Work Text:
The first time Shirou invites Kenji over, he panics. Outwardly, of course, he retains the air of cool confidence that has all of his co-workers fooled, as he talks another client out of their firmly-held but legally indefensible belief that they can dictate exactly when and at what setting their neighbour can use their air conditioner. Inwardly, his thoughts are a cage of agitated hamsters. Ought he to have asked Kenji out to a bar instead? Or a restaurant? Should he have asked him out at all? He suppresses an impulse to ring the man and cancel, and instead picks up his briefcase. Time to go.
He likes Kenji, his ease and enthusiasm, not to mention the open appreciation in his gaze (Shirou has, after all, worked hard to look this good). It shouldn’t be this difficult. Besides, if he cancelled, he’d have to find another hairstylist.
Making the lasagne calms him down somewhat, although a few hamsters are still scurrying. Is it fancy enough? What if Kenji doesn’t like cheese? He pulls the baked chicken from the oven, its crust now toasted golden brown, and sets it on the small table as the doorbell chimes.
It’s just a meal, he tells himself, and he goes to answer.
Kenji hands him a pint of vanilla Häagen-Dazs and kisses him on the cheek, his breath warm and his cologne spicy.
“Hey, that smells amazing! I can’t wait.”
The ice-cream chills Shirou’s fingers. He should put it away. Instead, suddenly calm and certain, he reaches over to slide one finger along Kenji’s jawline. Kenji’s gaze flicks back from the laden table to meet Shirou’s, a little startled.
Shirou kisses him on the mouth, hot and sweet. Kenji chuckles deep in his throat and kisses him back, his tongue sliding against Shirou’s in an intimate promise.
They break off before the lasagne begins to cool. The delay has allowed the salad’s flavours to meld harmoniously. By mutual agreement they postpone dessert; but when Kenji leaves their bed around midnight, Shirou lying on one side, naked and pleasantly sated, it’s not the ice-cream he comes back with but the remainder of the baguette and the cod roe dip that Shirou had covered and put back in the fridge. He nudges Shirou over and sits down cross-legged next to him. Shirou props himself up on one elbow.
“It’s got a lot of sour cream,” Shirou warns.
Kenji tears off a piece of baguette and drags it through the dip, piling it up. He swallows it, his throat working, and then pulls off another chunk, adding dip and holding it out to Shirou.
“This stuff is fantastic.” Kenji wipes at his lip with his free hand. “Go on.”
Shirou knows exactly how good it tastes. He made it, after all. But I made it for you, he is about to say, when he realises that isn’t entirely true. That's why inviting Kenji over for a meal - a meal that he’d cooked himself - was the right thing to do, regardless of his qualms. He’d wanted to share something deeper than the glossy surface he’d created.
And Kenji had recognised this and offered it back to him. Shirou shifts, leaning forward slightly, and Kenji obligingly holds the bread closer. Shiro takes a lick, feeling the salt of the roe dissolve into the lingering creaminess, underscored by the bright tang of lemon juice. He hears Kenji’s breath hitch.
“Delicious.” Shirou sets his teeth against the baguette crust, biting through the resistance, and swallows his second bite. Kenji’s gaze is intent.
If Shiro is going to indulge, he might as well go all the way.
THE END