Work Text:
Flour. Salt. Butter. Granny Smith apples. Sugar. Flour. Salt. Some cinnamon here, a pinch of nutmeg there. One egg, beaten. Sugar. A squeeze of lemon.
This must be the tenth time Kinjou has read this particular recipe. It’s not as if he’s an inexperienced chef, and he certainly has spent enough time with Tadokoro to be a competent baker, but there’s a slight hesitation tainting his thoughts.
He wants this to be special.
Kinjou has never bothered with perfection; it’s a word that exists outside of his vocabulary. Perhaps that’s why he and Fukutomi work — because all the years Fukutomi spent grasping for perfection unravel when they’re together. Same as how all the doubts that plague Kinjou — the ones which make him question if he’s a good leader, a worthy cyclist — leave when Fukutomi’s arms are around him. They’re able to help each other in small, memorable ways; they uplift, and they care, and they have a relationship that’s built on trust, respect, and mutual admiration. But not the type which exists with impossible standards and expectations and pedestals in the way. The way they manage to balance each other out and help one another never ceases to amaze Kinjou. He never expected to meet a person who leaves him speechless the way Fukutomi does. With all that being said, Kinjou doesn’t want the apple pie to be perfect. That isn’t what he’s striving to achieve. What he wants is to convey his feelings in a way in which Fukutomi will understand them, and in a way in which he’s able to do. So, a “perfect” filling, “perfect” base, and “perfect” consistency doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.
That, however, doesn’t mean he isn’t nervous. There are plenty of things that could go wrong. For example, it could collapse. That most certainly would not be good. Kinjou has learned that the unexpected is to be expected throughout his life, so he isn’t even striking out aliens beaming the pie out of the oven.
All Kinjou wants is an apple pie which is edible; one which Fukutomi can enjoy. If he can manage that, that’ll be enough. Setting down his phone, Kinjou puts on his apron, tightening the bow, and sets to work.
There is no rush; he planned ahead of time and took the Friday off so that he could spend the entire day preparing. Hopefully by tonight, once Fukutomi gets home, the dinner table will be set and a pie will be coming hot out of the oven. Dessert for dinner isn’t necessarily right, but everyone deserves a treat. Exam season is coming up so there’s no reason not to celebrate the free time they have for the moment.
As Kinjou adds flour and salt together, mixing it with a fork, he thinks about the memories they made together last year at around this time.
——
“Shingo.”
Fukutomi’s familiar voice cuts through the noise in the club room; it isn’t as though the Yonan University Cycling Team means to become this chaotic and loud, it just so happens to occur whenever Machimiya and Arakita are within a metre of one another. Over the past several months of regular training with the two, Kinjou has grown accustomed to the constant stream of strange, guttural sounds which seem to make up most of their conversations. That, and the piercing yells of Arakita when someone touches his stuff. This means the sudden introduction of a new, yet known, voice amongst the group comes as a shock.
Immediately, Kinjou is on his feet.
“Juichi.”
He continues to stand, dumbly staring at Fukutomi. It almost feels as if he’s looking at an apparition. Somewhere behind him, he hears a fake gagging noise — probably Machimiya.
Then, as if his body has woken up, he bounds across the room and into Fukutomi’s embrace. They haven’t seen each other for weeks, possibly a month, and it feels like an eternity before he feels Fukutomi’s arms safely wrapped around him, his head resting on Kinjou’s shoulder. Distantly, Kinjou recognises that Fukutomi is holding a bag which is pressing into his back.
It isn’t hard to guess what its contents are — manjuu.
——
Once the flour and salt are mixed through, Kinjou adds in some cubed butter. The recipe says the mixture will become clumpy and crumbly, so he tells himself not to worry as he slowly works the butter into the mix. This is the first time he’s attempted something as bold as an entire pie made from scratch. Even with Tadokoro, when they would make cupcakes and bread and all sorts of things for club meetings, he never played more than a supporting role. Tadokoro’s skills when it came to baking far surpassed Kinjou’s, so Kinjou would follow his direction. Now, though, he’s on his own. Not that he minds — even if it’d be nice if Fukutomi were here, too.
As much as he wants this to be a surprise, a heartfelt gesture which conveys the depth of his gratitude and love, having an extra pair of hands — Fukutomi’s hands, specifically — making their mark on the dough would be nice, too. Next time, Kinjou tells himself, they’ll make it together.
Once Kinjou judges the mixture to be done, he gradually adds in ice water. Almost like magic, the dough begins to come together. It’s incredible to see something come to life; Kinjou will never tire of creating things. From sewing to cooking, they’re skills which not only bring joy to oneself but to others as well. He’s able to express his love, be it familial, romantic or platonic, through the things he makes. It’s even better knowing that Fukutomi understands that — that he’s able to grasp the intricacies of this particular show of love. Some people are unable to, but not Fukutomi. Fukutomi is the one person that seems to understand Kinjou more than most, so naturally it extends to understanding Kinjou’s way of showing appreciation.
On the windowsill above the kitchen sink, there are matching photographs of the two. They had been taken on their first date; a quiet dinner which Fukutomi had tried to set up in his dorm room at Hakone Academy. The food had been less than ideal — with the pasta being too soggy and the miso too salty — but it was the thought that counted. In the end, they’d ordered takeout. Throughout the night, they’d both snuck photos of the other, trying to catch them off guard. These two particular snapshots are of Kinjou crossed eyed, slurping noodles, and Fukutomi, laughing shortly after he’d sprayed broth all over the table. Both of them had been caught in an incredibly undignified moment, which only went to show the level of trust between them.
Kinjou takes the dough out of the bowl, placing it on the bench, and he begins to work it. Slowly but surely, he rolls it into a ball, and as he does so, he thinks about Fukutomi.
——
“You have something on your cheek.”
They’re at a cafe, one not too far from the Meisou University campus. In a moment, Fukutomi will have to go to his next class, and Kinjou will be taking the train back. They shared the long weekend with one another, and neither are quite ready to say goodbye to the domesticity yet. Currently, Fukutomi is digging into a hot fudge sundae, despite the fact it’s cold outside, and he’s managed to get some ice cream on the side of his mouth. Perhaps to some the sign of a messy eater might be off putting, but Kinjou is well aware of the high standard which Fukutomi constantly holds himself to, so to see him relaxed and indifferent to manners is refreshing.
Fukutomi wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his cheeks tinged pink, and he smiles shyly at Kinjou. “Thank you for letting me know.”
Before Kinjou can respond, Fukutomi scoops up some of his ice cream with a generous dose of the chocolate syrup, and offers it across the table. Kinjou smiles back, and takes the spoon from him, wrapping his lips around the same place where Fukutomi’s had been just seconds before.
——
Somehow, the time has flown by. His dough is sitting in the refrigerator and his apples have all been sliced. Adding in the lemon, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar, flour, and salt, Kinjou carefully mixes it all together once more, and coats the apples with it. It’s a slow process, one that he labours over, because he wants to put all the care he can into the dish. There isn’t much sound in the apartment; only the distant noise of the streets and their neighbour that enjoys playing their music too loud. The opening notes of a new song seep through the walls, and fills the room with muffled singing.
Deciding to move in with Fukutomi was the best choice he’s ever made. They’ve ever made.
They live in a little suburb nestled between the two universities; a train ride’s length away. It’s a good compromise, and they’re able to spend more time than ever together now. On days where he has evening classes, he’ll come home to Fukutomi asleep on the couch, dinner still laid out on the table. Over the past couple of months, the quality of the meals has skyrocketed; he has a sneaking suspicion Fukutomi has enlisted Toudou’s help, and is receiving lessons. On the days that Fukutomi has to stay up all hours of the night, mulling over notes and essays and exams, Kinjou will bring him hot chocolates and kisses. On lazy mornings, when neither of them have any pressing matters, they’ll wake up in each other’s arms. Then, Fukutomi will press kisses against every inch of Kinjou’s bare skin, and get up to make them both a cup of coffee.
They show love in small ways.
Kinjou rolls the dough out, and places it in a pie dish, trimming off extra edges. Then, he pours in his apple mixture and pats it down. It smells like heaven.
Unexpectedly, he hears the front door unlocking. Poking his head out of the kitchen, he catches Fukutomi with his shoes in one hand, and a covered basket in the other. They both look at each other, a little dumbfounded. It’s only one in the afternoon, and Fukutomi should still be sitting behind his desk in his criminology class. It’s only one in the afternoon, yet Fukutomi is staring at Kinjou a little guiltily. The first words out of his mouth are, “I wanted to surprise you.”
Kinjou looks down at the apron he’s wearing, his flour dusted hands, and the spatula in his front pocket. Then, he looks up at Fukutomi. “So did I.”
——
“Good morning.”
Fukutomi mumbles something incoherent back, his eyes still firmly squeezed shut. The horrible case of bed hair he has in the mornings never fails to make Kinjou laugh. It’s all frizzed up, strands sticking flat against his forehead in some places, and upright in others. Even though he’s a self proclaimed morning person, Fukutomi is slow to wake up, and even slower to become cognisant. Gently setting the cup of coffee — milk and two sugars — on the side table, Kinjou sits on the edge of the bed. Leaning over, he kisses Fukutomi’s eyelids, and cracks a smile when they slowly open.
Finally, Fukutomi says, “Good morning, Shingo.”
“I made us breakfast.” Kinjou tells him, his hand travelling through Fukutomi’s messy hair, only making it worse in the process. “Do you want it in bed?”
He stays silent for a moment, contemplating the question. Sunlight is streaming through the open window, a cool breeze entering the room with it. Fukutomi is sure it’s a lovely day out there, with spring bringing greenery and new leaves, but he can’t find it in himself to look out the window and away from Kinjou. “No, I think I will join you at the table.”
——
While they wait for the pie to bake, Fukutomi dusts the flour he now has on himself off. It was good timing — he was able to make it home in time to help Kinjou finish off the pie. Even though the surprise was ruined, this feels like a more satisfying ending. Even if he only helped with putting the egg wash on and scoring the dough, it’s fitting that he was able to have some input, even if it was minuscule. Now Kinjou is sitting on the couch, the television turned on but the volume on low, and his apron has been discarded. Sitting down next to him, Fukutomi leans his head against Kinjou’s chest, and listens to the steady yet strong rhythm of his heartbeat.
The basket of pastries he’d brought home have already been emptied and set out on the table. For the past month, Toudou has been helping him perfect the recipes and even though he was only able to finish two or so danishes himself, with the rest being carefully made by Toudou, he feels accomplished. It’s nothing extravagant, but Fukutomi wanted to gift Kinjou something he would appreciate. It’s sweet to know that Kinjou had been thinking the same thing.
As Kinjou speaks, the rumble of his voice echoes through his body, “I love you, Juichi.”
Fukutomi feels himself smile, “I love you too.”
——
The apple pie comes out amazing. Excellent. Crisp yet soft, sweet yet not overwhelmingly so. For the rest of the day, they make their way through it, leaving only a single piece to be put in the fridge for later. It’s the best gift Fukutomi could ask for, and it's the best gift Kinjou could ever hope to give.