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Something bothered Hugo about Krishna’s words. He was accustomed to making such surface-scraping assessments of others as well, but never consciously. Perhaps the Kirin was still bitter about what had happened, and while he usually had no qualms about questioning another, rekindling that old memory was the furthest thing from what he wanted to do; it was an uneasy tickling in the back of his throat. His hands slowed beneath the running water, cupping it within his palms. Something told him to defend, but all he could do was stare after his own reflection. He began to scrub at the sullied utensils again.

“If you're calculating others worth now,” he said simply. “Then how much am I?”

Hugo withdrew his hands and wiped them against his thighs, turning his face just enough to catch Krishna’s beckoning hand. His nose wrinkled - a grudging acquiescence.

“Recipes are all numbers and measurements and eggs.” He waved a hand, but moved towards Krishna anyway. “They're not worth their trouble. To me, at least. And while everyone can learn how to cook, not everyone knows how to cook.”

Hugo caught the egg beneath his palm, ears flicking back. He tossed his head, “I like to think I'm priceless, thank you very much.”

People worth this much, people less than that much, tags attached to people like they were belongings! Although that bit made him smile with such wicked amusement that it was hardly concealed by pursing his lips. Hugo was just beginning to realize the bizarre predicament that was friendship. People that stuck around for a while, made you meals, scrubbed your back, tucked you in, or got up at some ungodly hour to keep you from burning the house down. He supposed they were precious, and against his better judgment… humbling.

The egg in his hand caved against the edge of the bowl, and bits of shell and yolk stuck to his fingers. He dropped the thing in its entirety into the mix.

His dark eyes cut upwards, sharper than his normally blithe disposition would allow. His ears, a telltale symbol for his mood, canted to the side in blatant annoyance.

“No. He didn't. And I never expected him to - I've never helped make them.” His voice was gentle, belying the quasi-warning in his eyes. He dropped them with an upward sweep of his shoulders as he picked out bits of shell; luckily, they weren’t small to begin with.

“You make it sound so cut and dry, like nothing more goes into the bowl other than ingredients. People care for what they make, whatever it may be. Follow ingredients until kingdom come and you'll still just get a plain cookie.” He tilted the bowl towards him to check before setting it down. His words were slow and calculated, as though he didn't quite understand himself, “A good cookie is the kind that makes you smile when you bite into it. That's not science. Science is cold.”

“You can too put smiles into cookies,” Hugo argued, affronted. Like in that one movie that his bonded had made him sit through, about the girl who cooked her emotions into her food. When people tasted them, they felt her sadness, her pain, her euphoria. Just like that! Only less literal, of course, but still the same general idea. Krishna was far too logically inclined!

The dappled Light appeared shaken by that word that hung between the two, going as far as to lean back as though to get away from it. He stared - with a good bit of helpless confusion - at Krishna. ‘Love’ was an incredibly large word for being only four letters long. Large and weighty and stifling. The way it settled in his chest could be likened to fear, or panic - and just those four letters caused a brief, hare-like alarm to dart behind his eyes.

It was bizarre, being more afraid of something that was supposed to cause more warmth than horror. Who was it that said people feared what they didn’t understand? He was not about to admit to something he had never learned. Hugo’s lips pressed into a defiant line.

“What I want are cookies, Krishna. I'm craving cookies because cookies make me happy. What I love,” he stressed in chirping lines of babble. “Are cookies.”

Hugo was horribly distraught, though he did well to cover it. Fishing out a half-used bag of chocolate chips, he dumped a handful into his palm and funneled them into his mouth.

Hugo scoffed. What on earth was Krishna going on about, love? Who was Sekani? He wasn’t scared! A million and one excuses piled up in the back of the Light’s mind, his ears swiveling in agitation. Something swooped low beneath his navel, but whether from apprehension or excitement, he couldn’t tell.

“Frightened?” he asked, a mite too shrilly. Hugo pinged a chocolate chip at Krishna’s head. “I've no idea what you're going on about, frightened of love. I'm not, nor have been in love, and I'm certainly not scared of a feeling that I've yet to experience!”

His brows came down heavy over his eyes, looking altogether like a petulant child, “Make me cookies.”

Hugo’s fingers drummed against the edge of the counter, incessant and off beat. He hadn’t wanted to stare so hard at the side of Krishna’s head, but he found himself doing it, though he knew, knew if the Kirin looked up, the question would be out of his mouth quicker than his friend could blink. It wasn’t fair, having a million and one thoughts tumbling through your head, thumping like shoes in a dryer. They were loud, obnoxious inquiries, asked in his voice and prompted so frequently that it was just a blur of white noise in his mind.

He dragged a finger through the flour sprinkled across the counter, and when he realized the design he drew looked vaguely like an ‘s’, he made a fist and wiped it away. It was just an ‘s.’. Not like it stood for anything.

If Hugo weren’t so worried about keeping up personal appearances, he would have clocked himself in the face.

The jumpiness wouldn’t leave. His legs told him to pace, but sensibilities told him that he’d only be confirming his unease to Krishna. And he had nothing to be uneasy about! At all! He just wanted cookies - maybe his cravings were just that bad. Maybemaybemaybemaybe--

Hugo let out a shuddering sigh, a heavy, preoccupied noise, and rubbed his eye. Five minutes of silence, that’s what he gave Krishna in response to his question. There was nothing to discuss, he told himself. Nothing at all, even though it felt like he was fit to burst with the turmoil building up in his narrow chest. The Light turned and made his way back to the sink, trying to find something to do.

Washing dishes? Something was definitely wrong. He sucked in his lips as he turned the water on, the edge of his hoof tracing the tile underfoot carefully. What was he scared of? Why was he so shaky? Why was he so damn angry all of a sudden?

His wasn’t so much control as it was toeing the waters: apprehension, hope. As direct as he was, he could not be now, not unless the inquiry was forward itself, “Not unless you have something to prompt me with.”

It was true. As forward as Hugo was, Krishna was even more so, sometimes bitingly. In a way that was a virtue - if the dappled Light ever wanted the truth, he knew who he could get it from without ribbons or cushions to soften the blow. Reliability. Consistency. He rather liked that about friendship.

But not right now.

Hugo yanked a washed cookie sheet from the dry rack and turned, holding it up between the Kirin and him, a physical, tangible wall. He met his friend’s gaze, bare in his confusion and search for trust. Suds and water snaked down his hands, dripping across the tiled floor, but he didn’t move.

Are you a fool or simply foolish?

“I don't understand,” he said truthfully, looking at the cookie sheet. “I'm not used to... I don't know how to handle -- I. I don't get it, kindness. I don't. I.” Hugo stopped and shut his mouth, angry at the fact that he was tripping over his words, but unable to stop because his thoughts had slowed.

“I don't know how to receive it and it. It comes so frequently. And it's so gentle and I-- I'm a little scared. I want to embrace it, but I don't. Don't want to give myself up. I.” And it tumbled out of his mouth, “I don't want to get hurt, and I don't want to hurt him. And I will. I know I will, because I don't know how to do it. I don't.”

And he was so selfish, so selfish, because he wanted it so badly, but refused to call it love.

It was as though Krishna’s hold brought Hugo back to reality. What was he doing, spilling his guts out like this? He’d never let someone in like that, never voiced such thoughts before, and the Kirin’s touch was encroaching on a personal space he didn’t believe in until now. It was easy to push your walls against other people, but when there was no wall between them and they pushed back… then what?

Hugo’s hands twitched, and the impulse to tear away from Krishna was animalistic. He stood there. What a hypocrite - touch was the basic proof of existence, he would tell himself when he did the touching. But now here he was; Krishna was not holding flesh, Krishna was gripping soul.

“It's not love,” he said, desperate. “It can't be. I don't want it to be. Krishna. Krishna, please, say it's something else.”

He paused, could see his face, but hear James’ voice. Hugo shuddered, lifted his hands, dropped them. It was beyond confusion, more like denial. It had taken so long to establish himself, and now he was being completely undone and this just could not be. Change had already come and gone, now he only had to acknowledge it.