are you eating that?”
“Huh?” Gilbert asked, looking up from licking the spoon. “Well, the taste is kind of off, but it’s kinda a waste to just dump it all away. It’s just not awesome! Besides,” he added, digging his spoon into the batter - mess - thing in the bowl, “I’m kind of hungry, anyway.”
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“Lunch?” Gilbert repeated, giving his roommate a baffled look. “What would I need lunch for?”
Something about Gilbert’s response told Matthew a plethora more than what he had wanted to know.
“Gilbert,” Matthew slowly said, changing tack slightly, “you’ve had breakfast, right?”
Gilbert gave him a look, one that clearly said whatever world he was living in did not accommodate such unnecessary concepts as “lunch” and “breakfast.”
Matthew closed his eyes, and told himself to count one, two, three.
When he opened them, though, he was smiling.
“C’mon,” The Canadian gently pried the mixing spoon and bowl from Gilbert’s fingers, “let’s throw this mess away and make something edible. Are you fine with pancakes?”
“You mean those thin crepe-things Francis makes, or the IHOP stuff?”
“Um, well, I wouldn’t consider what they serve at IHOP pancakes, per se-”
“Ah, but those things are so awesome!”
Once again, Matthew stared at him for a long, long time.
Then he turned and began rummaging through the shelves.
“Hey, roomie,” Gilbert drawled, dusting off his jeans as he stood up, “wha’cha doing, exactly?”
“Making pancakes,” Matthew replied, gently placing the cinnamon on the counter. “You’ve been deprived all these years. We ought to get some real pancakes into you.”
“Oh. ‘Kay with me! Want any help-”
“And I,” Matthew interrupted, taking out a spatula and brandishing it at Gilbert, “will be the one to cook them.”
Notes:
Traditionally, Black Forest cake contains alcohol - hence the sherry in this story.
Feel free to correct my chem, but this is what I think would happen in Gil’s scenerio:
CuSO4 + 2NaHCO3 -> CuCO3 + Na2SO4 + H2O + CO2
The substance would be blue because of the copper (although I think the whole thing would be a solid instead of a liquid, so the cake wouldn’t be all blue probably), and the cake would naturally explode because - as Gil himself said - the carbon dioxide would make it so.
"Opa" = Grandpa in German
Once again, many thanks to my beta, my readers, and my instant coffee :)