Chapter Text
“Hot behind!” Kojiro weaves through his busy kitchen, dodging Ito and sliding behind Mizuki, dropping his steaks so she can place the finishing touches on the pass before he’s turning back to the rail and checking the dupes coming in. “Alright y’all, we got three arancini apps coming in, with the pesto SOS, two risottos, one yam gnocchi with the brown butter and sage sauce, ya got that Aiko? Ito, how’s the carbonara, are they ready for the expo? I wanna clear the rail in 3, yeah?”
“30 seconds, chef!”
He yells an affirmative, hands busy rearranging the watercress garnish on the tajarin with truffle and doenjang even as he spots Nakamura approaching to bring it out. She places the dish on her serving plate even as Kojiro stoops down to reach into the low boy and grab the tirasmu, passing it to Mizuki who sifts cocoa powder onto the plates and artistically places the chocolate twille swirls next to the quenelles of coffee cream before passing it seamlessly to Nakamura, who’s already turning and heading out to the floor. He doesn’t get any respite before Ito’s carbonaras’ are ready and then Aiko yells out that her apps are ready and where the fuck are the waiters, the arancini’s dying on the pass over here so he has to flash those on the salamander as he waits for another runner to come hurrying over, oh, there’s Sato, so he takes out the apps and places the pesto on the side before sprinkling some fresh julienned basil and finally, finally, the arancini’s are out but there’s seven new chits on deck and Kojiro is in his element, juggling five tasks at once and loving every second of it, feeding on the unique organized chaos that you could really only find in a professional kitchen.
He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t notice the flash of dark hair and small hands placing a covered dish in a remote corner of the kitchen before slipping out as quietly as he came in.
In fact, Kojiro doesn’t notice the plate at all until dinner service is over and the worst of the cleanup is finished and even then, it’s Mizuki who holds it up and calls him over.
“Chef, I think this is for you.” She receives a few interested glances, but everyone’s too tired from such a busy shift to spare much attention, his staff focused on wiping down their stations, clearing the counters, and stacking the tableware in the dishwashers so they could close and go home.
“Give me a second,” Kojiro finishes sanitizing the window, wiping down the stainless steel with quick, practiced motions before he tosses the rag over his shoulder and washes his hands before heading over.
Mizuki passes over the plate, lingering, clearly curious. Kojiro doesn’t begrudge her interest, now that the plate’s in his hands, he can clearly tell it’s not one of his . It’s strangely familiar, made of a pale porcelain painted with traditional Japanese seigaiha around the lip, clearly expensive and clashing hilariously with the aluminum foil covering the contents.
His mind is already churning, trying to figure out who had left this in his kitchen when Ito pops up beside him and waves something in front of his face. Kojiro swallows a curse and physically feels his heart jump even as Aiko swears violently and punches Ito in the arm. Jesus, the guy was light on his feet. Maybe he should let Aiko put a bell on him, after all, she had seemed distressingly serious for it to be a joke…
Ito thrusts what seems like a card into Kojiro’s hands. “Look, I think this came with the plate!” He inspects it, turning it over and noting the thickness of the cardstock and the subtle texture that he recognized as expensive and cold-pressed, courtesy of a lifetime spent listening to Kaoru's impassioned rants about paper quality and the declining standards of the Japanese stationery industry.
“What does it say, Chef?”
He read the typed words aloud. “Share with your staff.” No signature or address, nothing to indicate where the mysterious card and plate had originated. Kojiro frowned. It seemed too curt to be a confession, but maybe the last couple of girls’ he’d hooked up with had dropped these off? As a rule, he had never told his one-night stands where he worked, but he didn't exactly keep it hidden, either. Sia la Luce was easy enough to find with a Google search, thanks to Kaoru and Carla's very intensive marketing strategy. Thinking about Kaoru and his dedication to the success of his restaurant always made his heart melt; the mix of fondness and devotion and yearning a familiar companion that he's learned to live with for a decade now, and had long since made his peace with.
But back to the complication of the card.
At this point, everyone had gathered around Kojiro and the perplexing plate, all thoughts of clean up forgotten for now.
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Aiko asked, fingers drumming the countertop impatiently.
There was no real reason not to, even as Kojiro felt oddly hesitant, like he was teetering on the cusp of something . He shook himself out of his thoughts, and carefully unwrapped the foil, revealing…cookies.
Cute round butter cookies, to be exact, likely matcha flavored judging by their color, piped in meticulous swirls and arranged in perfect little stacks on the plate, innocuous and soft and very clearly homemade. He felt a bit ridiculous for being so apprehensive. Counting them, there was enough for everyone to have exactly two each, so that worked out…perfectly. Almost too perfect…
His staff didn’t share his misgivings, chattering excitedly as everyone reached for a cookie, but-
“Wait,” he blurts, “What if it's poisoned?”
Mizuki stares at him. “Who would send us poisoned cookies?”
“It could be that Japanese place! Yamamoto could be trying to sabotage us so his place’ll be named the best restaurant in Okinawa this year…” He trails off as Mizuki rolls her eyes at him, which, yeah, fair. But still! It’s a possibility!
The new intern whose name Kojiro couldn’t remember looks confused. “Why would Chef Yamamoto sabotage us?”
“He wouldn’t,” Ito reassures him even as he reaches for a cookie and pops it into his mouth, spewing crumbs everywhere as he chews. Kojiro makes a mental note to make him mop the floor. “Chef just hates him because Sakurayashiki-senpai goes there a lot.” Actually, looks like Ito’ll be in charge of mopping the floor and taking out the trash tonight. “Hey, this is pretty good!”
Aiko elbows him in the ribs, “Chew with your mouth closed, moron - you’re getting crumbs everywhere,” before grabbing one herself and biting down. Her eyebrows go up. “He’s right, for once - this is delicious! Hey, Kaneko, you gotta try this!”
The patisserie reaches over and grabs one, delicately biting into the biscuit, before giving a thumbs up of approval. Huh. Even Kaneko?
Mizuki finishes chewing her cookie and turns to him, raising a judgemental eyebrow. “Well Chef, they’re clearly poisoned. We’re all going to die.”
He doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm, and tells her so, but the sous-chef had been with him long enough that she just grabs another cookie and holds it out to him, waiting. Kojiro gives up, he was clearly outnumbered here, the traitors, and nibbles on it, petulantly noting how the cookie almost melted on his tongue, the matcha leaving a bright yet not overtly grassy aftertaste. It was good.
He just wished that he knew where it came from, he thought and said as much out loud, even as he reached for another.
Besides him, Mizuki shakes her head and exchanges a look of consternation with Aiko. Men .
🍪🍪🍪
The cookie conundrum, as he’d privately dubbed it, was still itching at the back of his mind even as he locked up and waved goodbye to Ito, who had just finished taking out the trash, the other staff members having trickled out once the last of the cookies had been finished. Kojiro had washed the plate and left it at his restaurant, figuring that whoever had left what was clearly an expensive piece of pottery would come back for it, and then maybe he’ll catch the mysterious baker red-handed, and…do something . He tries not to think of the card, currently placed in his wallet.
He unlocked his car and carefully placed the takeout boxes he’d been carrying in the passenger seat before starting the engine and driving to the traditional part of town, all big gardens and red-tiled, curved roofs. This late at night, he easily finds a parking spot right in front of the building that housed both Sakurayashiki Calligraphy and Kaoru’s personal apartment, that lazy shit, and whistles absent-mindedly as he grabs the boxes from the passenger side and locks his car, striding quickly to the door.
Kojiro doesn’t bother knocking as Carla’s robotic greeting chimes softly, opening the door and immediately heading through the studio and Kaoru’s office for the staircase at the back that takes him to the second floor and into Kaoru’s apartment. He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack before unbuttoning the top two buttons of his chef’s whites as he moves to deposit the food in the kitchen, hearing the faint drone of the TV from the living room.
He heads there, finding Kaoru exactly where he’d expected him to be, dozing on the couch and waiting for Kojiro to come home, his hopeful heart whispers before he catches himself and smiles ruefully. In all actuality, Kaoru had probably just been working on Carla’s upgrades or answering emails or something and drifted off unintentionally, seeing as the combination of his insomnia and injuries had kept the calligrapher up later than usual for the past couple of days.
Not for the first time, he grinds his teeth, longing to punch Adam, that asshole, even just once; to beat him up as brutally as he’d hurt Kaoru even as he knows the consequences of such an action, but. Fuck the consquences, he had thought, during that long and terrible night at the hospital; listening to Kaoru’s labored breathes and feeling so, so numb as he’d clutched Kaoru’s still hand, the one that wasn’t wrapped in layers of gauze so thick he’d barely been able to see his fingers. He would’ve hunted Adam down, if not for Kaoru looking at him when he'd finally awoken, terribly pale and vulnerable, and asking him to stay .
And so Kojiro had.
He shakes off the memories as he gathers Kaoru into his arms, careful of his injuries, and sets off for the bedroom, affection blooming in his chest as Kaoru squirms closer to his heart, cold nose nudging at the hollow of his throat.
Kojiro makes his way into Kaoru’s room, gently setting him down on the mattress without waking him up, a feat in itself. Kaoru is so achingly beautiful like this, clad only in a large T-shirt that he was fairly sure had belonged to him at one point; hair framing his face, soft and unguarded as he dreamed. If Kojiro was a painter, he would spend years capturing Kaoru like this; if he’d been a poet, he would’ve dedicated all his verses to Kaoru like this , eternal in the dim moonlight streaming from the windows. Yes, even this is familiar; Kojiro had long made peace with the exquisite agony of being able to look , but not touch . Not kiss. Not his .
He tucks Kaoru in before lingering in the doorway, stealing one more glance of his sleeping figure before turning away and busying himself with shutting off the TV, noting that Kaoru had already cleaned up the parts and pieces he used to work on Carla. Kojiro pads lightly into the kitchen, putting the food in the refrigerator for Kaoru to heat up for lunch tomorrow before he turns off the light and makes his way back to the bedroom, where he unbuttons his chef’s whites and throws them in the laundry basket, until he’s down to his boxers. He’s exhausted so he just swishes some mouthwash around and then climbs into his side of the bed, holding his breath as Kaoru murmurs but doesn’t stir before fully relaxing.
Kojiro falls asleep to Kaoru’s breathing.