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Eventually, Kurosawa stops trying to shove more of Adachi’s poorly-executed chili chocolate in his mouth, and Adachi is able to lean back a bit instead of doing his best to keep his hands, arms and even shoulders between Kurosawa’s hands and further pointless torment of his taste buds.
He settles back in his chair and resists the urge to eat more of Kurosawa’s perfectly made truffles. If he’s not careful he absolutely will eat all of them at once, and then he’ll be queasy later which is an experience he’d like to never repeat again, and especially not in Kurosawa’s presence, in connection with food Kurosawa made for him.
Better to head home--or at least, head to one of their homes. They haven’t stayed over together in a few days, between work hours and probably-made-up excuses on both sides, though Adachi’s pretty sure his own experiments with making chocolates took up a lot more time than Kurosawa’s. His kitchen is still kind of a disaster.
It’s on the tip of his tongue to suggest heading out when he remembers the stack of boxes and bags and colorful wrapping paper that still covers Kurosawa’s desk.
“So … what are you going to do with all of those?” he asks. He hadn’t really thought about it, in previous years, but it really is a ridiculous amount of sweets. Too many to keep track of or even enjoy properly.
Kurosawa looks back at the pile of chocolates. Adachi thinks maybe that’s annoyance on his face. Just a hint of irritation breaking through in this empty office where only Adachi can see.
“Take them home,” he says. “Open them. Sometimes there are notes or things inside that people ask about. Make a list for White Day.”
He looks … resigned, all the humor bleeding out of him.
Adachi nudges his knee against Kurosawa’s leg. It’s probably a little stupid, as a habit, this, “I’m here, stop frowning,” poking he’s started falling into, but it does work a lot of the time.
“Can I help?” he asks.
Kurosawa turns back to him. He looks surprised.
“It just looks like a lot of work,” Adachi adds. “Unless you don’t want me see what other people are giving you. I know they’re probably all better chocolates than what I made--”
“I love your chocolates,” Kurosawa insists, and moves like he’s going to grab another one out of the box, which Adachi absolutely cannot allow him to do.
“Please stop trying to eat them,” he says, already reaching out, and they have a brief tug of war over the box before Kurosawa’s laughter gets the better of him again, and he stops pulling away quite so strongly.
He still doesn’t let go of the box. Adachi crams the lid back on top of it.
“Tears are really not the reaction I was hoping for,” he says, for good measure.
“Tears of happiness,” Kurosawa insists, but he’s still snickering too much for Adachi to take him remotely seriously.
Adachi wonders if any of the other people pressing chocolates into Kurosawa’s hands today have ever seen him laugh like this. A real laugh, that makes him cover his mouth sound like he can’t quite catch his breath.
Probably not. Not if they think he likes sweets. It had taken a while for Adachi to realize that even that little piece of information was a lowering of boundaries. A slip of the mask Kurosawa wears in so much of his life, trying to be better than some image in his head he thinks everyone compares him too.
He’s a little selfishly glad about that. That he’s the only one who gets to know these things.
“I’ll do better next year,” he says, nodding at the box. Maybe a salty snack, but dipped in chocolate? Or something that doesn’t fit so easily in a box, but might be more to Kurosawa’s taste. There are recipes where chocolate is part of a sauce or seasoning, aren’t there? He could try that.
Kurosawa is smiling at him. The soft, half-disbelieving version of his blinding salesman’s smile. The one that seems to be only for moments between the two of them.
“Next year,” he says. His eyes are shining a bit too.
Adachi nudges his leg again. None of those other people have any idea how much of an embarrassing sap Kurosawa can be either, probably.
Too bad for them.
“Yeah,” he agrees, smiling back. “Next year.”