Chapter Text
It shouldn’t have surprised Kaoru, really, that he knew exactly which cabinet to open when Kojiro asked for the coarse-grain sea salt. It was a small intimacy, to know his way around Kojiro’s kitchen. And yet the thought made him pause, just for a moment.
He spent a lot of time at Kojiro’s apartment. Located directly above Sia la Luce, it was a convenient place to crash for the night after one too many glasses of wine, and Kojiro didn’t mind leaving Kaoru alone there the next morning while he was at work. i’m downstairs, often came the familiar text from Kojiro. kitchen’s yours when you wake up. don’t burn the place down idiot x
So, naturally, Kaoru knew his way around. He knew the way Kojiro liked to keep things: all items in their proper place, clean, labeled, and efficiently ordered, especially in his kitchen. He knew that Kojiro alphabetized his spice rack and loosely organized his pasta shapes from smallest to largest, stellini to paccheri. And he knew that Kojiro kept the salt next to the flour and sugar in the upper left cabinet by the fridge.
They’d known each other since they were four years old, sharing in every major life event, and yet it was the little measures of closeness that made Kaoru feel like this—unmoored and contemplative. Like, if he wanted to, he could paint Kojiro from memory.
He passed Kojiro the box of salt.
Kojiro set it down on the counter, grinned, and made a lewd gesture with one of the eggplants.
“Disgusting ape,” Kaoru muttered.
“Prissy prude,” Kojiro replied. Then he laughed. “Hey, let’s put the questions on hold until we finish cooking, yeah?” he said lightly, picking up his santoku knife. “It’ll give us some time to breathe.”
Kaoru hummed in response. He folded his arms and watched Kojiro slice the eggplant with measured precision, then pour some salt into a nearby bowl.
“Preheat the oven to 200 and come help me with this,” Kojiro said, pinching salt between his fingers and sprinkling it over the eggplant slices. “The salt sweats the excess moisture from the eggplant. We’ll let it sit for ten minutes, then bread the eggplant slices, then brown them, et cetera.”
Kojiro was in chef mode. Kaoru itched with the urge to snap at him for ordering him around, but he was also very hungry, so he exerted enough restraint to merely grumble the word “bossy” under his breath before doing as he was told. When they were done, Kojiro set a timer for ten minutes and started gathering the rest of the ingredients.
“Carla, shuffle playlist number three, please,” Kaoru murmured into his bracelet, and soft instrumental music filled the room.
“Setting the mood, pinky?”
“Something like that.”
Kojiro smirked. “I’ll get out the candles.”
“You do that for all those girls you take home?” Kaoru sniffed.
“Nope,” Kojiro replied, “just you.”
Kaoru turned away. “I need something to drink,” he snapped, the words coming out a little more harshly than he intended.
But Kojiro didn’t flinch. “White okay?” he asked, and when Kaoru nodded, he chose the Sauvignon Blanc from the wine rack and poured them each a glass.
Kaoru accepted his and took a sip. “This would have been helpful an hour ago,” he muttered.
Kojiro was quiet as he continued to prep the rest of the ingredients. He whisked the eggs and watched Kaoru from the corner of his eye, wondering if adding alcohol to the mix was really the best choice, considering how their conversation had devolved last night after a few too many glasses.
He let out a small sigh. The questions they’d answered earlier today had gone fairly well, in Kojiro’s opinion. Kaoru had been honest, and that was blessing enough. Being trusted with such rare moments of vulnerability from him often felt like staring directly into the sun. Kaoru was a force of nature, burning hot as a star one moment and cold as a moon the next, but the constant always seemed to be that he was some faraway body, celestial and stunning but forever out of reach.
Something had shifted, however, after the Full Swing Kiss, and even further after Reki’s race with Adam. The former had seemed to shatter the last remnants of Kaoru’s belief in Adam. But the latter had given Kaoru something else—a glimpse of Adam’s humanity. It was a gift, finally being able to witness Adam not as the towering, untouchable god he often seemed, but as someone who could fail, someone who could be brought to his knees by something as simple as the weather—and that Adam could be a subject of laughter was a revelation as wild and cathartic as the race itself.
Kojiro thought once more of Kaoru’s unbridled laughter that day, the jewels of rain falling around him, Adam’s grip on his beautiful, torn-up heart loosening with every syllable.
And—seeing it as if for the first time—Kojiro thought of the memory Kaoru had cited as his most cherished, that warm, clear night when they’d skated together for hours under the glow of the waning moon and the streetlights, trading challenges and jabs, racing each other to the end of one street, then doing it again, Kaoru in slim-fitting black, his hair whipping out behind him like a stream of petals, and the two of them stopping to sit on the curb and eat, their boards in their laps, and Kaoru turning in towards Kojiro to say something snarky, pulling his mask down as he spoke, and the way it felt so intentional, like an invitation, and Kojiro had believed so strongly for one searing moment that he would finally close that space between them, that he would kiss Kaoru, right there under the moon, and Kaoru wasn’t turning away, he wasn’t flinching, he was just holding Kojiro’s gaze, steady and confident, almost like a dare—until the sharp sound of voices erupted from the street and they both turned to see a group of drunk tourists passing by, and the spell was broken.
In the wake of that brief, charged moment between them, Kojiro had felt winded by the force of his desire. Wanting Kaoru wasn’t new. But feeling that level of utter possibility was. At first, he wondered if he’d imagined it—the anticipation thrumming between them, and the comfortable, confident way Kaoru had seemed to just… offer himself. But now, Kojiro realized that he might have actually glimpsed exactly what Kaoru meant when he said that he’d felt like himself that night.
What an incredible privilege, Kojiro thought. What a precious thing.
And he wondered if it was possible that Kaoru felt that way right now. If Kojiro’s apartment—this warm kitchen, this familiar space—was somewhere Kaoru felt he could pull down his mask and rest.
Selfishly, he hoped that was the truth.
They sipped the wine in silence for another minute, Carla’s music floating pleasantly through the space. Soon the timer rang, jolting Kojiro from his thoughts, and he sprung into action.
“Okay,” he said, passing Kaoru a paper towel, “help me pat the eggplant dry and wipe off the rest of the salt. Then you’ll help me bread each of these slices, and I’ll pan fry them. I don’t trust you with hot oil and a skillet.”
“I’m not completely useless in a kitchen,” Kaoru said snippily.
“Don’t worry, pinky,” Kojiro said, grinning, “you don’t have to pretend with me.”
Kaoru moved to punch him in the arm, but Kojiro dodged it quickly. “Uh-uh,” he said, “no fighting in my kitchen. This is sacred ground.”
“Then I’ll get you out of the kitchen, you egotistical—” Kaoru yanked Kojiro forward, attempting to pull him past the counter and into the living area, but Kojiro lost his balance with a yelp and fell into Kaoru, knocking him backwards onto the floor, where he landed on his ass with a loud thump, Kojiro falling right on top of him, catching himself on one forearm, his forehead knocking against Kaoru’s collarbone.
“Oh fuck, are you okay—”
Kaoru’s eyes snapped open, glinting, and he took advantage of Kojiro’s momentary concern to flip them over, straddling Kojiro’s ribs. His thighs tensed around the other man’s torso, pinning him with his full weight, breath coming heavy.
“Hello,” Kaoru said in a low voice.
Kojiro tried to strain upwards, pushing at Kaoru’s legs with the heels of his hands, but Kaoru’s grip was tight. “Fucking menace—” he spat, heart hammering in his chest. “I hate you, you know that, right?”
“I hate you more,” Kaoru shot back, smirking. Kojiro felt Kaoru’s thighs flex again, tightening briefly around his ribs. The warmth and solid weight of him made Kojiro dizzy. He tried, desperately, to think unsexy thoughts.
“I thought you were hungry,” Kojiro snapped.
“Who says I’m not?”
Kojiro could have blacked out. Instead, he grabbed Kaoru’s ponytail and yanked it hard, pulling a yelp from Kaoru and destabilizing him enough for Kojiro to push up again and send him tumbling to the side. Kojiro scrambled up, immediately bracketing his knees around Kaoru’s waist, reversing their earlier positions. He pinned Kaoru’s wrists at his sides with both hands and grinned, triumphant, until Kaoru jabbed a knee into his spine and he doubled over onto the other man, hardly able to process the change before a sharp pain was blooming in his shoulder.
“Ow—what the fuck, you maniac, did you just bite me?”
Kaoru took the opportunity to scramble out from under Kojiro, face flushed and eyes bright. “You had it coming, brute,” he said breathlessly, and then he laughed, a brief, beautiful thing that shocked Kojiro stupid. “What, no comeback this time? Dumb gorilla.”
“You’re insane,” Kojiro managed to snap.
“Get up. You have a dinner to make,” Kaoru said as he stood, smoothing his hair.
“You’re still gonna help me, douche. Go wash your hands.”
So they returned to the food, remnants of familiar tension still crackling in the air between them as they traded a few more insults, but soon, Kaoru became laser-focused on completing his task without room for complaint.
He prepared each of the eggplant slices, first coating them methodically in flour, then dipping them in the whisked eggs, and finally, lightly packing breadcrumbs around them. Meanwhile, Kojiro pan fried the breaded slices, browning them in a skillet until they were golden. When they were done, he arranged them in the baking dish over a layer of marinara sauce. Fresh mozzarella went on top of each slice, then more marinara, then a generous sprinkling of freshly grated parmesan. Then the process was repeated. Once they had finished, Kojiro grinned and hefted the dish up.
“Looks perfect. Open the oven for me?”
A timer was set for thirty minutes. Kaoru washed his hands and began to browse idly through Kojiro’s assortment of pasta shapes.
“Rigatoni would be good, I think,” Kojiro called over his shoulder. “Also, there’s fresh basil and oregano in the fridge for the parm.”
“Did you go shopping just for this?” Kaoru said dumbly, realizing for the first time that Kojiro probably hadn’t just had all of these ingredients conveniently on hand.
“Yeah, I went earlier today. I know this is one of your favorites.”
Kaoru swallowed. “Ah.”
Being spoiled pleased him, of course. And yet, simultaneously, a small, hardened part of Kaoru hated being the subject of Kojiro’s unselfish consideration. It made him want to flinch away and hide. It made him want to wrestle Kojiro to the ground, angry and physical, until there was no part of their bodies that hadn’t shoved together, the bruise from a well-timed jab lingering on his skin like a mark from a lover.
Kaoru wasn’t sure, however, what to make of the sense that these instincts—to hide, to fight—had recently diminished in strength. They were still present, but lately, he felt them less acutely. As a result, he made allowances that would have previously been unthinkable. When he’d been injured and unable to drive, he’d grit his teeth and let Kojiro into his home, where the other man assessed the contents of Kaoru’s kitchen and then returned later that morning with two weeks worth of groceries in the back of his car. When Kaoru’s arm had been immobilized in a cast, he’d begrudgingly allowed Kojiro to kneel beside the bath and wash his hair.
And Kaoru would not have accepted this game—these thirty-six questions—a few months ago, he realized. He would hardly have considered it.
What was the perceived danger? To be seen? To acknowledge his own pain, and therefore make it real? To acknowledge his own joy, and therefore cede power to the possibility of its loss?
He watched Kojiro from behind as he stood at the sink and rinsed the dishes, the muscles of his shoulders and back moving under his T-shirt. Kaoru wanted to spread his hands across those planes of skin, to feel the rise and fall of Kojiro’s breath. To nose into the dip of his neck and inhale. To not speak, and still be told yes.
In a way he hardly ever allowed himself to, Kaoru sank into the want. It was thick and richly colored. He’d be stained with it for days.
As pasta boiled on the stove, Kojiro refilled his and Kaoru’s wine glasses and leaned against the counter, taking a sip.
“—and then the guy sent it back again, saying he didn’t know it would have dairy in it. It’s fucking fettuccine alfredo! It’s dairy holding hands!”
“Idiot,” Kaoru muttered.
“We have non-dairy options, y’know, I could have made something if he’d told the server. But nope! Guess it wasn’t worth mentioning until the last minute.” Kojiro scoffed. “And then he just. Walked out. So that wasn’t a great look for me.”
“Your customers scrape the barrel for the lowest forms of life this planet has to offer.”
“Tell me about it.” Kojiro sighed. “The thing is, like ninety-eight percent of them are amazing. They eat well, they pay well, I couldn’t ask for more. It’s just—sometimes, it feels like that other two percent has a personal vendetta against me and my staff.”
“Some people are never satisfied, even with exceptional service. I’ve certainly dealt with clients like that.”
“Your clients? Stuck-up and picky? Never,” Kojiro said sarcastically. Kaoru’s mouth twitched into a tiny smile. Kojiro stirred the pasta and lifted up the slotted spoon, gesturing for Kaoru. “Come here. Taste.”
Kaoru set down his wine glass and crossed the kitchen. He blew lightly on the tube of pasta, then took it between his teeth and chewed. It was, of course, perfectly al dente. “Good,” he declared. Kojiro smiled and set down the spoon, then turned off the stove and drained the rigatoni.
Moments later, the timer rang, and Kojiro removed the eggplant parmesan from the oven. “Beautiful,” he said, the word almost a moan, and Kaoru scoffed, but his mouth watered.
He picked up Kojiro’s santoku knife and began to clumsily chop the fresh basil that Kojiro had laid out on a cutting board. The utensil was awkward in his hand; he wasn’t used to handling anything like it in the kitchen. As he chopped, one of his fingers slid forward by accident, and the edge of the knife clipped it cleanly, the blade so sharp he barely felt the contact.
“Shit,” Kaoru hissed. He watched as a bright line of crimson bloomed on his skin. It began to sting.
“Oh, no, no, Kaoru, what are you doing,” Kojiro said, taking the knife from his hand. “You’re bleeding.”
“Obviously,” Kaoru spat.
“Don’t—just let me help,” Kojiro said. He grabbed a paper towel and pressed it to the cut, fingers curling briefly around Kaoru’s hand. “Hold this here. Keep pressure on it while I find a bandage.”
He disappeared down the hall, then quickly returned with an adhesive bandage and a small tube of antibiotic. “Wash it first,” Kojiro said. “Then let me take care of it.”
Kaoru complied. He was still as he let Kojiro bandage his finger. “I could do it myself, you know,” he muttered.
“Sure. But this way, it’s like old times,” Kojiro said. He caught Kaoru’s eyes and saw the flash of recognition there. They’d been so young back then, learning to skate from videos online and watching teens out at the half-pipe. Whenever one of them went down hard, the other was always there to pick the dirt and gravel out of the scrape and patch it up with the wrinkled bandages they kept shoved in their back pockets.
“Like old times,” Kaoru repeated. He didn’t often reminisce on the years before Adam had appeared in their lives. Sometimes, those memories felt as if they belonged to a different person. Someone with a different understanding of pain: a banged-up knee, a fractured wrist. None of that seemed to matter, now. None of it was tied to the person he’d had to become.
But Kojiro gazed at him as if it did, as if it was. Kaoru realized that his hand was still cradled in Kojiro’s, their palms touching.
“All done,” Kojiro said. He grinned. “You want me to kiss it better?”
Kaoru shoved him away. “Get out of my face, you ape.” Kojiro just laughed and got to work chopping the basil with quick, deft precision. “Show-off,” Kaoru muttered.
“Just doing it right, princess.” Kojiro felt Kaoru’s gaze on him as he completed the task. And he loved it, this feeling he often got when Kaoru watched him in the kitchen—the feeling of being extraordinarily competent at something and being witnessed in it by Kaoru, being quietly assessed, and being met with Kaoru’s steady, silent approval.
The meal, once served, was gorgeous, like everything Kojiro really put effort into. To Kaoru’s surprise, he then produced a tall, slender candle and set it in the center of the table.
“I thought you were joking earlier,” Kaoru said flatly.
“I was,” Kojiro said as he flicked a lighter, “but I’m always saving this for a special occasion, so I never end up using it. Why can’t tonight be a special occasion?”
Kaoru didn’t have an answer. He sat down at the table and dug into his food instead. Kojiro followed suit, groaning in pleasure as the first bite hit his tongue. “Fuck, it’s good.”
“Hm,” Kaoru responded. It was good.
They ate without speaking for a moment, Carla’s music still playing softly. And then Kojiro took a sip of wine and said, “So. Are you ready to keep going?”
Kaoru swallowed, eyes flickering up to meet Kojiro’s gaze. “I suppose,” he said.
“Remember, we still each have one free pass.”
“Of course.”
“And we can take a break if it’s—if it gets to be too much.”
“We’re finishing this tonight,” Kaoru said curtly.
Kojiro nodded. “Okay. Tonight it is, then.”
Kaoru took a long sip of wine. “Carla,” he said, “continue, please.”