prompt: Southview Boarding School isn’t a castle and Phil Lester isn’t royalty, but he has everything. His father owns the school, he’s popular, has the best room, gets all the best treatment – there are very few things that aren’t handed to him on a platter. Dan is a cleaner/Phil’s personal maid there, and he isn’t as lucky. Everyone seems to take an aversion to the outsider, including Phil (at first).
So
in contrary to the last chapter which I wrote in literal 30 degree weather with
many breaks in between to complain about how hot it was, I’m now writing this a
week later wrapped up in a duvet listening to the rain outside. Oh England.
Anyway I hope this is ok!! I’ve been having trouble with storyline things lately like …. I know where I want this fic to go but I don’t really know how to execute my ideas????? Idk it’s strange I’m sure I’ll figure something out tho
(for anyone outside the UK/not keeping up with the great british bake off, I apologise for the first part of this chapter)
warnings: mentions of self-harm, violence
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Nineteen
“Oh shit-“
“Fuck-“
“Christ-“
“Did she just-“
They only have half an hour left. There’s no way she’ll bake another batch in time.”
“Nah, can’t she just pick them up?” Noah shrugs. “Five second rule.”
“It’s been way longer than five seconds,” Dan points out. “Plus she made a good impression in the last episode. I doubt it’ll be a good idea to poison Mary and Paul this far in.”
“I’ve eaten loads of food off of the floor and I’m still alive,” Noah says.
“Barely,” Phil mutters, and gets a pillow to the face five seconds later.
“There’s always one, isn’t there?” Noah sighs, shaking his head at the screen. “You would’ve thought being one of the best amateur bakers in the country, they’d be able to carry a baking tray without dropping literally all of their biscuits.”
“Yeah, ‘cause it isn’t as if being on a strict time limit and on national television isn’t at all pressurising,” Phil mutters. “Christ, I lose concentration giving a fucking class presentation let alone being on this show. There’s no way I could do it.”
“Well that’s good, considering you can’t cook for shit.”
It’s less than three seconds before a cushion hits Noah.
“Shh!” Dan hisses, his eyes glued intently to the screen. “She’s just messed up her icing.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Noah rolls his eyes. “Can anyone on this show do anything right?”
“For your information, I can cook,” Phil argues over Dan’s shoulder. “I can make a cracking bowl of pasta. And I saved you one of those Betty Crocker brownies I made the other day.”
“Go on the show with a ready-made brownie mix. That’ll win the judges over.”
“Look, are either of you going to stop bickering anytime soon or am I going to have to record this and watch it later?” Dan says in a rather motherly fashion, grabbing the remote and turning the volume up to thirty. It’s like sharing a sofa with two eight-year-olds. “I can’t hear my own voice, let alone Mary Berry’s.”
Curling up together on the sofa and watching the Great British Bake Off had seemed like a good idea at the time when Dan suggested it, but that was five hours ago. That was before realising Noah and Phil are physically unable to shut up for longer than three seconds when put together in front of a TV.