Chapter Text
“What do you mean it disappeared? How the hell can a plate just disappear ?” He tugs at his hair, scowling at Ito. He was tired and grumpy and annoyed at himself for letting whatever had happened last night with Kaoru affect him to this extent, and this entire fucking situation wasn’t helping and now poor Ito was bearing the brunt of his misdirected self-loathing. Ugh. He thought he’d worked out this irrational irritation during his morning jog, but apparently not.
“I dunno Chef, but it’s not here! I looked everywhere for it, but-”
“Alright, that’s enough. Ito, start prepping the mushrooms and mirepoix, Aiko and Kaneko stop eavesdropping and get back to work, Chef, can I talk to you for a minute?” Without waiting for his reply, Mizuki turns and heads to the tiny office he used for keeping inventory. Kojiro sighs, shuffles his feet, and follows her, feeling like a child who’d just been called to the principal’s office.
He steps inside and shuts the door, turning to face her. Mizuki just looks at him, in that faintly disappointed way that was eerily similar to how his older sister and mom had gazed at him whenever he’d tried to sneak back home in the morning after a night of skating with Kaoru. Kojiro folds as easily as the soft, expensive tissues that Kaoru prefers.
“I know, I’ll apologize and make it up to him, I just-” He sighs. He’s been sighing a lot, lately.
Mizuki’s stern expression softens into concern. “Chef, is everything okay?”
It had been a bit harder to reach for his usual, easygoing smile this morning, but Kojiro had thought he’d done a passable job. Apparently not, if his sous chef and staff had seen through his little act.
Whenever he got too overwhelmed, especially in the early years of Sia la luce, Kaoru had always been the one by his side, awkwardly patting him on the back and spitting out caustic words of advice in an attempt to mask his genuine worry. Even now, as Kojiro looks around the tiny room; he sees traces of Kaoru everywhere; from the oddly high tech computer setup that he’d joked would get them robbed one day to the small bonsai tree on the desk to the stationary that Kaoru had embossed with a logo he’d designed himself, all elegant curves and sharp edges. He swallows a sudden lump in his throat, but how could he possibly not treasure all the little signs of Kaoru’s love?
Yeah, Kojiro knows that Kaoru loves him. It’s obvious - and he needs to satisfied with this, which is already more than he deserves-
It’s funny- Kojiro’s known as an easygoing, fun guy- but sometimes he wants so desperately and so wretchedly that he terrifies himself-
“Chef, with all due respect-“
“Y’know, that’s what people say before they’re about to say something incredibly disrespectful-“
“You need to grow some balls and face what’s actually bothering you instead of fucking around this kitchen.” Mizuki’s frown softens as she reads whatever expression he’s making, and Kojiro is suddenly glad that Kaoru had argued against including a mirror in his office.
He sighs. “I know, I’ll-“
She swings open the door and bodily pushes him out. He tries digging in his heels but even though the woman’s 5’6” she’s also incredibly jacked and he had given up on being gym buddies after a single, torturous session. “Nope, not after service. Right now.”
He stares a bit blankly as the door to his own restaurant is shut in his face, before it opens again and his keys are tossed at his face. Well then.
🍪🐢🍪
Without the controlled chaos of a kitchen to occupy his mind, he did what had always helped whenever he was feeling unmoored - he grabbed his board and set off, weaving through tourists and waving at other locals as his mind wandered, as always, back to Kaoru.
He hates sleeping on a futon, anyways, had bought a California king along with a tempurpedic mattress the second he’d come back from Italy and had never looked back. Kaoru, when he isn’t bruised and broken like the ripe peach Ito had dropped yesterday, exclusively sleeps on traditional bamboo futons, partly because of his inane commitment to traditionality and partly because he’s never liked how high Western beds were.
And that’s only the start of a long list of incompatibilities they share; Kojiro is an early bird and Kaoru stays up until dawn sometimes, Kaoru hates setting the AC below 75 even during the summers while Kojiro ran hot, Kaoru was freakishly neat while Kojiro indulged in a little chaotic messiness- all reasons why they would never work out and why it would be foolish to try-
But-
Kojiro has been in love with Kaoru since the asshole first taught him how to skate, has carried that first flickering flame of teenage pining across continents and nurtured it into the steady glow of devotion he’s satisfied with, truly-
And it’s enough to be by his side, watching him go further and faster than Kojiro could keep up with, so achingly brilliant that he looks at him, sometimes, and is just lost for words (Kaoru would’ve made some quip about not knowing that many in the first place, that brat).
He’s helpless against Kaoru’s orbit, will always let himself be pulled into revolutions, a moon circling Kaoru’s sun, locked in an eternal dance of push and pull, and still, given the choice between having him in his life or not - the choice is crystal clear, not really a choice at all.
He stares at Kaoru’s door, his feet having carried him here, always. He smiles, helplessly, and opens the door.
🍪🐢🍪
“I’m home!” He calls out, lining up his shoes next to the genkan before toeing on his house slippers and wandering into the living room; Kaoru’s usual haunt whenever he’d drop by in the middle of the day. That lazy asshole would usually be dozing on the couch, or reviewing student work, or having Carla dictate emails to potential clients, but the living room is silent, the expensive couch is empty, and Kaoru is very clearly not there.
“Kaoru?” Kojiro frowns; shoulders tensing as he checks the office - bare of any hint of pink, and then the kitchen, where-
He sees Kaoru, humming along to some old Italian ballad that he’d probably pulled from one of Kojiro’s old CDs and uploaded into Carla, clad in one of Kojiro’s ancient aprons that he’d been meaning to throw away for forever, and Kaoru is here , in the one room in Kaoru’s house that belongs to Kojiro, the personification of his love and care, enduring for decades, and he can’t describe the feelings welling up inside of him. It’s the careful yet slightly clumsy way that Kaoru handles his appliances, the way his eyebrows furrow as he anxiously tries to peek inside the oven, the little swipe of flour on his cheek and it’s just Kaoru -
Kojiro honestly loses track of time as he watches Kaoru fumble around the kitchen. Well, not fumble, that idiot was always innately graceful in a way that Kojiro had long since given up on emulating outside of the kitchen; but there was a lack of familiarity that suggested that this was a fairly recent development, likely born out of Kaoru being bored out of his mind. In a way, it made a lot of sense - baking was exact, scientific, formulaic - everything that nerd loved. He can’t help it - he smiles, soft and slow and indulgent - and he’s happy, here, just the two of them in the sun-drenched kitchen in the traditional part of Okinawa on an ordinary Thursday afternoon.
Kojiro only makes his presence known when Kaoru’s checking the oven again, face pressed so close to the door that he accidentally bumps the glass and of course he’s there, sliding a hand between Kaoru’s forehead and the oven before collision. He startles, cat-like, and Kojiro absentmindedly thinks that he’s been hanging around the kid too much, before flushing and batting his hand away.
“When did you get home?”
He hms and sneaks a peek into the oven himself, glimpsing something on his sheet trays. “Just now. Whatcha makin’?” Kojiro pulls an exaggerated face, slipping into their back-and-forth repertoire like a comfortable pair of pajamas. “Please don’t burn down my kitchen, you already have a hot fireman right here-” He winks, and Kaoru scowls, and all is right in Kojiro’s world again.
“Please, contain yourself - I don’t need the reminder that I’m stuck with you for the foreseeable future. Anyways, I clearly won’t burn down my kitchen, I’ve programmed Carla with over 13 different-”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll fawn over your robot girlfriend later - what are you making?” Kojiro’s made even more curious by the way Kaoru flushes pink and avoids his eyes. Wait, what date was it-
“Some cookies; Miya’s school is holding a bake sale, and I thought it would be fun to help out.” Kaoru pronounced the word ‘fun’ like other people said 'contagious disease’ or ‘uncontrollable vomiting’. Clearly, the kid had guilted him into it. Kojiro relaxes, okay, so it wasn’t for - it was for Miya, not-
The timer goes off, and they both jump a little before Kaoru pulls on some oven mitts and gingerly takes the tray out of the oven, placing the cookies on the countertop as Kojiro reaches over and shuts the oven door.
Kojiro joins him at the kitchen island, where Kaoru is busy sprinkling some Malden sea salt flakes to finish, because of course the pretentious fucker would buy the best gorment ingredients for a middle school bake sale, and honestly - the scene is like something out of one of Kojiro’s teenage wet dreams. All the main characters are there - Kaoru in an apron, one of his aprons, delicious baked goods, set in a kitchen - all they were missing were some melted chocolate ganache and strawberries- fuck, abort, he cannot be thinking about this right now-
The cookies! He focuses on the cookies, which look beautiful, picture perfect and straight out of a professional patisserie, filling the kitchen with notes of vanilla and caramel and chocolate.
“Do you want to try one?” Kaoru’s holding up one of the cookies, golden eyes matching the melted caramel topping, cheeks blushed a pretty pale pink from the warmth of the oven, and there is no conceivable universe where Kojiro says no to this. Kaoru could’ve been offering him fresh cow manure to consume, and he would’ve happily done it; anything to keep that soft tender look alive in Kaoru’s eyes.
Kojiro cannot trust himself to speak right now, so he simply opens his mouth and takes a bite and never, ever looks away from golden eyes as he chews; rich caramel and bittersweet dark chocolate and warm brown sugar on his tongue, chewy and light without being cloyingly sweet, the caramel being balanced by the cocoa powder and coffee. It’s the best cookie Kojiro has ever eaten, as if it’s made for his palate alone, perfectly crafted to suit his personal preferences from someone who knows him inside and out.
“It’s perfect.” He says. You’re perfect, he holds back.
Kaoru smiles, and it’s a thin sliver of a smile, like a crescent moon peeking out from behind some clouds, and it’s beautiful and Kojiro is helpless before it.