Chapter Text
---
The summer heat harshly greets him as he climbs down their family truck, beads of sweat accumulating on the skin underneath his bangs. Checking his reflection on the window, he curses at the sight of his thick foundation, the one he spent thirty minutes applying on his face this morning, now melting after only three seconds under the blazing sun.
“PP, do you need me to pick you up later?”
He turns around to look at his father whose head is currently peeking out of their truck window. Just as he is about to reply, a breath of air passes underneath the skin of his ear, and a pair of hands land on his shoulders.
“No need to, uncle. I’ll take him home!”
PP manages to hold the panicked gasp he was about to release when he registers the conspicuous voice.
“Okay, then I leave him to you, young man. Have fun!” enthuses PP’s father, oblivious to the shamed expression his son is sporting and bids them goodbye.
Rooted on his spot, PP watches their family truck head towards the nearby intersection, disregarding the fingers that have been continuously tapping on his shoulders since they made their presence known.
Only when the vehicle completely disappears into the abyss does he turn around, coming face-to-face with Billkin, once again clad in his signature Cookie Monster apron, and PP feels his throat run dry, convincing himself it’s only because of the weather and not because of the other’s bright smile that almost puts the summer sun to shame.
“Uncle?” he then asks after composing himself, adding a bit of scoff in his tone, yet Billkin just sends him a nonchalant shrug.
“That’s the nickname your dad wanted. He said it makes him feel young,” he answers, flashing an even wider grin that makes PP’s breath hitch.
Billkin’s closeness with his family has taken a leap since their private baking lessons began, high enough that his parents allowed him to be off from work today to teach the kids at Billkin’s daycare center how to make cookies. He recalls how ecstatic they were when he relayed the news, saying they’re glad he’s made a new friend and doing something beyond his arguably dull routine. And as much as he hates how they made him sound like an antisocial teenager, it was also the shot in the arm he didn’t think he needed.
Channeling this memory, he mentally grabs onto that encouragement from his family as Billkin leads him inside the daycare center.
True to its name, the Sunny Smile Daycare welcomes its guests with a wooden door reflecting the color of the clear skies on a summer day and a cutout of a rainbow with a large smiling face hanging neatly on top of it. Walking through it, PP feels his mood lighten up almost instantly at the sight of the center’s lively walls, cluttered furniture, and the scent of honey and strawberry.
Billkin guides him through the lounge and into a long hallway of doors, each one leading to individual rooms designed for various children's activities. For instance, the first one they peek into is a pastel pink room where kids make handcrafts like paper flowers, animal drawings, and painted rocks. Another room is filled with comfy sleeping mats for the children’s designated nap time. They also pass by a mint-colored area that serves as the playroom.
Their brief tour ends at the daycare’s kitchen which, according to Billkin’s several warnings, is nothing to write home about. Yet, the second he steps foot into the room, PP couldn’t help but stand still in awe. Perhaps it’s because baking is his bread and butter, but any kitchen he finds himself entering gives him an odd sense of familiarity. The sparkling clean appliances and dishes on the rack, the rounded dining tables with little chairs around them, the assembly of ingredients neatly placed on the long, marble counter island; all of them evoking a strange but much-needed dose of tranquility.
Billkin, however, seems to interpret his sudden silence otherwise, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck in shame.
“I told you, our kitchen is lame compared to yours—”
“No, it’s perfect.”
PP cuts him off, because it’s true. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize how cozy and lived-in this kitchen is, and how it’s kept tidy and welcoming, exuding the comfort of a lovely home. Yes, it might be considerably humble compared to the other rooms he’s seen, but it’s obviously treated with the same importance and love, and for him who considers the kitchen as a personal sanctuary, nothing else makes him happier than seeing one that’s well-cared for.
Fortunately, Billkin doesn’t take long to realize this too, eventually releasing a relieved sigh and relaxing the hands that were clenching on the sides of his apron.
“I’m glad to hear that—”
“Kin!!!”
Out of the blue, a blaring voice rings through the air, and the nerves PP thought had become non-existent make their presence known again when an army of small humans rush inside the room like ants crawling to their nests.
“Hey! I told you not to run.”
PP didn’t even have time to digest the rarely heard softness in Billkin’s tone because all of a sudden, he feels several pairs of eyes land on him, examining with plain fascination as if he’s some kind of research experiment.
If his memory serves him right, there are nine children currently enrolled in this daycare, their ages roughly between three to five years old. Of course, when he learned that fact from Billkin, PP almost backed out of the agreement, doubting if he had the skill let alone the patience to teach nine children who may or may not have attention spans shorter than a hairpin, especially after his chaotic first baking session with Billkin nearly obliterated his already thin confidence.
God, help me, PP pleads in his head when he realizes that a circle had formed around him, the children clad in light-colored aprons pointing their large doe eyes on him.
Then, a warm hand plants itself on his waist, his body that had been frozen in fear melting under its soothing touch.
“Kids, what did I tell you to do when we have a special visitor?”
As if being called special wasn’t enough to strike PP in the heart, Billkin lines up the children in front of him in a vertical line to commence what he briefly announces as the “naming train”.
“Here comes the naming train, choo-choo!”
Led by the daycare assistant, the children put their arms on the shoulders of the person in front of them and begin swaying back and forth, imitating the movement of a train.
“My name is Jericho, choo-choo!”
Bit by bit, a smile begins creeping up on PP’s face as each kid heads to the front of the line to introduce themselves, all the while making cute faces and gestures. To make it even better, after each child states their name, they would huddle together and pull their fists downward, imitating an operator ringing a train whistle.
He didn’t realize how much he got caught up in their engaging self-introduction scheme until he saw Billkin towering behind the ninth child. His hand quickly flies up to stifle a laugh when Billkin appears in front of him, his arms swaying from side to side and his feet shuffling into a small curtsy.
“My name is Billkin, choo-choo!” the daycare assistant happily yells, his dimples running so deep one can almost mistake them for moon craters.
PP lets himself bask in the bright atmosphere Billkin and the children are creating, to the point where he doesn’t even register that they have gathered around him, their eyes shining and faces breaking into expectant smiles.
“Oh, no, no, no...” PP groans internally, but it proves to be too late. Billkin catches him by the arm, and for a moment, he is blinded by something blocking his eyes. An apron had been thrown over his head, the baby pink color and red Elmo stickers plastered on it taking all his attention for a brief second.
“What’s your name?”
He hears a shy, mellow voice from below, a young girl about half his height clinging to one side of his apron. He takes a glance at Billkin, silently asking if he really had to do this and, after receiving a nod, takes a deep breath.
“My name is PP, choo-choo..?” he sings, hands going up to make the same train whistle motion, only in clumsier fashion.
The brief silence that follows nearly made him fly out of the room and bury himself underground in shame. But not long after, the room becomes filled with rounds of applause, loud cheers, and children jumping in sheer excitement.
“Okay, now that we all know each other, let’s go to our seats and start the lesson!” Billkin announces and the children follow suit, racing to the rounded dining tables in front of the kitchen counters.
PP, on the other hand, still has his feet planted on the floor, the straps of his apron loosely hanging on either side of his waist as his mind works around digesting what had just happened and how he had played right into their hands. The embarrassment is late but it comes, and it hits him hard his face turns red in a matter of seconds.
This only intensifies when he feels a breath of air pass under his ear, together with the straps of his apron being raised to meet on his lower waist. His soul stays afloat, waiting with bated breath as Billkin ties the pink apron over him, each pull turning his cheeks a darker shade of scarlet.
“Hmm… pink really suits you,” Billkin comments when he comes to the front, his gaze both teasing and admiring as he scans PP like he’s a freshly-baked cake on display.
And normally, PP would refute back, because this isn’t the first time Billkin has expressed amusement over his infatuation for pink objects. It was obvious that the daycare assistant chose this color for him deliberately, possibly so he has an excuse to make fun of him today just as he always does in their baking sessions.
However, he could also tell how perfectly this apron is hugging his thin frame, how it sufficiently covers the top of his chest and doesn’t reach his knees, how the material is not too thick to cause him a heatstroke, and how the light pink shade is a perfect complement to the white chef jacket he often wears when he bakes.
It’s almost as if… as if Billkin actually thought of him while preparing it, like this piece of clothing was specially customized and curated just for him.
And he swears under his breath, because his heart starts racing like a speeding jet once more, except this time, he doesn’t know if it’s due to the teacher jitters or the curly-haired guy beaming like an idiot beside him.
---
PP presumed this teacher-student relationship he had going on with Billkin would come to an end after their baking class at Sunny Smile.
Sure, Billkin had been coming over to his house for private lessons for weeks already and he’s practically considered family by the household now, but he knew this setup wasn’t gonna last long. There had been no formal agreement between them about the number of sessions they will have or if Billkin should reach a certain level. The daycare assistant was clear about his goal from the get-go: to gain just enough knowledge to teach cookie recipes to the kids, a box easily ticked two weeks ago with that baking lesson at the daycare.
And although the couch potato in him was glad to have his lazy days back, a deep, sinking feeling creeps at his chest for reasons he cannot fathom.
He wonders if it’s because the teaching experience was overwhelmingly satisfying, a huge contrast to his low expectations. Of course, he spent the first ten minutes fumbling over his words like he was a regressed three-year-old while the children looked at him with clueless eyes. Luckily, Billkin was right next to him constantly reminding him to breathe and take things slow, offering to expand his explanations when they go past the children’s comprehension level, and praising him every chance he gets.
Not to mention, the kids were far from the snotty brats he imagined them to be. Every minute of the lesson, they only gave him the sweetest smiles, and their radiant laughter was nothing short of healing, making every bit of struggle during the session dissipate into thin air. Their innocent excitement about making and eating the pastries brought back sentiments that had been subconsciously buried inside his mind, dumped and hidden by the stress of making a place for himself on this planet, proving his worth to his family, and striving to repay his parents’ lifelong work.
The simple joy of creating food— giving one lesson brought it back to him like a warm coat returning the warmth stolen on a chilly night.
And he thought, if he continues giving more, maybe he’ll keep learning and relearning more about himself and this career path he has set himself onto.
And maybe, just maybe , it will also make him stop thinking about Billkin.
It’s not like he misses the guy. That was absolutely not the case. Or at least that’s what he wants himself to think, because it’s undeniable that ever since Billkin walked him home after that baking lesson, their bodies close and cozy against each other as they evaluated the children’s sugar cookies like they were judges on MasterChef Junior, something in him had sprouted. It kept growing with every single day that passed by without him seeing the daycare assistant, persisting from one day to the next, and manifesting in the most subtle ways; whenever he would dig through the small collection of beginner recipes he made for Billkin; whenever he unconsciously opens his phone to ask Billkin what time he’s gonna arrive for the lesson only to facepalm himself and delete the message; whenever Paris pokes him in the cheek while he’s tapping his fingers restlessly on the bakery counter and tells him, “Just call your student if you miss him.”
And PP wanted to ignore it. What good would it do? There was no reason for him to meet Billkin and the kids anymore. No matter how he felt about it, no matter if teaching them was the most fun he’s had in a long while, that lesson at the daycare center was a one-off and he knew he had to live with that.
So when he sees Billkin with his army of tiny children in front of their family bakery one late afternoon, he is beyond stunned.
All he was planning to do was to wipe the flood water that a passing bus sprayed all over their shop’s front window. But now he’s thrown for a loop, because Billkin’s little minions suddenly form a fortress around him, locking him in, and as much as they looked harmless and absolutely lovable in their sunshine-colored vests, the curious stares he’s getting from the bakery patrons and passers-by is making him feel heated.
“Sorry,” PP looks up at the sound of Billkin’s voice, ignoring the huge gulp of saliva he had to swallow when he makes eye contact with the guy who has been occupying every corner of his brain for the past weeks, “I was taking them on a walk and they wanted to see you.”
Billkin sends an apologetic smile, and it takes all of his might to stray his eyes away from the sickeningly cute denim overalls the daycare assistant is sporting.
“No, it’s fine.” he whispers, his breath and eyelids shaky, “...but what brings you all here?” PP throws a question to the kids who are now reaching their tiny fingers up to grab onto him, their eyes sparkling and glistening.
“Pretty pink baker!”
“P! P!”
“I want cake!”
“Let’s make cookies!”
The barrage of screams overwhelms him for a second, their words mixing with the screaming engines of vehicles zooming past. Thankfully, as he always does, Billkin notices his slight discomfort and proceeds to break apart the whirlpool of kids PP had been sequestered in.
“Actually...” begins the daycare assistant, his flexed arms slowly getting filled with the tiny waists of children who are now struggling to get out of his embrace, “...they were asking if the pretty pink baker was going to make cookies with them again.”
As if seeing Billkin effortlessly carrying two children wasn’t enough to practically transform his face into a fiery tomato, the endearing nickname also drives him crazy, his thoughts spiraling into utter chaos, desperately convincing himself that the nickname is just a fun label and not a reflection of how Billkin really thinks of him.
“I thought it was a one-time thing,” he replies hesitantly.
As senseless and dramatic as it sounds, he felt like that day was the one and only chance to experience the thrill of sharing his lifetime’s worth of baking knowledge to Billkin and his students. And it becomes clear soon after that Billkin believed this to be the case as well.
“Yeah, I tried doing a lesson on my own last week,” mumbles the daycare assistant with a sheepish grin, his free hand landing on the back of his neck awkwardly, “But the kids kept looking for you. I guess they really grew to like you.”
PP narrows his eyes in suspicion, those words sounding like another display of the daycare assistant’s newly acquired habit of flattering him for funsies. However, he immediately backtracks when he catches the kids around him nodding furiously, the few who still had their hands on his arms tightening their hold. And not even a person with a heart of thorns wouldn’t melt at the sight of these kids beaming at them with so much joy and anticipation.
“Plus, it’s way more fun having you around.”
Yet, it’s always just one person, this curly-haired man in front of him, that delivers the final blow, his marketing prowess working at its best and is making him bob his head like a dog ogling over a snack.
---
“You’ve been smiling a lot these days.”
PP raises his head when his mother’s words ring from across the dining table.
“What do you mean?” responds the young baker, his words muffled by the piece of bread still stuck in his mouth. He then winces when a slap lands on his thin wrist. Rubbing the now reddening part of his arm, he shoots a teary-eyed glare at the man standing beside him.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” simply states his father with a stern tone.
The slight scolding makes PP pout for a split second before he’s beaming again, the strawberry ice cream bar he is handed instantly erasing the brief frustration he had, while his mother just lets out a hearty chuckle, sneakily rubbing her husband’s tense shoulders.
“I just think...” his mother resumes the conversation, “...you’re really enjoying your new hobby.”
The fork he had just punctured into a slice of banana bread halts in the air, faltering in its journey towards his mouth. It takes a long, hard minute for PP to put his hand down and compose himself, especially when he’s under the scrutinizing eyes of the only woman in this world who knows him best.
When PP first accepted Billkin’s request for a baking tutorial, he didn’t foresee it as the starting point of a new era in his life. But apparently, the addition of this one person, and in his case, nine children, was enough to transform his dull and stagnant world into a wild, coursing river.
After Billkin and the kids’ spontaneous visit to their bakery, PP found himself back at Sunny Smile teaching a new cookie recipe to them that week. As well as the next week. And the week after that. Next thing he knew, all his Friday afternoons had transformed from his typical bakery shifts to a five-hour period of making cookies and playing with kids. It was a drastic change for someone who has been doing a consistent routine for many years, but one PP was able to embrace fully in just a few months.
If he was gonna be honest, he was surprised at how quickly he adapted to the change himself. His tendency of strictly adhering to rigid patterns has always been his weakness, a probable side effect of the precision and concentration he has acquired from years of baking. It’s a trait he never really notices on a daily basis until he’s put in a position where everything can quickly spiral out of control, such as being with children who are notorious for being impulsive and instinct-driven. Teaching baking to kids proved to be a much higher hurdle than tutoring his peers in university or his relatives because of this. Thus, being flexible and more patient quickly became a personal challenge for him.
Luckily, although the kids can get rowdy at times, they knew how to respect people and understand limits. He has the daycare staff members to thank for this, as he can tell they instilled good discipline in them despite only having them under their roof for less than a year.
It also helped that Billkin is really great at dealing with children, so great that PP felt the necessity to ask him if he’s ever had a child of his own, despite his face being far from looking like a father. The guy is simply an expert at caretaking. He knows how to listen to children and make them listen to him. He accommodates their desires but can also strictly take charge if they go out of bounds. He’s also attentive to the children’s personalities and quirks.
Most importantly, Billkin showers them with the love and respect they need and deserve.
And while all that is admirable, this caring nature of Billkin has also become an indirect source of struggle for the baker.
It’s not like it’s wrong or out of character for Billkin to be affectionate to the kids. However, it has led to some significant misunderstandings that the young baker is not exactly fond nor proud of. Like the time he thought Billkin had called him “sweetheart” in the middle of their conversation only to find out it wasn’t addressed to him but to one of the kids, or when he missed his monthly spa appointment with his mother because Billkin begged him to stay at the daycare a little longer for the children, or every single instance of the daycare assistant huddling up the kids to call him “pretty baker” because he knows it’s fun for them.
And PP can pin the blame on Billkin and his doting tendencies all he wants, but he knows the man is not entirely at fault, especially for instances like now, when his phone vibrates and a series of warm and fuzzy tingles kick off inside him as he reads the newly-arrived notification.
Billkin: I’m at the playground.
“Your daycare boy arrived already?” inquires his mother, the knowing glint in her eyes making his already malfunctioning mind short circuit even more.
“H-He’s not my boy,” he huffs with all his chest, the strength of those words already out of the door the minute he stuttered.
“Whatever you say,” his mother muses, raising her eyebrows and flashing him an amused glance, and the baker just curses under his breath.
Aware that retaliating will do him no good, PP walks out of the dining area and heads towards the foyer. Settling himself into his outdoor slippers, he opens the front door, the afternoon sun taking no time to blast at his face with its radiance. The intensity of the heat outside nearly made him retreat back into the comfort of his airconditioned room, but the idea of a certain person melting underneath the sun as he’s waiting for him ignites in the baker’s conscience a sense of duty and urgency.
“PP?”
The unexpected call from his mother stops PP in his tracks before he could walk out onto the vestibule. He turns around to see the woman peeking out from the doorway connecting the dining room to the foyer, and it took him no time to detect the pensive aura she was emitting.
“Are you sure you’re not coming with us on Friday?”
The confusion that was gradually creeping at him vanishes into thin air in a snap, the unusual hesitation in his mother’s demeanor now looking grounded to his eyes, and yet leaving only a taste of distraught so heated it could burst into balls of fire out of the tip of his tongue.
He nods — no words, not even the tiniest whimper — before pivoting and running outside towards the blinding light, striving but probably failing to not let the frustration reflect on his face.
The foul sensation left behind by that query stays with him throughout his brief journey to the nearby playground, where he is welcomed yet again by another peculiar sight: Billkin leaning cozily against a pale yellow motorbike.
He moves closer, ignoring Billkin’s greeting to examine the vehicle behind him. In the short period he’s known the guy, he has never seen him drive anything nor even mention having a driver’s license. Not only that, Billkin has also confessed about his slight distaste for the color yellow, so he would assume it wouldn’t even be part of this man’s options should he ever get himself anything, especially one as important as his own transportation.
Shock takes over the baker for a good five minutes, and it would’ve been longer had the daycare assistant not shaken him back to reality.
“I didn’t know you have a motorbike,” blurted PP, his fingers grazing the leather covering of the backseat, stopping only when he catches sight of its owner’s blank stare.
“Yeah, I don’t really use it.”
The emptiness in Billkin’s eyes and tone immediately piques his interest, his curiosity evolving more and more as the other joins him in inspecting the vehicle. He mentally notes how Billkin’s fingers would quake against the metal casing of the headlights, or how his breathing would falter when he reaches the slight dents on the clutches, making him wonder if there’s a backstory behind this object significant enough to make its owner look at it with the most pained gaze, but as always, the many unanswered questions remain at the tip of his tongue.
Billkin seems to have no intention of discussing it either, since he immediately diverts the conversation from his motorbike towards how crappy his morning has been. This small talk accompanies them as they maneuver towards the rows of wooden benches on the left side of the playground. PP flops himself down onto the one right across the center of the playground, immediately relaxing his entire frame against the seat. Looking up, he spots some random neighborhood kids playing in the jungle gym, and a smile creeps up his face because suddenly he’s reminded of Billkin’s kids.
“So, why did you wanna meet up?”
This good mood doesn’t last, however, as he gets hit by Billkin’s casual and seemingly harmless question. He swallows the lump stuck in his throat, the dilemma he’s been mulling over for the past days now coming back to haunt him, and the long-winded essay he’s been rehearsing in his mind nowhere to be found.
Burying his nails deep into his knees, PP finally manages to piece back some fragments of his memorized speech.
“I’m gonna have to cancel this Friday’s baking session.”
The daycare assistant, who was preoccupied with parking his motorbike, freezes in complete shock, before rushing to settle down beside the baker on the bench, his face yelling sheer panic.
“What? Why? Why are you canceling? Is your mom still mad that you missed your spa date? I thought she was chill with it. Or, wait, did one of our kids drop another bag of flour? I already paid for that. Or maybe someone tried to bite your ear again? I swear I gave them a long lecture two weeks ago about how you don’t like your ear being touched—”
All of a sudden, Billkin is fast rapping in front of him, his words barely comprehensible, half of it just hysteric breaths. Yet oddly enough, PP manages to understand them, and he breaks down laughing.
“Hold on, calm down, it’s nothing like that,” assures the baker in between high chuckles, “My parents are going out of town to visit my grandmother on her birthday, so I'm gonna be watching over our bakery.”
Hearing those words, the tension on the daycare assistant’s face breaks and he relaxes back into his seat. “Oh?” he says, his voice now empty of distress and sounding calmer compared to a minute ago.
“Yeah. Oh.” PP teases, the annoyed pout on Billkin’s face making him feel more comfortable to expound on the situation, that celebrating his paternal grandmother’s birthday has been an annual thing for their family, especially after his grandfather passed away and left her alone, and that they would usually close the bakery and stay a couple of days at his father’s old home together with their other relatives, except Paris who would always excuse himself from the festivities.
To the baker’s relief, Billkin says he’s fine with conducting a lesson on his own, although he is understandably worried about the children nagging at him for half an hour asking where PP is, to which he can only give an advanced apology.
“I understand Paris not wanting to show up,” then prodes Billkin, one of his feet now propped up to the bench, his knee meeting the edge of his chin, “But what about you? Why aren’t you going to see your grandmother?”
Then and there, PP feels his heart sink.
He had hoped Billkin wouldn’t be attentive enough to notice that tiny detail, but who was he kidding? This is a man who knows nine children, who are not even his own, from the tip of their hairs to the edge of their feet. It was inevitable that this anomaly would cross his mind, although he thought it would at least get to him after they went their separate ways today.
“PP?” he is pulled back into reality by a squeeze on his arm, “If you don’t wanna tell me, you don’t need to,” affirms Billkin, his dejected smile aggressively tugging at PP’s heartstrings.
As expected, the daycare assistant is quick on the uptake, and PP wonders if that’s actually a blessing or a curse. On one hand, he’s unsure whether he can talk about that part of his life to Billkin or not. On the other hand, he knows he’ll have to sooner or later.
Besides, deep inside, he wants to know what the other would think about it. Will it nourish their blossoming friendship or prematurely end it here and now?
Admittedly, the latter terrifies him. No matter how much he denies it, Billkin has earned himself a significant position in the baker’s life within a short span of time. Of course, part of it is because of Billkin making most of the approaches; the tutoring, the post-lesson walk trips, the exchange of numbers and social media accounts, the late-night calls where they’d rant about how awful their day went. But the other, and arguably more important, part of it is how well the daycare assistant treats him. Sure, Billkin teases him like crazy and does plenty of silly things to piss him off, but he never oversteps his boundaries. He apologizes if he thinks he’s gone overboard, a relatively rare occurrence, and tries to make it up to him in more ways than one: offering to clean any mess he made on his own, letting the baker flick him on the forehead, one time even filling up 5 pages of paper with the words “I won’t do it again” handwritten with a pencil.
For PP, Billkin is a really good guy, probably the best one he’s let into his life within these past few years, and he’s scared that the confession brewing up in his mind will just ruin everything that’s been built up until now with a single smash.
At the same time, though, he doesn’t want the daycare assistant to think he’s not trustworthy, that he doesn’t feel safe talking to him, that he’s still outside of PP’s comfort zone, because frankly, he is not. This friendship of theirs is not and has never been one-sided, and PP wants him to know that. He has to let him know that.
“Actually...” begins PP, his hands flat on his knees trying to prevent his legs from shaking in fear, the magnitude of what he’s about to reveal suddenly weighing down on him, “...I haven’t been on good terms with her since I told her I was gay.”
The wind passes by, the leaves on the trees rustling and tussling. He hears no sound from beside him, and despite the strong urge to see what face his companion has on right now, the terror of staring back at the same disappointed look his grandmother gave him last year enough to reign in this desire.
“I just— I don’t wanna ruin her day by showing up, you know?” the young baker continues, “But I guess it feels weird to not make a cake for her like I do every year.”
His monologue ends on a shaky note, his voice nearly cracking from pent-up emotions. He doesn’t remember the last time he talked about his grandmother like this to anyone, not even with his parents. It was never a good conversation topic over the dinner table, and they were cautious enough not to mention her when he’s around, even though he knows they would do anything to mend their broken relationship.
After all, PP was her favorite grandchild. She babied him like crazy, was always on his side whenever he’d have petty fights with his cousins, gave him the biggest presents during Christmas. She treated him like he was her own son. Perhaps that’s why he believed she’d understand and accept everything about him, including his sexuality. Especially his sexuality.
But the world decided to take a 180 on him, and as much as he doesn’t regret telling the truth, he wishes it didn’t result in a broken relationship, because it had planted in him this ridiculous fear of losing connections with people just because of who he is. The same fear that’s preventing him from taking a peek at the guy sitting next to him.
Except for the silent gasp he caught through his peripheral view, he has no clue how Billkin is taking in his exposed secret, his soul getting more uneasy with each second passing by.
“I see.”
Finally, Billkin breaks the suffocating silence enveloping them, though his seemingly uninspired tone only drives the baker’s mind into a greater pandemonium. He clutches the edge of the bench for dear life, the gears in his brain turning at double speed to formulate an apology, an explanation, anything to prevent the daycare assistant from standing up and walking out of his life—
“She’ll be missing out on the best birthday cake this year then.”
Billkin exclaims and, much to PP’s surprise, breaks into the most tender smile he has ever seen.
To not find even a speck of shock or repulsion on the other’s face suddenly covers him in an overwhelming sense of solace, the acceptance and adoration reflected in the other’s orbs causing his own eyes to well up in warm tears. This is what he wished to see in his grandmother’s eyes that day, when he poured himself out in front of her, laying everything about him bare to the deepest core.
“Ah, shit, no—” mutters the young baker, quickly turning around to avert his now tear-stricken face away from Billkin’s confused gaze. He knows all too well how much of an ugly crier he is, and the last thing he wants is for Billkin’s compassionate gaze to transform into a disgusted one at the sight of it.
He realizes shortly, however, that perhaps it’s really him who has been underestimating the strength and authenticity of their friendship, because Billkin proves time and time again that he’s nowhere near wanting to push him away.
“Hey—” PP shrieks as a weight lands on his head, the scenery around him suddenly fading to black. It takes him a minute to discern that Billkin’s helmet had been placed on him, the pungent scent of the other’s peculiar chocolate shampoo hitting his nose with every breath he takes in.
Before he could question the motivation behind this unusual action, the familiar callous hands reach for his own, wrapping them in a tight but gentle grasp.
“It’s okay, no one can see your face now. You can cry.”
Billkin implored, the rough skin under his thumbs a feather touch to his knuckles, and the waterworks that had halted momentarily from shock resumes, rapidly flowing like a coursing river breaking through a dam. Whether he’s crying because of his grandmother or Billkin’s compassion, he has no idea anymore. And frankly, it didn’t really matter, because the only thing occupying his whole headspace at the moment is the warm hands enveloping his own and the soothing voice masking his muddled sobbing.
Amidst all this, the world around them seems to be frozen in time, his sense of sight rendered useless by the tinted lens of the helmet over his head. It takes a while for his tears to dry up and his nose to recognize the fact that the protective object on him only has a small pocket of air when closed and that he’ll need to open it up if he wants to stay alive.
Pulling his hands away from Billkin’s hold, he slowly lifts up the lens of the helmet, and the sight that welcomes his strained eyes confuses him at first: a person sitting across him in silence with a helmet also on their head.
Then, as if on cue, the person lifts up their own helmet lens, and PP bursts into a fit of chuckles as he meets a familiar set of eyes.
“Why are you wearing that?” screams the young baker, his eyes getting watery again but this time because of the bubbles of laughter coming out of his lips in explosive batches.
All the while, Billkin is just looking at him in silence, his scarlet-tinted cheeks warmer than the summer heat, and the twinkle of his round eyes visible even under a thick protective layer.
“I had a spare,” he says nonchalantly, elbows shrugging like the concept of two men sitting on a bench with helmets on their heads is not at all comical and weird.
As PP struggles to breathe in between laughs, Billkin reaches out to grab his hands.
“Do you feel better now?” he asks, fingers drawing imaginary circles again on the baker’s knuckles. PP bobs his head in affirmation, his face heating up when Billkin squeezes his hands tighter before patting his nape, thumbs carefully tracing the hair at the base of his nape.
The baker doesn’t know if this is just the daycare assistant’s caring and protective instincts dictating him to make these sweet gestures, but he finds himself succumbing to all of them, each stroke on his wrist sending rounds of electric shock all over his frame, each long exchange of meaningful gazes causing his heart to skip two beats, each slide of their fingers against each other smooth and enticing. Even as they’re walking back to the bakery, their bodies a motorbike apart, the effect of Billkin’s gestures persists, the warm sensation of his every word and move fresh and seeping into PP’s skin like a freshly-carved tattoo.
And maybe, just maybe , it also trickled its way much deeper than that, because the young baker finds himself taking the helmet back into his room, at the guise of wanting to wash all the snot and tears he had soaked its interior fabric with, and spending the entire night staring at it with a smitten smile.
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