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Dropping the large baker’s box on the desk in their small, shared office, Kiyoomi levels his teammates with a withering glare. "Don't say a word," he says.
"Whipped!" Motoya is already heading toward the box, fingers wiggling in that silly little motion people make when they want to say ‘don't mind if I do,’ but really they want you to mind. Otherwise they wouldn’t do that. "Is this from the Cafe Adlers?" He's purposefully ignoring the carefully designed Eagle logo on the box, because he was put on this Earth to piss Kiyoomi off.
Kiyoomi stays quiet, instead. He won't lose to Motoya, of all people.
“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” Atsumu says, mouth stuffed full of a blueberry donut he'd somehow already grabbed. How did he do that? Motoya’s still surveying the goods. “But why’d ya decide to treat us today, Omi?”
“Don’t call me Omi,” he snips back, absently. “I need your help.”
“Ah, a bribe.” Motoya this time, who can read him like a large-print book. He's selected a strawberry-cardamom tart, a treat that floats just on the edge of savory. "Are you finally going to tell us why you went from a diehard Starbucks Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew truther to someone keeping local business afloat by single handedly buying out their pastry case and drinking their even more expensive cold brew?”
“That only happened once, Motoya, stop exaggerating for dramatic effect. It’s uncouth.” It makes him an incredible visual storyteller, and he’s sold clients on half-baked design stories thanks to his big mouth, but it does mean that all the tales he’s told about Kiyoomi’s childhood are fundamentally works of fiction. He never had an army of chickens, he only yelled at a boy about being too germy once, and he definitely had nothing to do with a hostile takeover of their middle school art club, no matter what Motoya claimed.
“It’s funny, y’know?” Atsumu says, ignoring the familial argument playing out like it’s happened a thousand times before. It has. He’s used to it. He still isn’t quite sure how he feels not being the cause of it, though. “They never have those plum tarts when I come in.”
Kiyoomi hisses . He doesn’t get what Atsumu is trying to imply, but he definitely doesn’t like it. “You still have half a donut left despite the best efforts of your vacuum of a mouth. Do not even think about touching my plum tart.”
“Your plum tart, huh?” Uh-oh. Letting Atsumu get a whiff of the chaos playing out in his heart is a bad idea. He’s got a good eye for detail and a nose that can sniff out trouble a mile away, which makes him great at cleaning up their designs before sending them out and spotting problem clients. It also means that Kiyoomi’s never been able to slip a single thing by him, and Atsumu has definitely been lying in wait to trip Kiyoomi up over his frequent (daily) visits to the Cafe Adlers, and like a fresh baby faun he’d fallen right into Atsumu’s trap. “Do they make these special for you, Omi? Are you a VIP Customer?” He leers directly at Kiyoomi. Blueberry syrup and crumbs line his lips, and Kiyoomi pulls up his mask in disgust.
“They do, apparently,” he admits, and Atsumu’s eyes go wide and Motoya leans back in his chair like they’re reaching a particularly tasty episode of whatever K-Drama he’s chosen for the week. “And that’s why I need your advice.”
He takes a deep breath, pulls his mask down to drink some of his lightly sweetened cold brew, and begins.
The first time Kiyoomi stumbled into the Cafe Adlers, he’d forgotten his umbrella, was running late, and was soaked to his bones. He’d have written it off as a freak rainstorm if Motoya hadn’t looked at him funny when he was leaving their shared apartment, and it was only when the skies opened above him while he was halfway to work that he realized he hadn’t checked the weather report that day.
His usual Starbucks was reliable. It was also two blocks out of his way.
He could handle a little rain; he could not handle Atsumu making fun of him for being soaked without coffee. So, preparing himself for a horrible experience and already planning to take the warmest bath possible that night, he tucked his laptop back under his chest and made to run. His loafers squelched in the puddle forming right around his feet. But as he turned his head to avoid the rain, an oasis that he hadn’t noticed before appeared in his vision. Cafe Adlers, the sign read, text hanging in a circle with a clipart eagle in flight. The logo was horribly designed, but it looked open and empty.
Kiyoomi barged in, the door fighting against the rain, and the sole cashier stood bolt upright from where he was leaning against the counter. He blinked his wide green eyes at Kiyoomi, who blinked back while he dripped onto the floor. “Is it raining?” he asked, tipping his head to the side.
“Obviously,” Kiyoomi muttered, drying his feet off on the rug as best as he could.
“Bummer,” he said, tapping the counter. “First time? Take your time.” The cashier felt like a coil, as though he had a great deal of energy he was trying to hold back, from the way he started adjusting cups, tapping on syrups, and toying with the pastry display.
The cafe was lovely on the inside — nearly pure white walls and a dark gray floor, easy to clean in a pinch. There were a scant few tables, round and made of pale oak in that Scandinavian minimalist style that had become so popular and that Kiyoomi secretly coveted in the face of Motoya’s commitment to maximalism. A long, wraparound bench in the same wood hugged the exterior walls. In the windows were little plant boxes full of what smelled like fresh herbs, and the selection of syrups included a rotating blend that must have come, in part, from those boxes.
But the true pride and joy of the cafe, besides the monstrous espresso machine that sat on the coffee bar in a gleaming bronze, was the pastry case. It was stuffed full of delicacies that looked almost too pretty to be real, tarts piled heavy with sweet summer fruits, perfectly shaped scones, golden brown muffins and a brownie that looked so dark it was almost black.
“I’ll take a cold brew,” he said, adding a “please” after a moment’s hesitation.
The cashier leered at him, like he was waiting for something. “And?”
“And? I’ll just take the cold brew.”
“Just the cold brew?” Oh no. Kiyoomi knew that voice. Or rather, he recognized the rising tones. The energy bubbling just under the surface. Just like Atsumu, this cashier — Hoshiumi, if he was reading his nametag right — was gearing up for a fight. He could practically see the hackles raising on his neck, if birds had hackles.
“Just the coffee please,” Kiyoomi replied quietly, but it went unnoticed as Hoshiumi went off.
“What, you don’t see this case of magnificent confectionery beside me? Are you colorblind? You come into our cafe, you see the array of gorgeous pastry before you, and what do you do? You get a cold brew. A cold brew. That’s a betrayal!"
"How is it a betrayal?" Kiyoomi should know better than to get pulled into the wake of someone else's rant, but alas. Fools never learn.
"A cold brew is a boring order so you should order something nice to go along with it! Make your day better! Or do you think you're better than us, huh? Are you going to run along to Starbucks and get one of their shitty prepackaged chocolate croissants because their cold brew is so mediocre, huh? You look like the type." Kiyoomi considered it, just to spite this aggressive little twunk, but sighed instead.
"It's raining and I don't have an umbrella. The pastry will disintegrate."
"Oh." Hoshiumi blinked at Kiyoomi. That must be what he looked like when he was concentrating, deep in thought, going a little cross-eyed. "Then just eat it here."
"...why?" Kiyoomi asked, but the longer he thought about it the more it seemed like a good idea. He was already running late, he had no meetings that morning, and this way he could stay at the office until dinner to make up for it, and wait out the rain.
"Because you need to apologize for dripping all over my clean floor," Hoshiumi said, and because he was the one providing caffeine, Kiyoomi demurred.
He bought one of the strawberry-basil tarts and let Hoshiumi pour him a glass — "so you can't escape," he said darkly — of his cold brew. He carried his own straw for times like this.
And then, after chugging half the glass of coffee in a way that made Hoshiumi wince, he took a bite of the tart.
He wasn't a connoisseur, by any means, but he'd never had anything quite so delicious. The strawberries were small and tasted like they’d been frozen in time in the midst of their fresh summer sweetness, the basil adding another dimension to the sugar while also grounding it in something herbal. And then, underneath it all, something earthier. Pistachios.
"Holy shit," Kiyoomi said, crumbs falling from his mouth and jam dripping onto his mask, an uncouth behavior he would correct if he were anywhere near his right mind. But unfortunately his right mind was somewhere in a strawberry field.
"That's what I said." Hoshiumi sounded smug, even though he had said nothing of the sort. Kiyoomi would forgive him for that.
After that, he started going to the Cafe Adlers for his morning fix. Thanks to his flexible schedule, he was able to go after the morning rush, so there was time to chat with the baristas and survey the pastry case.
He was a creature of habit, if the habit was a 16 oz cold brew, no matter what Hoshiumi tried.
"I'll have you know I came in second in our region's barista competition this year. I'll be first next year, and then you'll be sorry you didn't try my lattes before you can't afford me, Sakusa!"
"I apologize for him," the manager, Hirugami, said one day, patting Hoshiumi on the head and steadily calming him. "He's had too much caffeine already."
"Caffeine is a myth perpetuated by the food and drug administration to justify-"
"Check the groupchat. Sachirou just sent a picture of Koutarou. He's looking pretty cute."
And then Hoshiumi would run to the backroom to check his phone.
But every time he'd try a new pastry. There were some staples: thick brownies stuffed with nuts, lemon poppyseed muffins with a golden brown crust, dazzlingly little slices of fruit cakes that Hoshiumi insisted on serving with a dollop of whipped cream that wasn't too sweet.
And then there were rotating ones, which were as delicious as they were esoteric. Dragonfruit tarts, dusted with rosemary sugar; sage and lemon scones; giant biscuits stuffed with bacon, green onions, and candied jalapenos.
"It depends on what's growing," the other barista, Kageyama explained one day. "He rotates them out based on the fresh herbs and whatever produce he gets at the market. He likes to experiment. It keeps him on his toes, he says."
"Who is he?"
"The baker," Kageyama said, and didn't add anything else. Accepting that that was all he was going to get out of him, he ordered a cinnamon scone and let him focus on steaming milk for his staff drink.
He'd been going for nearly a month before he finally caught a glimpse of the mysterious baker. Over the weeks, he’d befriended Hoshiumi — they listened to the same podcast and had different opinions on Terrace House — and was friendly with Kageyama and Hirugami, and even Hirugami’s brother, who sometimes slipped behind the counter though his skills lay elsewhere.
And although he thought he’d met all of the staff, even the ones who worked the afternoon shifts when he went in on the weekends after jogging and found the pastry case lacking, picked at by vultures, he didn’t realize that a random Wednesday morning, his life would change.
“Did you see what Minori did last night, Hoshiumi?” Kiyoomi said when he opened the shop door without looking. “She cooked all of Uchi’s meat! Can you believe that? What a jerk.” Hoshiumi always worked Wednesday mornings, and Kiyoomi went into work a little later than usual in order to break down last night’s episode of Terrace House with him.
“I cannot believe it,” an unfamiliar growl of a voice said, stopping Kiyoomi in his tracks. He looked up from fiddling with his messenger bag, and locked eyes with the sturdy looking man at the counter, eyes dark and the corner of his mouth raised in a subtle grin, like he found this funny. “But I do not know who they are.”
“You’re not Hoshiumi,” Kiyoomi said. Part of him was disappointed, because he hadn’t gotten anyone at MSBY Design Inc interested in Terrace House. But part of him was delighted, because this employee was gorgeous. They stood at the same height — or would, Kiyoomi thought, if he didn’t have a habitual slouch from the weight of his bag — but the similarities ended there. He had a sharp jawline that made Kiyoomi think of carved wood, and dark green hair like a winter forest. His beige apron crossed over his shoulders and had a light dusting of flour, but the nametag was incongruously shaped like a cow, of all things; it only emphasized how broad his build was, and his muscular arms pulled at the hem of the t-shirt he wore. The lines of a farmer’s tan poked out from under the sleeves, and Kiyoomi wondered what other secrets lay below the counter.
“My name is Ushijima Wakatoshi,” he said. “Sorry to disappoint.” There was nothing disappointing about him, but Kiyoomi couldn’t say that without sounding like Atsumu so instead he just blushed, grateful that his mask hid the worst of it. “How may I help you?”
He could help Kiyoomi in any number of ways, but most critically… “Could I get a large cold brew, please? And…” he surveyed the pastry case, but frowned. The experimental top row was empty, and everything looked delicious. There was nothing new he hadn’t tried.
“Indecisive.” Ushijima said. He didn’t ask, he just observed. “Here, try this. I just pulled them out of the oven.”
“Is this a sample?”
Ushijima looked bemused as he handed the small slice of a nectarine turnover to Kiyoomi. “Not quite; this was what remains of my own personal test batch. You have to taste everything that comes out of the oven, you see.”
Kiyoomi hadn’t had coffee yet; forgive him for registering Ushijima’s words on a delay, as he held the morsel in his fingers. It was still warm from baking, and the sweet curve of the fruit made his mouth water. (The flex of his muscles also played a role, but again, Kiyoomi wasn’t ready to confront his inner Atsumu.) “You make these? You’re the baker?”
Ushijima nodded. “And the owner. Normally I’m in the kitchen, but Hoshiumi unfortunately fell ill.” He laughed when Kiyoomi wrinkled his nose, misery clear even below his mask. “Nothing contagious. Just a stomach bug. It will pass, and you can talk about Terrace House with him tomorrow. Now, tell me what you think.” He gestured to the sample Kiyoomi still held, and his hand was so big and calloused, wrists thick it made Kiyoomi’s mouth go dry, this time.
In a few quick motions, he slid his mask down and dropped the turnover into his mouth. He was immediately overtaken by the flavor — the still warm pastry melting on his tongue, the spices the nectarines were cooked with settling in behind the subtle tang of the fruit, all cushioned by the buttery dough, and maybe he made a few uncouth noises against his will.
He was so distracted by the pastry that he didn’t hear Ushijima’s sharp gasp, and missed the way his eyes widened, grip tightening on the counter, before he steadied himself.
“Well,” he asked, voice deeper and throatier than before, though Kiyoomi couldn’t fathom why. “What’s the verdict?”
“I’ll take two,” Kiyoomi replied, sliding the mask back up, and something like disappointment crossed Ushijima’s face as he reached for his wallet.
“Can I get a name for the beverage?”
Kiyoomi blinked. He was the only customer. Ushijima would be handing him a plastic cup of cold brew. It wasn’t rocket science. “Kiyoomi,” he said, and watched Ushijima’s fingers fumble as he wrote it down.
“Is that your first name? It’s lovely,” he said, turning to fill the cup with ice and coffee, and Kiyoomi blushed again like a kid with a schoolyard crush, or something.
“My last name is Sakusa,” he replied once he’d recovered.
Ushijima was focused on the minutiae of the transaction. “Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he said, like he was trying out the shape of it, and hearing his name on Ushijima’s deep baritone settled somewhere in the base of his spine, “I hope to see you again.” That smile from earlier, when he first stepped into the shop, was back, but this time it felt like he’d won.
“I hope the same, Ushijima Wakatoshi,” he replied, and turned to leave.
After that, he started seeing Ushijima more often. Not every day, because being the sole baker and owner of the cafe kept him busy, but a few times a week, when he had extra help in the shop — “My best friend, Tendou,” he’d explained once, “Works pastry at La Noisette but misses the chaos of a bakery kitchen” — he was there, waiting for Kiyoomi at the counter, while Hoshiumi did something complicated to a latte or Kageyama carefully swept up the shattered remains of a mug.
During their visits, which always stretched a bit too long so Kiyoomi started coming in earlier, he learned a lot about Ushijima, who always seemed interested in sharing with him.
For example, the plants were Ushijima’s idea. “I like to have fresh herbs to experiment with, and they are too expensive to buy at the market.”
“Pragmatic,” Kiyoomi replied, his mouth going dry at how much foresight Ushijima had, to build in the window baskets.
“Indeed. I am experimenting with a hydroponic grow rig for winter, when there is less sun.” He frowned at his plants. “I do not want them to die, and out of season herbs are even more difficult to source sustainably.”
Can you propose marriage to a veritable stranger? Kiyoomi might find out.
He also learned that Ushijima had been baking since he was young. “My father taught me. He had to move away when I was young, but I kept baking while he was gone. I suppose it made me feel closer to him.” He paused for a moment, while Kiyoomi chewed on a liquorice and fennel cookie and let him have the space to think. “And I realized I liked it enough to make it a career.”
“You’re good at it too,” Kiyoomi said. It wasn’t a trite platitude; Kiyoomi didn’t do those. It was simply fact.
“I know,” Ushijima replied, but his grin looked brighter somehow.
And then — “I met Tendou at a pastry class. I wanted to refine my skills, and Tendou liked to learn new things. I knew I was a skilled home baker, but going toe-to-toe with Tendou? It was when I first felt like I could truly do this.” Tendou flashed a peace sign up from the back kitchen, where he was doing something terrifying with chocolate mousse. “He helped provide some of the start-up capital, so whenever he comes in he says he’s just looking after his investment."
“This little shop’s my retirement fund!” Tendou joked to him once, handing him a canele on the one day everyone, including Ushijima, seemed to call out sick, “so don’t treat Wakatoshi too badly, huh?” He peered over the counter at Kiyoomi with his uncanny, piercing gaze, and in that moment Kiyoomi realized that Tendou knew more than he ever let on.
“I won’t,” he gulped, wondering if this was a blessing or a burden, “but if it’s your retirement fund, you might want to invest in a new logo.” He slid his MSBY business card across the counter. “Call me when you’re ready to have a real conversation.”
Tendou harrumphed, but he called three days later.
And that was how Kiyoomi learned Ushijima had friends who cared about him and his well being.
He also learned — “Kiyoomi,” Ushijima said one day. Ever since Kiyoomi had introduced himself, Ushijima had insisted on using his first name, and Kiyoomi had never corrected him even though he felt flustered and adrift every time he used it. “I feel as though you’ve learned a lot about me. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
Kiyoomi was taken aback. He’d been feasting on morsels — the ones that Ushijima had insisted on feeding him every morning, and the stories that flowed effortlessly from his tongue — and hadn’t been returning in kind. “Um,” he said, but he couldn’t figure out what to say.
“Why did you become a designer?” Ushijima asked, giving him a way out. He nodded at their new logo — carefully designed in a rush job by Kiyoomi, even though Meian had looked at him suspiciously and demanded one of every single pastry before he agreed to it — and then back at Kiyoomi. “Your work is lovely, and your skill bleeds through. But I want to know what drew you to the profession? I get the sense that you could have excelled in any industry.”
It wasn’t baseless. Kiyoomi knew he could be good at nearly anything if he tried; he’d spent ages trying out new hobbies and subjects. The problem was that nothing really stuck. He was good at math, he was good at painting, he could hold a tune on the piano, but nothing drove him. “My cousin made me take a design class with him, on the history of fonts. I thought it was interesting, and then I never stopped.” And now we’re here, he thought.
And that was the most dangerous day of all, because he learned that Wakatoshi wanted to get to know him, too.
After that, every time he went in he saw Wakatoshi. “I didn’t know you were working today,” Kiyoomi said, while Kageyama swept a broom in the corner and ruffled his brow at the two of them.
“I work everyday,” Wakatoshi replied, matter-of-factly, with just a slight hint of mirth. “This is my shop.” He said it with pride, and it was well deserved.
“And what a shop,” Kiyoomi muttered back, eyes scanning over the pastry case until his gaze lit upon - “Oh! My favorite!”
“The plum tart?” Of all of Wakatoshi’s creations, this one had been his favorite, so much so that he’d asked Wakatoshi about it the next time they were in the shop together. There was something about the flavor of the plum — sweet with a little bit of the sour edge that Kiyoomi loved, on top of a subtle pastry — that lingered in his mind. “Of course, would you like one?”
It was the last one remaining in the case. It was always the last one in the case; it was on their rotating menu, so every Thursday when Kiyoomi walked in he would hope that there would be a plum tart left.
And every Thursday, he found himself delighted, because “-It’s the last one,” Wakatoshi said, as he slipped the pastry into a bag and passed it over the counter to him.
“My lucky day,” Kiyoomi said, revelling in the warmth of Wakatoshi’s fingers where they touched when he accepted his treat, and smiling, too. He felt comfortable taking his mask down here.
Wakatoshi stared at him for a long moment, eyes flickering over Kiyoomi’s face. And then a matching delighted smile curled onto his face, subtle and challenging. “Right,” he agreed. “Your lucky day.”
As he left, he didn’t notice the weird looks Hoshiumi gave him, or the puzzled expression Kageyama wore as he looked between the two of them, or even the way Hirugami sighed fondly at Wakatoshi.
All he knew was that he was very lucky, and that Wakatoshi was almost too handsome for words.
Motoya looks starstruck. “It’s like a real love story!”
Atsumu, meanwhile, looks terrified. “That scary-lookin’ Ushiwaka guy? Him? He makes these?” He looks down at the caramel bear claw in his hands like it’s personally betrayed him. “He looks like he could knock me clean off my feet in a back-alley and come away spotless. Like he’d break into my house and kill me when I sleep.”
“He’s a sweetheart.” Kiyoomi frowns.
“He makes a hell of a first impression.” Motoya balances them, somehow. He does look thoughtful, though, and a thoughtful Motoya is a dangerous Motoya. He had the same expression right as he convinced Kiyoomi to join the 24 hour dance-a-thon in college, before suggesting they find a third roommate on Craigslist (Atsumu, which was both a curse and a blessing), and when he sheepishly admitted they were lost while on a kayak in the middle of a lake. “So he’s clearly in love with you and you’re obviously in love with him. Kiyoomi, I don’t really see why you need our help!”
“He’s not in love with me!” Kiyoomi protests, slamming his fists down on the table.
He thought he’d get a response. He didn’t expect stone cold silence.
Atsumu — who really needs to wipe his face, seriously, there are crumbs everywhere — is never speechless. He always has something to say. It’s so unsettling to watch him quietly share a look with Motoya, one that Kiyoomi doesn’t recognize.
“What am I missing?” he asks. “Tell me, what is the problem with what I said?”
“You know, Omi, you once called me dumber than a printer with a screw loose." That is a lie. He'd done it way more than once. It was only after Atsumu had done something impeccably stupid, like saving all of his collaborative work to his personal hard drive and dropping it off a balcony or trying to sneak a full roast chicken into a movie theater that didn’t serve food. “But you’re really putting me to shame right now.”
“Take that back!” Kiyoomi squawks. Atsumu shakes his head, and — even more worryingly — so does Motoya.
“He’s right, and you know how much I hate to agree with him.” That’s also a lie; Motoya loves anything that makes Kiyoomi look like a clown. He’s got that stupid smile on his face again, the one that precedes disaster. Then he cocks his head to the side and looks Kiyoomi up and down, and slowly a frown takes over his face and his tiny little caterpillar eyebrows inch close together, like they’re crawling towards each other on a branch. “Kiyoomi… are you serious? Oh my god, he’s serious! Atsumu, he doesn’t know!”
“Why are you shaking me?” Motoya has latched onto Atsumu’s arm and is shaking him so vociferously the crumbs are flying off his face. Meian is going to murder them later for making a mess. “I shouldn’t have to suffer because Omi’s a dummy!” The problem his two friends/colleagues/burdens share is that they’re both too into having siblings (or cousins, as is the case with Motoya) and they're both way too into throwing down when they should just use their words.
It's no surprise when Atsumu snarls and kicks out, sinking Motoya to the floor. It's also no surprise when Motoya grabs onto Atsumu's lapels and pulls him down with him.
Atsumu has a brother he’s been fighting with for years, and is well-practiced in the art of wrestling.
Motoya, meanwhile, has always wanted to tussle, but one harsh glare from Kiyoomi always stopped him. That, and risking the ire of Kiyoomi’s mother for getting their clothes dirty. The problem was that being around Atsumu brought out all of Motoya’s worst sibling-y impulses, and the issue for Atsumu in particular is that Motoya is a fast learner.
He’s also a wiggly little scamp.
“Can the two of you be serious for once,” Meian says suddenly from the doorway, sending a shiver down Kiyoomi’s spine and making the wriggling pile on the floor freeze; Motoya’s got Atsumu pinned but Atsumu has a knee pressed against Motoya’s kidney. “I don’t have 911 on speed dial.”
“It’s only three numbers. What harm could they do in the meantime? Maybe Atsumu will lose a finger and we can finally tell him apart from Osamu.” Or maybe Atsumu will bruise Motoya’s kidneys; if there’s one thing Kiyoomi will take to the grave, it’s that he’s not betting on his cousin to win this fight.
Still, despite Kiyoomi’s fervent desire to make it impossible for Atsumu to count higher than 9 ever again, they split apart. Motoya wipes dust from his knees, and Atsumu – “I think you broke my nose,” he says, touching his face.
“I did not, you’re just being a baby.”
“What are you two fighting over, anyway?” Meian asks, leaning against the doorway with a wry grin on his face, before he notices the box of pastries. “Wait a minute, are these from Kiyoomi’s loverboy’s cafe? Don’t mind if I do.” He grabs an almond raspberry scone from the box.
“Not you too,” Kiyoomi mutters.
"See! Meian’s on our side!” Motoya looks triumphant, even though there’s a stray piece of paper still stuck in his hair. As punishment, Kiyoomi won’t inform him of it, even though it rankles his core to not pull it out. “Did you know Kiyoomi doesn’t know Ushijima’s in love with him?”
“Does Sakusa know that he’s in love with Ushijima, at least? That’s step one, I think.” Meian talks around a mouthful of crumbs, and suddenly Kiyoomi regrets fast tracking the logo redesign, because he’s given Meian too much information. Enough rope to hang himself. Maybe he should change industries. He thinks there’s merit in umbrella manufacturing.
“Sakusa is right here,” he interjects, but it’s to no avail. Motoya has found his most powerful ally of all – a bit — and Atsumu will do anything to commit to it.
“Did you know,” Atsumu starts, holding his hands wide like he’s a magician about to toss a deck of cards between them, “that Kiyoomi thinks he’s always lucky enough to get the last plum tart on Thursdays?”
Meian blinks. “Plum tarts? They’re always sold out when I go in! How is Sakusa so lucky?”
“That’s the trick, ain’t it? Kiyoomi’s not lucky at all, unless you count lucky in love. Ushijima makes them just for him. He always gets the last one because there’s only ever one plum tart on any given day, because that bastard Ushiwaka saves them for him.”
“He’s not a bastard, Miya- “
“ And,” Atsumu claps delightedly, “I’ve just connected some dots. Do ya remember the week straight Kiyoomi came into the office too hungry for lunch because he ate too much at breakfast?” Wakatoshi had been testing pastries that week, and he insisted on sending Kiyoomi home with a sampler of all of them, all five days he went into the shop, and demanded a readout from Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi had been too full to eat the lunch he packed every day, and instead spent his lunch break designing a color-coordinated template to give Wakatoshi his feedback. The plum tart had been the clear standout, and been added to the menu pending Kiyoomi’s feedback. “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Ushijima was trying to woo him and our Omi doesn't have enough taste buds to realize it.”
Being called out by Atsumu twice in one day is just beyond the pale, Kiyoomi thinks. “He gave those to a bunch of people,” he protests, weakly. “I saw him.” There was a man with inky grey hair who looked vaguely familiar like he’d been all over Kiyoomi’s instagram, and two men with severe bowlcuts, and a boisterous man with a laugh like an owl who had woken Kiyoomi up when he went in, once that week, half asleep.
“Those are his friends, Kiyoomi,” Motoya replies patiently, after Kiyoomi carefully and triumphantly describes the array of strangers Wakatoshi had also handed a pastry box to. “That wasn’t a double blind study or anything.” He has a minor in statistical methods and never fails to let Kiiyoomi forget.
“I’ve only ever met Ushijima once.” Meian is rubbing his chin thoughtfully, one arm crossed over his broad chest. “He’s a little kitchen mouse, isn’t he? I rarely see him emerge.”
“I wouldn’t call him a mouse!” Motoya is the only one willing to engage with that, “but he doesn’t really come out to the front all that often,”
Before Kiyoomi can protest, because he always sees Wakatoshi up from, Atsumu lights up, like he’s just realized something magical. Found the last piece in a puzzle. “Also-”
“Ushijima hates working the front counter, Kiyoomi,” Motoya says, stealing Atsumu’s thunder. Atsumu deflates, collapsing onto one of the chairs in the office and slowly rolling away. “I talked to his friend, Tendou, about it. He only does it when you’re around.”
“Why do you talk to Tendou?”
“That’s not important!” Motoya isn’t meeting his eyes, which means it is important and Kiyoomi’s going to hate it when he finds out. “What is important is that the two of you are in love with each other! I can’t believe you haven’t realized that your stupid love is mutual!”
“It’s not!” he insists, but he doesn’t know why.
Or maybe he does.
Kiyoomi’s been so meticulous in his life that it’s hard to think that any of this came down to luck. Luck that he’d forgotten an umbrella that day and stumbled into the perfect little shop. Luck that he had a secret sweet tooth, and luck that had dragged Wakatoshi out of the kitchen one fateful morning and he’d fallen headfirst into fond affection for a man who was as much his mirror as someone he could love.
For him, living was about care. Trial and error until something — design, in this case — stuck. About wearing a wrist brace while he typed and selecting the perfect ergonomic office chair and shooting a spray bottle at anyone (Motoya) who tried to steal it. He liked his job not just because he fell into something tolerable but because he derived a particular joy from perfecting his designs, the right ratios and color stories and shapes, and honing his craft, above all else, made him tick.
He had never relied on luck until circumstances drove him to Wakatoshi, and now, maybe…
“Huh,” Kiyoomi says, licking the remaining syrup off of his fingers, “perhaps you have a point.”
“We thought you needed our advice to ask him out, honestly, not that you hadn’t even realized it!”
“I don’t need help from either of you, and trust me, you’d be the last people I’d ask if I did.”
Kiyoomi waits a week to go back.
Part of this is practicality; they end up getting dragged out on a business trip over the weekend to visit a client who needed their logo redesign meticulously explained to them in person. He’d made the mistake of giving Hoshiumi his phone number once so they could text each other Terrace House memes; he abuses the privilege by sending Kiyoomi pictures of Wakatoshi watering his plants.
But when he returns, late on Monday night, he realizes he doesn’t know what to say. And that’s the wholly impractical part of it.
And he knows he should just go for it; despite everything, Motoya and Atsumu helped him realize he might have more than half a chance with Wakatoshi. That the man is not only everything he’s ever needed, but might actually like him in return. He misses the plum tarts, but more importantly he misses seeing Wakatoshi, hearing him talk, being in his presence because he exudes a serenity that calms the parts of Kiyoomi’s mind that can’t stop moving.
“Oh god,” he exclaims, while clearing through a backlog of client emails — seriously, why did everyone need a minor font change at the same time — shocking Atsumu right out of his chair, disrupting his work on a wireframe for a wellness app’s UI. “I’m in love with him.”
“I thought that was a last week problem,” Atsumu grumbles, picking himself up. “Shouldn’t you have asked him out by now?” He squints at the plastic cup of cold brew next to Kiyoomi’s hand. “Is that Starbucks? Did he turn you down?”
“Be quiet Miya, I’m going through a complex personal crisis.” Okay, so maybe Kiyoomi has been avoiding the cafe for a couple of days because of this complex personal crisis, and maybe the Starbucks cold brew is mediocre compared to whatever it is Hoshiumi does with the beans, and maybe he has been cranky because he doesn’t eat a delicious pastry for breakfast every morning. That’s not the point.
He can’t bring himself to do it, take that final step and put himself out there. But he’ll do it when he’s ready, however long it takes. Even if it means he might not get a plum tart for months.
“You haven’t even tried to ask him out, have you?” Atsumu realizes in horror. “That’s it, I can’t watch you ruin your own life. I’m calling in the big guns.”
To Kiyoomi’s immense horror, Atsumu pulls up Slack. He’s definitely going to message Motoya or Meian or worse, Hinata who works remotely who’ll hire a singing telegram or something.
Kiyoomi has to do something drastic, but he’s not going to debase himself enough to wrestle with Atsumu. He’d probably lose, anyway, and twist his joints out of alignment. It’s not worth it.
There’s only one thing he can do, and he says a silent prayer to the computer gods to make up for the blasphemy he’s about to commit.
He unplugs Atsumu’s computer; the whole monitor, Slack, the wireframe, twelve different mockups in Illustrator, all of it goes black. Atsumu’s hands hover above his keyboard. He blinks at the screen, then at Kiyoomi.
“Omi,” he says, “you know I save everything to the cloud now, right?” He’s learned his lesson the hard way. He has autosave enabled where he can, and a button on his mechanical keyboard just for saving his files.
“I wasn’t trying to ruin your work; I was trying to prevent you from signing your death warrant by messaging whoever you- what are you doing.”
Atsumu has his phone out and is typing frantically on it, eyes laser focused on the screen. “Slack is a messaging app, Kiyoomi. I have it on my phone too!” He holds it aloft to demonstrate.
Screw Kiyoomi for caring about work-life balance and keeping work messaging apps away from his personal line, right?
“Sorry mother,” he says, even though Mama Sakusa isn’t dead, just ruling half of Roppongi Hills with an iron fist, before launching himself at Atsumu.
Kiyoomi comes away with minor bruising, and Atsumu whines enough that Meian let him work from home for the rest of the afternoon.
“You know he can do more damage when he’s on his own, right?” Meian levels a look at a smug Kiyoomi, effectively killing his vibe.
“Shit,” Kiyoomi says, eloquently.
He doesn’t have any clarity by the time the next morning rolls around. That night, Motoya looks at him forlornly from across the dining table, but because his eyebrows are perfect little suns, it just means that they come closer and closer until Kiyoomi worries they’ll eclipse each other and swap places. That worry follows him into his dreams, which means that he wakes up at 4 AM in a cold sweat with no ability to go back to sleep, head full of the image of Motoya’s eyebrows taking flight. He wearily showers and grabs one of Motoya’s horrible emergency canned coffees so he can go into the office early, leave in the afternoon, and maybe figure out what to say to Wakatoshi by the weekend. He even checks the weather report for once, and steals Motoya’s umbrella, because rain is in the forecast.
The weekend is the perfect time for confessions, he’s decided. Weekdays aren’t built for them.
Dawn is just breaking over the city as he walks to work, sprigs of sunlight dripping through the clouds, and he passes a couple of lethargic buses on the way. He resists the urge to whistle, but he does spin his umbrella a little bit. Nothing is really open this early, not even Starbucks, and the lights are out at the Cafe Adlers when he passes, which vacantly strikes him as odd.
When he gets to the front entrance of MSBY Design, he realizes why.
“W-wakatoshi?” he sputters, grabbing onto the strap of his messenger bag like it’ll keep him grounded. Wakatoshi is standing right there, next to the minimalist door of their design studio, a bakery box in one hand and a thermos in the other. “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
He tilts his head to the side, and the familiar subtle twitch of a smile blooms on his face. It’s soft; when he described it to Kageyama once, the barista had no idea what he meant. But somehow even the slight grin changes Wakatoshi’s whole face and makes him luminous, sun breaking through the clouds, and Kiyoomi sighs while waiting for Wakatoshi to answer.
“I walked. Your friends told me where the office was. I wanted to see you,” he says, frankly. “You haven’t been around.” An understatement. It’s been a week since they’ve last seen each other, and Kiyoomi was avoiding the Cafe on purpose for most of that time. His mouth twists, and suddenly his handsome face looks sad; Kiyoomi absently wishes he could wash the whole expression away.
Then his heart turns to ash. Kiyoomi’s the reason for that expression. “I’m sorry,” he says, but there’s no explanation he can give that isn’t revealing. Maybe he needs to channel his inner Motoya, given his propensity for lying. “I was distracted. I came to a realization and didn’t know how to process it, so I avoided you instead.” He’s said too much. Inner Motoya is too verbose. Inner Motoya was a mistake. Abort mission, abort mission immediately-
“Am I to assume,” Wakatoshi says, setting the thermos on the MSBY windowsill and stepping forward to crowd into Kiyoomi’s space, “that the realization has something to do with me?”
Kiyoomi gulps.
This close, and with Kiyoomi’s back straightened by the sheer force of Wakatoshi’s presence, it’s so clear that they’re the same height. Kiyoomi can see right into his serious, green eyes; his gaze is the exacting look he uses to demand perfection out of his pastries, to line up the fruit for a tart just right underneath their sugar sweet glaze, or carefully prune his herbs so they keep growing, strong, year-round.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says, mouth going dry, “it has everything to do with you.” This close, he realizes Wakatoshi smells like butter and sweet stone-fruit, and there’s a little spot of flour on his chin that he must have missed before he came to find Kiyoomi. He wants to rub it off, so he does. Licking his thumb, he touches Wakatoshi’s face and scrubs it off. He watches Wakatoshi’s vision track the motion, his finger to his tongue down to his chin, and his face is so warm in Kiyoomi’s grip. He doesn’t want to let you. “You had a spot,” he adds, lamely.
“Thank you, Kiyoomi. I must have missed it this morning, I was in a rush to get here.”
“I don’t usually come here this early.”
“Then I was lucky,” he says, his deep voice reverberating in the scant space between them, as though it could drill into Kiyoomi’s very core, “to have found you. In more ways than one.”
“What’s in the box, Wakatoshi?” Kiyoomi has a pretty good idea, though.
“A plum tart,” he says, and then his mouth curls up into a real, amused grin. “Our Thursday special.”
Just as he expected; good ol’ reliable Wakatoshi.
It strikes Kiyoomi then, that maybe Wakatoshi has been straightforward with him for a while. He speaks bluntly, which Kiyoomi appreciates, but he also speaks in pastry. Baking is an extension of his own heart and expression, just as important as words are. He keeps peach hand pies on the menu year round, because Hoshiumi’s mom used to carry him on her shoulders to pluck peaches from the tree in their yard. Kageyama's solely responsible for a curried apple scone that swiftly became an offbeat crowd favorite, and Hirugami — who is honest when he says his tastes are basic — eats a lemon poppyseed muffin three days a week for breakfast. It's one of the ways he shows he cares, like making chocolate ice cream for Tendou from scratch on his birthday.
Maybe this whole time Wakatoshi's been telling Kiyoomi he likes him. But finally he knows exactly how to listen.
While they stand there the air starts smelling fizzy, the way it does right before rain, and Kiyoomi feels a few scant drops cross his brow so he opens the umbrella. It’s big enough to cover both of them, and the rain picks up soon after he does, trapping them under the shelter. They inch closer together, Kiyoomi's oxfords against Wakatoshi's sneakers.
His life changed in a rainstorm; maybe lightning can strike twice. Maybe he's just lucky that way.
"Your Thursday special? I thought it was just for me," he teases, pulling his mask down to reveal his own grin and blush.
"That's why it is a special, Kiyoomi," Wakatoshi says. "It's just for you."
The rain kicks up the scent of the plants around them, the grass along the sidewalk and the bushes around the doors of MSBY design. But Kiyoomi smells nothing but sweetness as he leans in to kiss the sugar off of Wakatoshi's lips, as Wakatoshi's empty hand comes to wrap around his waist, pressing them even closer together.
It's a soft kiss, a light kiss, one that carries promise and joy and a touch of forgiveness, too. A once-in-a-lifetime kiss, the same way every kiss is once-in-a-lifetime, because you'll never kiss someone the same way twice. You'll always carry with you the memory of the last kiss, and all the love you shared leading up to it. Luck can shock you to your core, but it's also the little things that make up your life that can bless you just the same.
When Kiyoomi pulls back, he licks his lips and tastes sweet and sour plum. "I like you, Wakatoshi," he says, because at least one of them should say it out loud. "We should go on a date."
"Lucky for you, I know a place," Wakatoshi says, leaning in so he can whisper in Kiyoomi's ear, carefully keeping the box from being crushed, "it's a lovely little cafe. Perhaps you've heard of it?"