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Okay, Tobio thinks, gritting his teeth as he grips the edge of the kitchen counter, I can do this.There’s a small scatter of ceramic bowls, a wok currently heating over medium flame, and Suga will be home in approximately thirty minutes, and if he times this right he’ll be able to serve his live-in boyfriend a piping hot bowl of mapo tofu and surprise him with precise elegance for a nice night in together.
That’s the plan, at least.
Tobio has been preparing since very early this morning. He’s got a bowl of chili oil he’s had sitting marinating since he got up, and the toasted and half ground Sichuan peppercorns sit in an even smaller bowl to the side of that. The rice is steaming and hot, ready to be served once the lid lifts on the cooker, and Tobio even set the table, with the little tools he had. It isn’t much of a table, really, just big enough for the two of them with an oversized red napkin tossed onto it like a tablecloth, and the only two tea lights Tobio could find in their junk drawer are sitting in the center, waiting to be lit. The napkin only barely covers the edges of the table, Tobio realizes with a despairing frown, but it’s too late to change it all up now.
He tosses the ground pork and the peppercorns into the searing hot wok, and then tosses them around with the chopped ginger for a while, hissing when a bit of fat spits up from the oil onto his arm, burning him.
“Fuck,” Tobio curses, as he damn near spills the entire chili oil he’d meticulously prepared because of how hard his hands are shaking trying to drizzle it over the pork. He then nearly upends the entire jar of chili paste into the wok because his fingers are slippery from the oil. He saves it just in time, but the spicy aroma is so damn strong already it makes his eyes water. “Fuck,” he curses louder.
Eventually he gets a grip on his nerves, and focuses on pulling out two shallow bowls and setting the table the rest of the way. His fingers are dirty and they smear oil on the dinnerware, so he curses again, this time mentally.
When Tobio goes to push the slices of tofu as delicately as possible into the wok he fumbles with the cutting board and drops the entire thing into the hot, spicy oil. God, can any of this fucking go right? he thinks, his heart pounding as the clock ticks closer to the time Suga will be returning home. He growls through clenched teeth as he lifts the oil and chili paste soaked cutting board from the wok, and then audibly whimpers because half of the tofu is now complete mush.
Great. He can’t even do this right.
Tobio leaves the tofu to fry in its own pathetic slush as he slumps down into one of the chairs at the table of their tiny kitchen, pushing his face into his hands with an angry groan. He gets a little of the chili oil dangerously close to his eye, and it stings, so now it looks like he’s crying – which only makes him actually want to cry, because this is a fucking disaster, and Suga deserves better. Suga deserves a Michelin Star chef as a boyfriend, one who can function as an adult without supervision, one who can not only afford to spoil him but that’s actually good at it – one that knows the right gifts to buy, the right moments to sweep him off his feet in tender touches and romantic gestures.
All Tobio is good at is sudden, hard kisses when Suga’s warm smiles overwhelm him and bringing home boxed confections from the cafe he works at that he didn’t even make himself. This whole attempt at a ‘surprise date’ is pathetic, really.
The wok starts spitting and hissing, clearly in need of some kind of attention, so Tobio reluctantly returns to the stove to toss it around some more. It’s taking some kind of shape, and it looks vaguely edible, so Tobio turns off the heat and takes a step back with a heavy, long sigh.
Which is when the door to their apartment opens and shuts, and Suga’s bright, cheery voice pipes up with, “I’m home!”
Tobio panics for a moment, staring wide eyed in self-induced bewilderment at the mess he’s made, and how he hasn’t even dished up the rice yet. Suga comes comes into the kitchen with a gentle smile, and says, “Wow, it smells good in here– Tobio…”
Tobio turns to him, his mouth a hard, flat line, and his eyes downturned. “I tried,” he says quietly.
“Tobio,” Suga says again, walking towards him with a glint of awe in his gaze, and then he glances at the mess of their stove and counter tops and then laughs breathily. Tobio doesn’t have the emotional capacity to be offended, even. It’s a happy laugh – there is a distinct difference between delight and cutting offense, Tobio has learned. “What on earth…?”
“I wanted to surprise you, since it’s Friday and we both have the weekend off for once,” Tobio grumbles down towards the ground, flicking his eyes up to warily watch the way Suga is taking in this particular brand of crime scene. “Like a date night, I guess. Sorry.”
Suga keeps looking around with this open, brilliant little grin, laughing quietly on occasion at the odd splash of oil or smear of paste that now litters their once pristine kitchen. He turns toward Tobio then, and his face morphs almost instantly to a frown when he looks down at his arm. Shit.
“You burned yourself,” Suga gasps, taking Tobio’s wrist in his hand. He strokes his thumb once over the thin streak of raw, pink skin, and then tugs Tobio towards the sink. He holds Tobio’s arm under a cool stream of water, and Tobio only just resists the urge to roll his eyes – because it isn’t a big deal, but then Suga kisses his shoulder like he’s thankful he hadn’t managed to hurt himself worse than this.
Suga ends up standing behind Tobio, letting his arm go eventually. Tobio keeps it there, because the cool water is nice, but Suga pressing his face into the back of Tobio’s shoulder is much nicer.
“You did all of this for me?” Suga asks him quietly, voice muffled by Tobio’s tshirt.
Tobio turns the water off, and moves to face him. The fact he even needs to ask this, let alone sounding moderately surprised by it, is frustrating. Not because Tobio is offended, but because Suga should be in a position to expect this every goddamn day of his life.
“Of course I did,” Tobio says, a tiny frown wrinkling the skin between his brows, his face intent and firm. He dips his head a little, makes the height between them seem intimate and close, and says, “You deserve it.” Maybe not the fucking mess that goes along with it, he thinks, but then stops himself from saying it since Suga hates when he’s too hard on himself.
Suga smiles so wide his nose crinkles and his eyes thin out. He lifts a hand and swipes a smear of what is probably more mess from the corner of Tobio’s mouth and says, “It’sperfect,” with every ounce of sincerity in his body.
Tobio laughs, because really.
“It’s far from perfect–”
Suga leans up slightly, presses a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Tobio’s mouth, right where he’d just had his thumb not a moment before. Tobio exhales heavily, his heart thumping hard.
“You are perfect,” Suga says, all glimmering white teeth and soft eyes, and Tobio’s stomach does that funny flip thing it has for the past seven years since they met, every time they get close.
“Koushi…” Tobio mumbles pitifully down at the floor, his cheeks turning pink.
Suga pats his cheek fondly, and then brightly chirps, “Let’s eat!”
–
So, dinner wasn’t exactly a complete failure, Tobio thinks with no small amount of relief, holding the back of Suga’s head as he snores lightly against Tobio’s collarbone, sprawled out in a warm mess of tangled limbs on the couch with the tv running on mute in the background.
They’d dished up their food together, Suga made absolutely orgasmic noises at every single bite, and Tobio thinks his face might be permanently burned from blushing so hard, if not from the hot oil he’d unintentionally splashed around in. He still feels it now, pressing his face into Suga’s soft hair, the bridge of his nose and his cheeks still suffused in pleasant warmth.
Suga helped him clean up despite Tobio’s insistence for him to relax, and they made it fun, together. Tobio scrubbed while Suga dried, and it all somehow ended with Tobio’s soapy hands tangled tight in Suga’s hair, pressing his hips into the now squeaky clean counters at his back, kissing him deep. It was a nice evening, Tobio thinks. More than worth the effort, ten times over.
Suga snuggles in closer to the warmth of Tobio’s chest, makes a soft, absent sound of contented pleasure in his sleep, and Tobio presses his face harder into Suga’s hair, swallows down a quiet whimper.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, just loud enough that Suga would hear if he were awake. Suga shifts again, presses a sleepy kiss to Tobio’s chest that tells him he did hear, even half awake and soaring through dreams.
He’ll do it all again, for Suga. And again, and again–