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A bright and sunny Saturday afternoon does not, in fact, make a bright and sunny Suna. Because his usual grocery market eight minutes away from his apartment is out of rice (out of rice!) , he’s now making a longer trip further down the street just for the next closest grocery store, which is more than twice the distance. For rice. Okay, maybe it’s kind of Suna’s fault for putting it off for so long, but seriously, what kind of grocery store runs out of rice ?
The blaring heat of the sun does nothing to console him. His shirt feels like it’s searing itself onto his body to become a second layer of skin, shorts burning into his thighs with every brush. He sighs defeatedly for the twentieth time.
When the indoor shopping center is finally within view, he forcibly drags his legs a little further to step into the air conditioning-blessed mall. He looks around, recognizing familiar stores and noting unfamiliar ones alike. It has been a long time—perhaps over a year now—since he’s come here. His daily routines never take him this route after all, so there was simply no need.
Since he’s come all the way out here, he figures a little shopping won’t hurt. His sister’s birthday is coming up anyway, so he could use a little inspiration.
The center is filled with lots and lots of bakeries, cafés, and other food stores, some more crowded than others. He stops by a stationery store, spending a good amount of time in there before coming out with a stack of origami paper, a couple containers for various uses, and a cute cat-shaped cup. There’s a few dress stores and boutiques he doesn’t recognize, but he makes a mental note to bring his sister next time she visits rather than directly buying apparel for her. She’s made it loud and clear that her sense of fashion is different from his, and frankly, if she thinks his taste is really so horrid, then he needs to introduce her to Motoya.
Caught up in his thoughts, he nearby strolls right past an entire section of the center without realizing. This area is quieter than the stores closer to the main entrance of the center, filled only with light music trickling out from some open stores and a couple of footsteps.
He’s glancing through windows and walking past store after store aimlessly, eyes glazing over a sign that reads Miya House until he stops abruptly at the sight of a full length glass window—more specifically, at the extremely handsome man with huge arms wiping down a counter behind it, and he only vaguely registers that it’s a cake store before his arms and legs grow a mind of their own and bring him into the store.
“Good afternoon! May I assist you?” the very, very sexy man greets him, glancing away from his task to lock eyes with Suna.
Suna freezes.
Oh my god, why did I come in? Are you fucking stupid, Rintarou?
His eyes automatically flicker downward to avoid eye contact because he’s not sure he’ll survive if he keeps it up. He can now read that the nametag on the man’s shirt says Miya, and somewhere in the back of his brain, his last remaining functioning brain cell connects the dots and tells him that this Miya is the big boss of this store.
Even when he's given no response, the man behind the counter doesn’t falter. A winning smile on his handsomely sculpted face, he continues, “What kind of cake are you looking for?”
“Uhh,” he answers intelligently. With his brain malfunctioning, his hand automatically flings itself out and points at the closest section of cakes to avoid looking like an idiot as much as possible.
Gaze following Suna’s outstretched finger, he nods, humming in approval, “Great choice, those designs have been pretty hot this season.”
“Hotter than the store owner?” Suna mouth blurts.
Cursing his traitorous mouth in his head, he plays it off as casually as possible by pretending like he’s scanning the designs on display. Bless his perfect poker face.
He registers a bit too late that he’s pointing at the wedding cakes section, but it’s far too late to admit his mistake without sacrificing what little is left of his pride.
To said store owner’s credit, he laughs it off without missing a beat. How utterly attractive his laugh is, just like the rest of him. If Suna’s being generous with himself, he might even say Miya’s cheeks are looking warmer.
Suna thinks he might just swoon on the spot if this man continues being perfect.
Clearing his throat, he tries to remedy the situation and piece together his dignity. “I’m still not sure exactly what I want yet. Could I get your opinion?”
“Of course,” comes the confident response, “please take a seat, let me grab my materials and I’ll be right back with you.” He then disappears behind the kitchen, and Suna takes a deep breath in relief. Having that man within his near vicinity is terrible for his little, little heart.
A thick binder in hand, he appears again and takes a seat across from Suna.
With the patience of a saint, he guides Suna through the entire process. He asks him about flavors and sweetness preferences and the aesthetics he’s looking for. In the span of one hour, he learns more about cake and what goes into choosing the right cake than he thinks he can put to proper use within his lifetime. Who would’ve known that wedding cakes needed to consider the season of the wedding and the rest of the dinner menu too?
It’s in the way that he answers all of Suna’s questions with utmost attention and isn’t afraid to show off his passion and expertise through the genuine suggestions he gives, that Suna finds himself entranced.
At the end of the hour, they’re finally interrupted by a customer that Miya seems to recognize as a scheduled appointment; his hands fly to his phone to check the time, and Suna feels just a little elated at the thought that his company was enjoyable enough for him to lose track of time.
Suna waves off the apologies for cutting their discussion short, explaining that he should head home soon anyway.
The store owner stops him just before he steps through the door. “If you thought today went well and you’d like to continue, please feel free to drop by again anytime.”
Suna pauses. “I’ll think about it. Thank you for today, Miya-san,” he offers as an answer along with a goodbye nod.
He replays the events from the past hour in his mind over and over for the rest of his journey back home, the heat now nothing but a minor nuisance.
It’s only when he’s taking his shoes off at his apartment entrance that his memory comes off idle mode.
Ah. I forgot the rice.
The next time he shows up on the welcome mat of Miya House six days later, the store owner is packing up a small black and gold cake with delicate floral accents for a woman at the counter. Suna shifts around awkwardly for all of thirty seconds before the other customer is out the door and Miya makes his way around the counter.
In lieu of a greeting, he calls out to Suna to seat himself and wait for him, turning to vanish into the kitchen. Come to think of it, Suna wouldn’t have been surprised if Miya forgot about him. He’s just one out of so many customers that Miya House deals with, after all.
He reappears with a glass of water and a plate topped with four different pieces of cake, each with distinctly different coloring, and that train of thought goes flying out the window when Miya walks straight toward him with the plate in hand.
“I picked out a couple cakes for you to try. I'm not entirely sure what you’d like yet so I figured the best way would be to taste them yourself,” he explains once he takes a seat, hands busy adjusting the labels on the plates.
Suna is reading the labels and definitely not watching his hands. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’d love to, Miya-san.”
At that, his head perks up. “Ah, by the way, please just call me Osamu.”
He brightens. “Oh...you can call me Rintarou then.” Or yours. Whatever you want. Shut up, Rintarou.
The sweetest chuckle comes out of Osamu’s mouth. “Okay, Rintarou-san,” he responds in that same devastating way he always does. “Really though, please don’t hold back. I’m much more used to my first name, having a brother stuck by my side for two decades of my life.”
“Yeah, I get the feeling. Don't wanna get mixed up with my sister all the time, either,” he lies without batting an eye. Osamu doesn’t have to know his sister is four, almost five years younger and never once attended the same school as him. A perfectly innocent white lie if it means a hot guy will call him by name.
Osamu grins at that, then hands him a fork while nudging the plate over.
He makes sure to give his thoughts for each flavor he tries, even if he’s frankly not all that good with his words—especially since he doesn’t know much about cakes beyond what they talked about the previous week—because Osamu’s reactions are so worth it. The delight in his eyes is worth it.
“It’s nice that you’re taking this very seriously. You must love them a lot,” Osamu remarks as Suna finishes up the last bit, an unreadable expression on his face.
I don’t particularly love cake, but…
“Yeah,” replies Suna anyway.
Osamu picks up the now-empty plate and glass and rises from his seat, and Suna takes it as a signal that the day has ended.
“Thank you for today, Osamu-san. The cakes were good,” he says simply, but genuinely.
He’s pulling out his wallet in preparation to pay for the sampling, however much it would be, but Osamu shifts so that he’s holding everything in one hand and puts a hand on top of Suna’s before he has a chance to open his wallet.
“I’m glad you enjoyed them. That’s enough for me, there’s no need to pay for anything. Besides, I brought them out without asking you first, so it’s on me, okay?” And oh, his voice has no right to be that gentle and coaxing.
Suna gives in when Osamu refuses to let him go until he puts away his wallet. At his concession, Osamu grins in victory.
He wanders around the store while Osamu heads into the back to retrieve the cakes from the refrigerator. He’s been here a handful of times already, but each and every visit was spent chatting with Osamu, and this is the first time he’s been left to look around on his own for more than a minute or two.
One of the cream-colored walls is decorated entirely with framed photographs of different people. They’re mostly wedding photos with Osamu’s cakes in them, although a couple seem to be photos of birthdays and other special occasions. A corner of Suna’s lips lifts; he can tell that Osamu takes a lot of pride in his work, and consequently, his customers seem to love it as well.
He reaches the middle of the wall, eyes immediately falling to the centerpiece—the largest framed photograph on the wall. Immediately, something like recognition flickers in his brain. The two people in the photo are holding hands, wearing matching rings, ready to cut the three-tier wedding cake—just like plenty of the other photos on the wall. The thing about this one is, the taller man in the white suit looks a lot like...like Osamu.
It clicks. Oh fuck. He’s married.
Then, the teeny, optimistic side of his brain offers, But he doesn’t have a ring anymore! You haven’t seen him with a ring, have you?
And before he has the chance to hope, the other side of him goes, Well duh, Rintarou. He can’t bake with a ring on.
He groans, only to immediately be interrupted.
“Sorry, did I make you wait too long? I cut out a few extra cakes that I thought you might like more,” Osamu says, nudging the kitchen door open with his hip. Suna stares at the large platter in his hands, stacked with more than a dozen small dishes and each with a different slice of cake.
“No, no, I was just thinking about something,” he brushes off, “but that’s too much, Osamu-san. I haven’t even bought an actual cake from you yet, and I can’t eat that much anyway.”
Osamu grins like he expected the reaction. “Who says you’re eating it all alone?” He sets down the platter on top of a table and pulls out two forks. He takes a seat on one end and gestures for Suna to take the other.
The next two hours are spent trying different cakes and chatting, only interrupted a couple times for when a customer would walk in to pick up a cake. They haven’t even gotten through half of the cakes when Suna’s fork lays still on an empty plate. He leans back in his seat and stretches, glancing out of the window in the process.
He blinks in surprise—he didn’t even realize the sky had turned dark.
“Full?” Osamu asks, to which Suna immediately nods twice. Osamu doesn’t look anywhere near as stuffed as Suna, but he laughs and stands up, bringing over cake containers to store the untouched slices. He places them in a bag after boxing them all up, then slides the bag closer to Suna.
“Try the rest with your partner and let me know what you think.”
Suna nods again, grinning. “Okay, but I don’t know if I’ll be of any help in giving you feedback. I’ve liked every single cake so far.”
“One-hundred percent positive feedback is still feedback,” Osamu counters with a smile of his own, to which Suna responds with a chuckle.
He stuffs multiple bills into the tip jar on his way out. Osamu yells after him, something like I said you don’t have to pay!, but Suna is already waving goodbye and trudging out in a daze.
He only comes to a realization belatedly.
Partner? Does Osamu think Suna’s married—or engaged?
He supposes that’s a reasonable conclusion to come to, considering Suna told him that he wanted to choose a wedding cake design. And because his brain decides he doesn’t deserve a break, he then thinks back to Osamu’s framed wedding photograph on the wall, a wide smile on his face that Suna’s never seen on Osamu before.
His steps slow.
Now that he’s left to his own thoughts, he acknowledges that this is purely a friendship to Osamu after all. He has no plans to barge into what looks like a perfectly fine and happy relationship. Suna had not walked into that store hoping to come out with anything, of course, but he supposes he can admit that he feels a little more disheartened than he expected. Perhaps he enjoyed Osamu’s presence and company more than he thought he did, but it’s no big deal. Suna can do friendship.
He lifts the bag of cakes in his hand, giving it a glance over. Present problems come first; he may have to enlist the help of his sister and his friends to finish all of the cakes while they’re still fresh.
Osamu is already in view the next time Suna steps in. He’s wiping up a table, likely just finished up with a cake testing session.
“Good evening, Rintarou-san. By the way, I haven’t forgotten about your crimes,” he greets in mock anger.
Suna feigns ignorance with the persuasiveness of a total liar. “How mean of you to accuse little old me of any wrongdoings.” He invites himself to sit down at his usual seat.
Osamu huffs, but lets go of the topic. “How were the rest of the cakes? Which ones did the two of you like best?”
Suna hesitates, “Actually, about that...I’m not engaged.”
“Oh...I’m sorry, Rintarou. How are you feeling?” he asks, gentleness laced in his voice.
He sputters, “I wasn't dumped!”
Osamu blinks, unconvinced.
Suna scratches his head and sighs. If he’s going to tell the truth, he might as well spill the rest of the truths today. “I think there was a misunderstanding. I was never engaged, or in a relationship for that matter. I just...entered this store on a whim that one day and, well, I've been enjoying your company, so why not keep coming?” he bites the side of his cheek, avoiding eye contact with Osamu.
“Oh…,” Osamu ponders, “I guess that makes it my fault too. I shouldn't have assumed the wedding cake was for you.”
He coughs. “No, I think that would be the normal assumption. I just panicked and pointed at the nearest cake. Nobody’s getting married.”
Osamu snorts—cutely because he’s Osamu—“Really, Rintarou-san? What's there to panic about cake?”
Suna glares. “Because you were hot and I was nervous, okay? You know you’re attractive, don’t play clueless.”
Like a switch has been flipped, Osamu’s casual grin drops and his face heats up . Awkwardly, Suna flushes too, not expecting Osamu to go quiet and stare at him in silence.
When Osamu seems to have finally processed whatever war was going on in his head, he lays a cheek on the cold table, then looks up at Suna with a pout. “Were?” he mumbles.
“Huh?”
“Were ? So you don’t find me hot anymore ?”
“You don’t need to fish for compliments from me when you have a husband for that, Osamu-san,” Suna sighs, a little disappointed in Osamu. Oh great, and now he’s gone and made himself all sad again.
Osamu’s eyebrows scrunch together. “What?”
He raises an eyebrow. “It's in pretty bad taste to flirt with someone when you’re married,” he states bluntly, with a bitter accusatory undertone that he couldn’t hold back.
“I'm not married,” Osamu refutes, almost angrily but mostly bewildered, lifting his head away from the table. His expression is twisted in pure confusion, and now Suna is considering the chances that his eyes fooled him into interpreting the photograph incorrectly.
He turns around to check the frame behind him once more, and before he even gets to take a proper look, Osamu groans across from him, quickly piecing the puzzle together.
“Noo, no no no. That—,” he points to the wall, “—is my brother, not me.”
“Wait, what?” Suna responds. He squints at the photo, then back at Osamu.
“My brother and I, we’re twins. Identical twins.”
"Identical twins,” he parrots smartly.
“Yes. He's married and I'm not.”
“You’re not married.”
Osamu nods. “That’s right. I'm single. One-hundred percent single.”
Silence.
“And interested,” he pushes, just in case.
“Shh, I’m processing,” Suna mutters, resting his face in his hands. A light, nervous laugh comes from across him.
Osamu has been flirting with him. He didn’t deny it when Suna accused him either.
Osamu is not married, he’s single. He doesn’t wear a ring at work because he doesn’t have one.
Osamu is interested in him. Osamu is interested in Suna Rintarou.
It’s mutual.
Holy shit, what do I do now? He didn’t think he’d get this far.
Also, he’s really cute when he pouts, his brain adds uselessly.
He’s so deep into his thoughts that he doesn’t realize Osamu had left his seat until he hears the chair scraping when Osamu sits back down.
With a clear of his throat, Osamu brings Suna’s attention back to him and the plate between them that wasn’t there before.
“Chai. You haven’t tried this one yet, have you?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know exactly which flavors he’s offered Suna before.
“I haven’t,” Suna answers him anyway, albeit completely lost as to where the conversation is heading. His heart is still beating at a speed that surely can’t be healthy for him.
At that, Osamu picks up the fork to take a bite and chews slowly. Suna can only sit and watch in confusion, the questions in his head are whirling around so fast that he’s left speechless instead.
“It’s delicious. You wanna try?” Osamu offers, leaning closer to the table and resting his elbows on it. Suna nods while reaching for the fork, but Osamu quickly pulls it away instead, leaning in even more.
At a loss, Suna looks at Osamu and—oh.
It hits him like a truck.
Osamu reddens easily; he’s all flushed from the neck up, even more so now that Suna’s looking at him so intently. His pink lips are stained by a streak of frosting, but it makes him look all the more tempting. His eyes flicker back and forth from Suna, whole body so tense that he seems ready to escape the room.
“Yeah, I…,” Suna begins before Osamu has the chance to shoot out of his seat, voice mortifyingly uneven. Giving up on words, he wastes not a second longer and dives in to meet Osamu’s soft lips with his own.
With a palm gently held to Osamu’s cheek, he physically feels Osamu melt like frosting under his touch, his sigh caressing Suna’s lips. It’s taken him an embarrassingly long time to get the hint, but details are details.
Before Suna can completely let him go, Osamu chases after him and connects their lips again.
And again, and again.
Osamu’s lips taste like chai, vanilla, and ecstasy in one and Suna thinks that this is perhaps something he could get used to and never tire of.
Even though he can’t get enough of Osamu to be completely satisfied, he’s unfortunately human and dependent on oxygen. He breaks the kiss, but not without brushing his thumb over Osamu’s cheek to placate him.
“Osamu-san—”
“Osamu,” he interrupts.
“Osamu...I like you, I hope you know that, but you’re technically still working right now. We can go on a date and continue this later, what do you say?”
Osamu hums as if he’s contemplating it, but his wide smile gives him away. “Are you asking me out?” he asks cheekily.
“And if I am?” Suna indulges him with a smile of his own.
“I suppose I don’t mind going on a date or two,” he answers nonchalantly, but he finishes with a laugh he couldn’t hold back. Suna gladly joins him.
“Geez, we haven’t even gone on the first date yet and you’re thinking about the second already?” Suna teases, ignoring the way his own heart is launching itself right out of his chest at how much he’s anticipating each minute he gets to spend with Osamu. Suna loosely laces his fingers with Osamu’s, resting on the table.
Osamu’s answer comes easily, like a fact, like a law of the universe: “I like you that much.”