Work Text:
Baking.
It’s nothing but cooking with a little more science sprinkled into it, and taking it up as a hobby during summer has never been both the most amazing past-time that Osamu could’ve come up with, as well as the most stressful learning experience ever.
All he wanted was one pack of active dried yeast, and because he couldn’t find the little sachets in all the supermarkets he went to, he had to go for the next best choice: buying the one-kilogram sale (two bags, five-hundred grams each) of active dried yeast.
He placed the yeast in an air-tight glass container that they previously used for cookies, but that was ages ago, and taking it out of the cabinet activated his fight-or-flight instinct to hide it away from Atsumu. He had to stop giving himself flashbacks or else he would’ve used a different container instead, opting to hide it away to collect dust.
Atsumu was actually ecstatic once he found out that Osamu wanted to try a hand in baking. He immediately requested to make melon-pan, wouldn’t shut up about bread, and even though Osamu was originally annoyed, they spent the entire afternoon talking and googling different types of bread all across the world.
(“Turkish bread looks like a big boat!”
“I could probably eat an entire loaf plain as it is and it would be a good meal,”
“Ya’d eat any bread plain as it is without any filling and it would be a good meal, ya pig- ”
“Pandesal from the Philippines looks cute though, they’re so small,”
“Well yeah sure, but I bet you’ll get crumbs everywhere,”
“But it’s so cute-”
“In the Middle East, they eat flatbread?!”
"It's like pizza, but plain,"
"ahh,")
It was a very educational experience.
There was one entire week where he baked bread, everyday, and as much fun as an experience it was for everyone who had to eat the extras he’d brought to practice, it was an incredibly arduous task, kneading bread, pushing it just right, with the right amount of force and pressure.
Atsumu was crowned as his guinea pig for all of his failed escapades, for all the times the bread turned out a little bit flatter than it originally was, a little bit on the fermented side with the bitter taste of alcohol, they’ve both eaten all the failed attempts and Osamu has perfected one (1) specific recipe that their mother requested.
Condensed milk bread.
It’s light, fluffy, and glazed over with a mixture of butter and condensed milk, giving the little toasted buns a light sheen that’s both sticky and glorious to the touch. It’s best served warm, and they never have some left over for the next day, with Atsumu hunting them down fresh out the oven and their mother saving some for herself before Osamu devours the rest. It’s a family ordeal.
He slowly graduated into making little pastries and sweets, and eventually Atsumu stopped bugging him since all he did these days was search up any new recipes to try out. He’d blabber his mouth if he wanted something specific, Osamu’s up for requests anyway.
So here he is, in all his glory, making a pie for Suna.
(“Do ya like pie or something? That’s awfully specific,”
“Fuck yeah I love pie,”
And that was that.)
Pie doesn’t even need yeast, which would annoy the hell out of Atsumu because of the expiry date on the yeast, ( “It’s in two years! Ya have ta finish it by then!” ) but he asked Suna what he wanted, and he said he wanted pie. Apple pie to be exact.
So, with a fresh bag of hand picked apples, he gets to work.
*
Baking is a science, and today the experiment blew up on him.
The dough is far too buttery, the sugar isn’t completely incorporated since he sees the little crystals imprinted on it, and the apples are slightly overcooked.
He almost dropped the damn thing when he took it out of the oven. The pan almost slips out of his hands, so he shifts the pan up so it’s momentum changes, a bit too much, and it lands on his arms instead.
The freshly baked pie with the metal tart shell lands on his arms, and he immediately holds it straight so he doesn’t throw it off in the air out of reflex.
It smells good despite how bland it actually tastes, and he accepts his fate once again as eating the rejects out of another poor attempt at baking.
The stinging sensation on his arms doesn’t seem like it’s going away sooner or later, so he should be slightly concerned since his mother might flame him for hurting himself.
It’s not like he actually burned himself or anything.
He places the tart on a cooling rack before he moves over to look at the little patch that burns, inspects it here and there, prods it for a second before he winces in pain by merely touching it. The red on his skin doesn’t fade away when he rinses his arm under cool water.
He burned himself.
Well shit.
*
A week or so passes, and after a few more attempts at adjusting the amount of sugar and butter, Osamu presents a lovely pie to Suna on one fine afternoon.
Despite it being summer break, they’re seated in their class, by the window instead of the back of the class, and sooner or later they’ll have to head to the gym for practice.
Osamu had even bought a little pre-packed box just to bring the entire pie to school instead of bringing slices into tupperware. The print on the box is cute, it’s striped in shades of pastel.
“What’s this?” They’re seated facing opposite to each other, and Osamu places the box on the table, in between them.
“Why don’tcha open it to find out?” He says with a little smirk, and Suna’s suspicious.
It’s not abnormal for Osamu to bring little delights here and then, he’s not down to saying no to free food, even if he doesn’t have a big appetite, but this is certainly new.
He removes his hand from the fold they were pressed into and lifts a finger on the edge of the box, slowly tipping the cover, and raises an eyebrow to Osamu before lifting it all the way through.
Pie.
His eyes widen.
Apple pie.
He gives a little grin then, removing the dessert from the box and placing the pie on top of it, it looks glorious.
Osamu smiles at him then, and somehow produces a knife out of his bag. He’s holding it somewhat threateningly, vertical and tip all poised and proper, but Suna waves his hand off before he gets any closer.
“No, go away, I’m taking a picture first, it looks so good,” he swipes at his phone, holding it horizontally, and Osamu deflates, shoulders drooping.
“But I wanna eat it...”
“Pictures first, food later,” Suna ignores his whines, knife still pointed upwards, like some serial killer. He takes a few shots of the sweet treat, Osamu staring patiently as he does, knife, still in his grip.
(Suna wonders if Osamu just likes to hold it improperly or he's just really hungry.)
“Okay! All done, now cut into it. I wanna try,” Suna slips the phone back into his pockets, and for once he looks awfully excited about eating. Osamu can’t blame him, it smells appetizing. Using cinnamon has its perks.
He digs in, the crust crackling as he cuts into it, and he lets out a small ‘oooh!’ as he cuts a slice. One for Suna and one for him. Suna already has his tongue out in anticipation, the edge just peeking out the corner of his mouth.
Suna takes the first bite, and as he chews into it, his face breaks into a smile.
“‘Samu, it’s so gooood, ” He’s shaking his fork as he does so, eyes closed and still chewing on it, munching through the apples.
“Nice,” Osamu says, and he takes a bite into his own slice, and he gives a small smile as well when the flavours melt into his mouth.
They eat in silence, Suna looking bright as ever eating pie and Osamu savoring each and every single bite, satisfied with how it tastes. It tastes just right, not too sweet enough to give you cavities, but sweet enough that maybe some Asian parent will have more than one bite.
He takes a hold on Osamu’s wrist and lines their hands up, fingers touching, the contrasting temperature between them almost makes Osamu shiver.
“How are your hands so warm?” Suna beats him to it, his head is tilted to the side as he spreads out their hands, and Osamu’s fingers are a bit out of reach compared to Suna’s.
Suna’s hands run cold despite the summer heat, and Osamu’s just abnormally warm.
“Ya just have bad circulation,”
A faint ‘tch’ can be heard and Osamu snorts.
Osamu’s hands run warm no matter what the season, he burns like a furnace. Suna exploits it especially during winter, grabbing Osamu’s cheeks to hear him yelp because ‘ack! Yer hands are so cold!’ and Suna squishes his face in response, Osamu would move to grab his hands off his face and warm them up, breathing on them and rubbing his hands to share the heat.
It’s one of the main reasons why he doesn’t invest in a pair of gloves for himself.
(“I’ll warm your hands for free, just for you, you icicle.”
“I’m honoured,” Suna gives a small smile.
When Osamu pockets Suna’s hand into his jacket, hands intertwined, they don’t speak a word of it until they reach into class and he lets go.
Suna’s hands stay warm for a while after that.)
With the pie halfway eaten, Suna’s eyes drag over Osamu’s hands, littered with small cuts and scars dragging down to his arms. His hand is a bit more on the rougher side, he has calluses on his palm. It’s wider than Suna’s, but his fingers are shorter in comparison. It’s also a bit dry, to which he wrinkles his nose at.
Suna’s palm is more slender in comparison, and the little callus that comes from writing peaks out from the side of his thumb. His fingers are longer than Osamu’s, and much softer. The only reason why that is is because he uses hand lotion, the faint scent of “happiness and joy” (jasmine) lingers.
There’s something on Osamu’s wrist that catches his eye.
He’d been wearing a bandaid over it for the past week, but it’s finally come off and he sees the scar that remains.
“What happened here?” He asks all of a sudden, it’s large, a little oddly shaped, it’s on the underside of his wrist, and he flips his hand over to examine it.
Osamu looks away, his other hand brushing his cheek in an embarrassed manner and he looks abashed. He mumbles something under his breath but Suna doesn’t catch it.
“What..?”
Osamu slumps in his seat, but his arm is still in Suna’s hold so it’s a bit awkward when he leans back.
“...I burnt myself making the pie.” He says it like some dirty secret, but it still confuses Suna.
That doesn’t explain why it looks so ugly, the patch of skin noticeable in comparison since it’s a shade darker than the rest. It looks like a kindergartener had drawn a blob on his arm.
Suna wants to ask for more, as to how did you even burn your arm in the first place?? But Osamu beats him to it.
“Ya know the tart shell right? It’s ragged, diagonal little diamond lookin’ things,” he starts, and he leans forward, dragging his fingers over the scar.
“I sorta maybe accidentally burnt myself with the pan, and after three days I realized that it’s actually the indentation of the pan that’s the scar,”
Suna blinks down.
Hm.
On one end of the scar, there are three little sharp triangles that stick out from it, that looks oddly similar to the tart pan that Osamu used.
Silence ensues.
…
Suna laughs, and his grip on Osamu’s wrist loosens, opting to cover his face as his body shakes, “You’re so fucking stupid—“ he says. Osamu groans.
“It looks like a bunch of roots with the way your veins look like the stems of some plant-“
“Can ya not-“
“It looks like a pencil shaving!” and he laughs like the asshole he is.
Osamu sighs and gives out a little chuckle as well. That was a neat comparison, it does look like a pencil shaving. It’s horrendous.
Osamu slaps his hand away then, Suna’s still laughing at him, giggling like a middle schooler, and Osamu turns away from him then, shoving his hand underneath the table.
Suna’s laughter comes to a stop then, but he still has a smile on his face.
“Wha’cha doin’?”
“Wha’cha doin my ass, you give me a second.” He’s scribbling something down, Suna sees the tip of the pen moving back and forth. He gives a long hum in response, leaning his head on his hand, voice filled with mirth.
“Tadan!” Osamu brings forth his arm out, and the scar is still present, that’s not new.
What is new, is the three little hearts that line up the edge of the indentation of the pan. On the three little triangle prongs, Osamu drew three hearts.
Suna feels his cheeks tinge pink.
Osamu’s grinning at him all wide, and Suna flicks his forehead.
“Ah! What was that for?!” He rubs his forehead with his left hand, and Suna can still see the little hearts that line on the side.
He takes his right hand, and traces his finger on a long vertical scar that runs on Osamu’s forearm. “And what happened here again?”
“Knife happened, that’s what.” Osamu nods like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
A small, deep indentation on the junction of his thumb.
“Here?”
“...a tuna can.”
Suna tries to stifle his laughter, but he fails either way.
“You’re so careless,” he shakes his head, Osamu gives a noncommittal shrug.
“Well, what can I say? Shit happens, the tuna can attacked me,”
Suna side eyes him. “Mhmm, whatever you say, you klutz,”
They’re the only ones in class, the rest of their classmates either out in their own respective clubs or at home, lazing around. They’ll have to go to practice soon, it’s a little intermission before everything becomes hectic and their little bubble will burst.
Suna takes Osamu’s hand into his own, their hands are intertwined again.
He supposes it’s alright if Suna’s hands are too soft and cold, if Osamu’s are all battered and warm. Thermodynamic equilibrium remains constant.
It’s a give and take, a push and pull.
Their hands are interlocked at just the right temperature.
"It's okay, now we all know that you're a certified baker, you even have the tart pan indented on your arm, it's a tattoo of recognition."
"Shut up!"