Chapter Text
The palace is draped in opulence and fresh-cut flowers, banners with the kingdom’s insignia on every stone wall. A few nervous murmurs fill the hall, yet more are frozen in nervousness or contemplation, all standing in a neat line. Some are wearing spotless military uniforms, others in the finest suits money could buy, and a few in clearly handed down revelry. There are tense smiles, confident smirks, bored yawns, eyes looking down at the finely woven rugs.
Despite the excitement in the air, one person is perfectly calm, resplendent in a dark purple gown and a circlet upon her head, the model of decorum and grace. No one but two knew, though, she had a silver dagger strapped to her thigh, and more secreted around her person.
At the far end of the hall, a man stands, occasionally exchanging deep nods at latecomers. He wishes everyone had the decency to arrive on time, but these events never began straightaway. His earpiece, discreetly wrapped around his ear along with a silver braid, chatters a steady commentary of the security guards, some visible and some not. All seems well today, a welcome change from the decades of tense tyranny and constant spies.
With another skim across the room, he locks eyes with the woman, who nods once.
He then clears his throat and looks each of the guards in the eye, and they seamlessly snap to attention as the room hushes in anticipation.
“Thank you for coming today in celebration of our new son and heir’s birthday,” he intones, and there’s a round of polite applause. “Presenting His Royal Highness, House of Marmora, the First of His Name, Prince Keith Yorak Kogane.”
A trumpet sounds, the waiting crowd leans forward, the double doors open, and—
“Where is he?”
As always, at five a.m. sharp, Takashi Shirogane begins opening the bakery.
He’s gotten into the habit of mixing the batter before he closes up for the evening, then popping the trays of muffins into the oven first thing in the morning. While those begin to bake, Shiro starts the beat-up coffee maker in the back so he could have some energy, while doing another cursory wipe-down of everything: the tables, the chairs, the counters, the windows.
Even though burglary is not really a problem, he still checks the register, then the jars of homemade jams and preserves, packets of muffin mix, wrapped lollipops, and brown bags of feed for the squirrels lined up for sale in the front.
The place is officially a bakery, but he sells a mishmash of things: forest passes and cheap sunglasses and maps and cold drinks and the town newspaper. Beside the cash register, which now takes credit cards, is a battered red take a penny, leave a penny box.
Carefully, with thin plastic gloves, Shiro arranges pastries in the display counter, along with their name and prices neatly printed in Sharpie, then moves the day-old ones in a marked-down “goodie bag,” set out on the counter. He tries not to notice he’s lining more nowadays as he steps away to change the CLOSED sign to OPEN, then to unstack the tables and chairs and open the outdoor umbrellas.
As always, Shirogane’s lines the window in sprawling cursive, repainted over the years.
No one really comes this early, but Shiro sits at the counter on a stool with his mug in hand and sighs, opening one of the slightly-battered books from his trip to the library.
Glued to the inside cover is a faded envelope, a slip of paper with check-out dates and names stamped in blue ink. Towards the end of the list is KEITH KOGANE, and Shiro finds himself running his fingers over the letters.
He doesn’t remember seeing Keith read this particular book, but can picture him perfectly, even after all these years, perched in some tucked-away corner, head bent over the pages, shaggy bangs hiding his face, the sleeves of his red jacket rolled up to his elbows.
Shiro used to stretch out at his feet, thumbing through his study notes, or if they were truly alone, press his mouth temptingly to Keith’s neck. It was a game they played, Keith doing his best to ignore Shiro, sometimes stretching his neck farther out, allowing Shiro to continue lower, or whacking him playfully with his book. He still remembers Keith folding over, laughing, book slipping through his fingers and tumbling onto the carpet as Shiro lunged at him, hands beginning to tickle over his stomach.
The last time they were alone like that was the night of high school graduation…
Shiro shakes his head, forcefully turns a page, and pulls the book closer.
At eight, Shiro decides to call it a day. He’s gone through three books, two magazines, and several hours of trash TV, and only a few customers, all regulars, had come in.
His bakery’s the only thing open on this stretch of the road, and when he flicks the lights out and steps outside, it feels like he’s the only person left in the world. Shiro closes the door behind him with a jangle of keys, one hand resting on his bike to keep it from tipping over; the kickstand had gone out a long time ago.
The storefront letters are almost invisible in the dark, and he sighs.
“I’m sorry, Oji-chan,” he murmurs.
His grandfather’s dream was to have a little bakery, he told Shiro more often than once, with homemade treats and cherry-red booths. There would be shakuhachi playing in the background—“Not played by me. The Shiroganes never had a talent for music,” he’d joked—with plants in tiny ceramic pots and a teapot at every table. There would be local artwork hanging on the walls—“Your mother used to paint such nice landscapes,” he said, which Shiro had trouble even imagining—and maybe a Sunday band. If it was successful, maybe some actual food, too,in little picnic baskets with trays inside, arranged like bento boxes.
But no one had a taste for the carefully prepared treats his grandparents rolled out. It had been his mom’s idea for American treats to take center stage—doughnuts, muffins, quick bread, scones—until everything but the mochi was missing from the menu.
Now, Shiro makes just enough to keep the lights on, and the customers who’d been around since the shop first opened keep coming back. But they’re growing increasingly older and older, and their kids don’t stay here—and Shiro really can’t criticize. He himself had fled as soon as he was able.
When he gets home, Black slinks up to him and rubs against his legs. He takes a moment to rub his cat’s cheeks before she lightly nips him, clearly asking for food.
As he scrapes out the contents of a can onto the same paw-print bowl, Shiro starts to calculate: if he can hold on for the summer holiday season, he can pay the increasing rent on the shop. Tourists were always a boon; if he was lucky, he could even have a little left over to contribute to his debts. Maybe he could serve boba, like the new places in town popping up like mushrooms after the rain, if they don’t decide to undercut him like they did with coffee.
But Shiro worries he won’t even make it that far.
Shiro sets down the bowl, Black immediately sticking her face in, and heads over to the freezer and pulls out a TV dinner at random: salty salisbury steak, grainy mashed potatoes, limp green beans.
As he punches in the microwave time, Shiro looks around the front room, cluttered with mail dropped on the coffee table and laundry strewn on the carpet, and wonders if he should bother turning on the lights.
“What do you think? Feeling fancy tonight?” he asks Black.
Black looks up at him, meows, and continues nibbling her food.
Shiro shrugs. He can always use less on the electric bill.
The next day, Shiro once again bikes over to the shop, opens, sets everything up, and takes his usual spot at the counter to wait for the muffins to bake. He decides to give the floor another sweep, then pours another cup of coffee and makes his grocery list. Boxed mac n cheese, some vegetables, stuff for sandwiches, rice, maybe eggs. He can probably dash out during his lunch break—
Too soon, the oven timer dings, and Shiro rises, putting on heavy mitts and beginning to haul out trays.
But what’s the point? Each burden seems to press against his shoulders as his feet scrape against the floor, numbly placing pastries that he’ll eventually take home at the end, stale and reheated. Oji-chan. The bakery. The student loans, then the business loans he’s still paying back. His useless college degree. The lack of a home to come back to.
Suddenly, the counter gives away and the pans crash to the floor, spilling freshly-baked muffins that immediately split in half when they hit the tile. Shiro buckles right after, hands shaking as the metal rattles sharply against the riles. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
And to his horror, the tinkle of the opening bell tied to the front door handle sounds across the room.
“Shiro?”
He prays it’s not a customer. “It’s all right! Just… dropped something.”
“Oh my god. Are you okay?” Someone kneels beside him, hand clapping onto his shoulder, squeezing. “Shiro?”
And he looks up to see Keith Kogane.