Chapter Text
Kaoru parks his bike in front of Sia la Luce. The sun is peaking over the horizon and the sky is covered in heavy clouds. He takes out his fan and a canvas bag laden with groceries from the top case, walking towards the restaurant. The ‘closed’ sign faces him and the bell chimes as he enters, alerting the five occupants.
It’s Sunday evening and Korijo’s bustling away in the kitchen, humming a tune under his breath. The restaurant smells wonderful. Sweet like vanilla and rose and coconut and freshly baked cookies. The boys are scattered around; Langa and Reki are absorbed in a video on Reki’s phone, arguing loudly about a snowboarding trick and Hiromi is asleep on his chair, leaning far back—a little further and he would topple over. Miya’s playing a game on his Switch, cursing at the console, face concealed by his hood. The kids greet him as he passes them and sits at his designated spot. He’s half-expecting Adam and Tadashi to be sitting in the corner; Adam hatching some grandiose scheme or political upheaval with the latter quietly advising him not to.
Apparently tonight they didn’t get the memo.
They’re on the precipice of winter and Reki has been adamant about a trip to Canada. Snowy mountains, saunas, skiing, snowboarding, and all the general fun that comes with snow (“I’ll make you poutine and we can eat pancakes slathered in maple syrup and drink Tim Horton’s hot chocolate,” Langa exclaimed when Reki told him his wish.)
S is cancelled tonight. With the forecast of an impending thunderstorm, even Reki—who will try to skate under any circumstances—agreed to sit this one out, probably because of the potential blackout.
“Kaoru?” Kojiro’s deep voice hits his ears, and he hates to admit it but it's soothing, a welcome sound after the last client. The yammering still rings around his head.
He walks into the kitchen and is greeted with Kojiro turned towards him covered in flour, rainbow-coloured batter smeared across his apron and arms, some in green hair. His white double-breasted jacket is open at the top and there’s chocolate smattered on his neck. The butterflies—that have made his stomach a nesting ground—are creating a storm, boisterous and annoying. A bowl is resting in the crook of his arm and he’s aggressively whisking away, muscles bulging.
The kitchen smells delectable and Kojiro looks delectable and a fleeting thought of biting him and testing his hypothesis on whether he tastes as sweet flashes in his mind and Kaoru can only hope that he doesn't resemble Reki's hair.
“What?”
“Hello to you too,” Kojiro retorts, sounding tired but excited. Kaoru forgoes a reply and leans against a counter, eyes trained on the green-head as he flutters around, opening cabinets and pulling out this and that. “Did you get it?”
Kojiro sets the bowl on the counter next to Kaoru, spotting the bag, grabs it, rifles through it, and pulls out a box of earl grey tea and a case of lavender sprigs.
“You're welcome, ungrateful gorilla,” Kaoru says, jabbing a finger in Kojiro’s chest then hitting him on the head with his fan lightly because he needs Kojiro to make him carbonara and definitely not for anything else. The older man laughs as he turns away, dumping the rest of the ingredients on his work surface.
“Thanks, pinky,” Kojiro smirks, bopping him on the nose leaving a dollop of cream on the peak. Kaoru swats his hand away, golden eyes glaring daggers from behind delicate frames, using a napkin to wipe it off. Kojiro picks up the discarded bowl and with renewed vigour begins to whip the chocolate ganache.
“Your kitchen is a health hazard.” Kaoru spots a knife balanced on the edge, picking it up and dropping it into the sink overflowing with dishes. “If you want to get stabbed so badly, just ask and I’ll do it free of charge,” He chastises, walking the short distance to smack Kojiro upside the head.
“Aww, I knew you cared,” Kojiro coos and points at a plate stacked with cookie sandwiches of various colours. Small and round, vibrant and delicate. It takes him back to their trip to Paris. A box of the confectionaries and coffee in their hands as they traversed through boulevards, relying heavily on Carla (which Kojiro denies till this day) to not get lost in the City of Lights. Ironically, they did get lost; Kojiro (because Kaoru isn’t an “imbecilic ape who forgot to pack his shirts and two braincells.”) forgot to bring Carla’s portable charger, leaving them to wander foreign streets, no matter how beautiful and scenic, for hours. Kojiro trying to speak French almost made up for it. Almost. He was banished to the couch that night.
“Maca—”
“I know what they are, idiot.”
Kojiro snickers and calls for the boys. They file in, Langa and Reki talking animatedly amount the snowboarding trick they were watching. Reki’s the loudest, arms flailing and eyes sparkling as he rambles about the untapped potential and new infinity of snowboarding. Miya looks like he’s seconds away from smacking Reki while Langa is lovestruck—a soft smile and heart eyes.
Young love, Kaoru muses.
“Kids,” Kojiro begins, setting the cookies on the counter. It’s a little crowded in the kitchen but he’s gotten used to it. Often, at the end of the workday, the gang walks in, ordering food like they own the place, dropping down on freshly cleaned tables, tuning out Kojiro’s complaints. “And Miya,” because watching Kaoru balk and sputter will never not get fun. “Try ‘em and tell me how much you love ‘em.”
“Shameless.” Nevertheless, Kaoru picks up the plate and takes it out into the sitting area—Kojiro at his heels—because the last thing they need is an accident happening and a counterproductive trip to the hospital (because hell will freeze over before the kids listen to the doctor.) Hiromi’s still asleep, his head resting in the nest created by his folded arms.
“Bon Appetit,” Kojiro says humorously (authenticity is key.)
Miya picks a blue macaron and takes a bite. “It's…alright.”
“High praise coming from you.” Kojiro laughs and holds out his hand for a high-five and Miya rolls his eyes but reluctantly reciprocates the high-five.
“Macarons are French,” Langa says bluntly, taking a yellow one. Lemon Meringue. “Amazing.” Langa lights up, grabbing another one and chomping into it. Pistachio.
Reki nods, agreeing to both statements. “Isn’t it blasphemous to make—bake French food in an Italian joint?” He asks around his second cookie. Kaoru raps his fan on the redhead's hand, scolding him for talking with his mouth full.
At the same time Miya and Kojiro state:
“His restaurant, his rules.”
“My restaurant, my rules.”
“You’re so predictable, old man,” Miya says while stuffing another macaron in his mouth before whirling around and continuing his game, sauntering over to his previous seat.
“What’s another sin on his endless list,” Kaoru supposes, biting into a green macaron, eyes widening at the taste and he looks up to see Kojiro gaze at him expectedly, smirking. Of course, the green one would be matcha flavoured and with the way Kojiro was eyeing him, dirty thoughts are swimming around with his two braincells.
“No need to sound so afraid, blossom, you’re still winning.” Kojiro snaps back, throwing a wink at Kaoru who flips him off. Kojiro walks back into the kitchen and Kaoru takes a moment to admire the cookies.
It fits snuggly in the palm of his hand, impeccably round and the feet are perfect. A swipe of the finger and the top is smooth. When he bites into it, the flavour explodes in his mouth, melting on his tongue. It’s sweet but it doesn’t make his teeth tingle and he’ll definitely squirrel some away for tea tomorrow.
Later, Kaoru is sitting at the bar, a book in hand, using a pencil to lightly mark the important bits. Kojiro is busy cleaning the kitchen and packaging the remaining cookies for everyone to take home. It’s…nice having their odd, makeshift family gathered in one place, and even if they’re wrapped up in their own bubbles, the atmosphere is comfortable and happy.
Kaoru hides a smile behind his book. Last thing he needs is a bumbling gigolo catching it and teasing him endlessly. Something about robots and emotions, he’s sure.
His arm is still tender from that night, but his foot has healed exceptionally. When the doctor gave the greenlight that he could skate again, he went to S the same night, challenged Kojiro to a beef (because why not). He didn’t miss the hesitancy and concern, but he needed this and he told Kojiro just as much and the race commenced.
Naturally, he won.
Kojiro’s paying for their next trip. He hasn’t decided where but he’s going to bleed him dry. Maybe Canada.
“Carla,” Reki calls, and Kaoru’s bracelet lights up pink. “How long is the flight from Okinawa to Vancouver?”
A brief silence then the bracelet chimes: “The shortest time is 15 hours to Vancouver and 17 hours and 20 minutes to return to Okinawa. The price is ¥148,619 for a roundtrip to Vancouver, Canada.”
“I hope you’ve asked your mother before making these plans,” Kaoru says, putting his book down and turning towards the kids.
Reki opens his mouth, looking impish and on the edge of mischief, and looks keen on backflipping of the cliff.
Kaoru narrows his eyes, knowing a hint of what’s about to come. “Think very carefully about what you’re about to say,” Kaoru warns, struggling to keep the smile off his face.
“Yes, mum,” Reki says, beaming, saluting and Langa’s shaking next to him and Miya is full-on cackling. Kaoru sighs exasperatingly and goes back to his book. His fan deserves a break.
🌸🍵
Rousing Hiromi is a hassle. The man shoots up like a rocket and tackles Kaoru to the ground before jumping up and bowing deeply in apology. Kaoru brushes it off with meticulously selected curses and stalks off, muttering about the uncouth company he keeps.
The boys are long gone in hopes of beating the storm. Langa and Reki agreed to drop Miya off before going to Langa’s house for a sleepover.
Kaoru picks up his fan, pushes up his glasses, and walks to the door, keys jingling in hand. A crack of thunder stops him in his tracks and stands there momentarily frozen. The loud sound rings in his ear and he can feel himself shake and his palms get sweaty. He clutches the fan tighter and takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself but he can’t hear anything over the raucous beat of his heart. It’s just thunder. A natural phenomenon. The rapid expansion of air in the path of a lightening bolt. Far away and high above them and disembodied.
He doesn’t move, willing himself to move but to no avail. Suddenly, Kaoru is five again, hiding under the duvet as a storm wages on outside, rattling the windows, the low rumble, and the ticking of the clock the lone sounds in the dark. With the moon buried beneath the clouds, a little light comes from the gap underneath his door.
“Everything alright?” Kojiro enters his line of sight and stands in front of him. “Ah, thunder.” Kojiro turns to lock the door and turns off some of the lights. The restaurant is shrouded in a soft glow, the lights above the bar still on.
“Hey,” Kojiro says gently, touching his shoulder and Kaoru flinched then blinks, focusing on the feel and weight of Kojiro’s hand on him. “Breathe with me.” So, he does, breathing in time with his friend, watching Kojiro’s chest expand and fall at a steady pace, calming his racing heart. They stand together for a few minutes, breathing in sync.
“Knew you had a use,” Kaoru teases after a beat, tapping the fan on Kojiro’s chest, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Kojiro throws his head back in a laugh then tucks a stray strand of pink hair behind Kaoru’s ear.
Kaoru blushes and he curses his fair complexion. His cheeks are flaming and he struggles from reaching up and hiding his face. Thankfully, there’s little light so Kojiro doesn’t notice. Curse the muscles-for-brain for making him blush like a schoolgirl. There’s no way he should have that much power.
“Glad I could be of service.” With a hand on his chest, he bows, blinking up at him before standing to his full height—a whole 5 cm taller than Kaoru which Kojiro teases him about whenever (or not) the situation calls for it—and saunters to the bar. “Come on. Guess what I found.”
His stomach grumbles. It’s 8 pm and he ate lunch hours ago. He sits down at Kojiro pulls a cloth bag (Sia la Luce is eco-friendly) from under the counter and takes out two ramen bowls. Kaoru’s eyes widen upon reading the name.
They used to eat this brand of ramen after school on Fridays as a celebration of surviving the school week: picking it up from the konbini along with a bunch of onigiris and skating towards the local skatepark and eating it while bickering and purposefully bumping into each other and trying to steal the other’s ramen. Afterward, if they had money left, they would run to their usual ice cream store and buy the same flavour they always got and idly skate home.
During the winters, they would skate to the nearest café and get hot chocolate. While waiting, they would huddle together, kicking and nudging before thanking the server for their drinks and rushing out into the bitter cold.
It’s on one of those routine outings when Kojiro declares he wants to be a chief. To open his own restaurant. To cook, bake, create.
Kaoru can’t help but smile at the memories. Pre-Adam, pre-heartbreak, pre-S and pre-realising-he-had-feelings-for-his-best-friend, and pre-realisation-that-everyone-he-has-cared-for-has-left-him.
Except for Kojiro. Kojiro Nanjo came back.
(He remembers dropping Kojiro off at the airport, watching him disappear through the revolving door after wrangling a promise of unlimited food at his future restaurant, heart dropping suddenly grasping that he won’t see Kojiro for years. No squabbling and poking fun in person. No skating together. No running away from police late at night. No impromptu sleepovers. No sudden bear hugs that he secretly enjoys; Kojiro’s warm and wonderful and he feels ever so safe in the circle of his arms.)
And now every time he plans to leave for a competition or vacation, he asks Kaoru bajillion-and-one times if he wants to tag along. And Kaoru will pretend to consider it and make a show of reluctantly accepting like it’s a great pain travelling with Kojiro; there’s no way he’ll give up the chance for free food and a luxury hotel (paid by the competition hosts) and sticking close to Kojiro is an added bonus.
“When did they start selling these again?” Kaoru asks, picking up the container and turning it over in his hands. Kojiro shrugs and pulls out a bento. He opens a drawer and takes out two pairs of chopsticks, placing them on the counter, the clink ringing around the tranquility of the restaurant.
Kojiro walks into the kitchen and Kaoru follows, bringing the ramen along. He rips open the tops, adds the seasoning, and pours water from the dispenser then sticking it into the microwaves.
“Sure you know how to make it?” Kojiro asks teasingly, brushing his hair out of his eyes and opening the fridge. He drops hard-boiled eggs, a box of sashimi, and two juice boxes next to Kaoru. It’s apple juice and on the side is the collectible sticker he used to trade and treasure.
“I showed you how to make ramen, you dopey half-wit.”
“You fucked it up the first time, four-eyed popsicle stick.”
“I wouldn’t have fucked it up if someone stopped yammering in my ear like a lawnmower.”
“Didn’t know it took a special skill to make ramen, shortcake.”
They trade insults for a moment more before Kojiro sticks his tongue out effectively rendering Kaoru speechless, eyes raking over the plump, pink lips, glistening with spit and he wants to wrap his arms around Kojiro’s neck and yank him into a kiss.
More wishful thinking.
Sometimes, more often nowadays, he lies in the dead of night wondering if Kojiro returns his feelings. If a swarm of butterflies has invaded his stomach and flitter about whenever Kaoru is nearby. If goosebumps erupt at the briefest touch or the faintest smile. If he fights back a blush whenever they butt heads literally, so close that if one of them were to lean a little closer, their lips will brush. If he gets jealous when someone flirts with Kaoru.
In his mind’s eye, he can see the red welts on Kojiro’s back and the ghost of love bites on his neck and reeking of perfume. He can hear the giggling of women hanging off his arms, fingers gliding over muscles.
And Kaoru envies them. He wants to be able to trace over Kojiro’s tattoo and snuggle into his side. To feel the intensity of his attention and the quiet intimacy of kisses on his neck. To see what he looks like in the morning sunshine. If he still mumbles gibberish in his sleep.
He wonders how he kisses; like he skates with aggression and force or how he cooks with ease and grace.
Kojiro Nanjo—his brilliant, stupid, godsent, asshat best friend—has always been there through thick and thin. Through his fling with Adam and the inevitable pain that followed his departure to America, his aloofness. He sat with him as he wallowed in heartbreak; made him cookies and pasta and drank cheap beer in the dingy streets near their favourite hangout.
(Kaoru knows Kojiro loves him—drunk Kojiro is a sight and has a very, very loose tongue—but if he was ever in love with him, Kaoru almost certain that the feeling is gone.)
To his horror, tears gather in his eyes and his lower lip trembles and his heart is lead in his chest. He blinks, praying they disappear but one escapes, running down his cheek and as subtly as possible wipes away the evidence.
Because life is so unfair for having him fall in love with his best friend (even though he fell with his eyes wide open.)