Work Text:
Okay, so maybe Flayon wasn’t looking forward to this. I mean who names a cafe after themselves anyway? It sounded too nice and inviting and too many people loved it. The owner also sounded like a bit of a chuuni. “This is a Hakkito, the manifestation of my cursemark as I exorcise the lost souls in this universe,” he says on his website, showing off a drawing of the cutest, squishiest, roundest little bird in the world. Too much gap moe. Look, Flayon has never been one to be judgemental about other people but at least he’s never been a chuuni. And twelve whole people recommended the place to him. Twelve! That’s more cafe recommendations than any normal person should get about any normal cafe. He’s not even sure he has 12 friends so where are they all coming from? It’s suspicious! The owner must be spiking the drinks with love potions or something because there’s no way someone could be that cracked and cool and talented on their own. It’s really not fair and he wouldn’t fall for his tricks!
Speaking of the owner, he sounded like too much of a cheat character to be real anyway. Sweet? Good at cooking? Likes to sing? Consistently hosting the nicest sounding events at his cafe? He must be hiding something.
Okay no, actually, Ronald McDonald exists and he’s literally a clown so maybe all restaurateurs are just narcissists. He can’t exactly hold Mr. Chuuni Exorcist Banzoin fucking Hakka to the same levels as The Hamburglar. He might be stubborn, but Flayon did still have standards.
He really was trying to avoid visiting though, unwilling to be lured in by pretty drinks and even prettier pastries (and maybe an even prettier owner based on what he’s heard, but he tried to avoid seeing for himself lest he be unable to look away).
Flayon wasn’t the type of person to say no to Bettel though. He even came along with a big bag of chips when they signed up for that salsa class that one time because Bettel thought it would be funny. And yeah, it was funny, but the class itself wasn’t that great. At least it brought them a new friend in Magni though, that’s a plus, but it also eventually brought him here to the doors of this cursed cafe so maybe it all evened out.
And speaking of the devil, his phone buzzes with another text from Bettel.
and what even is a “mag” anyway, I mean his name is Magni but it’s still about baking right? why does he have to make it all about him all the time? and why did we all agree to it?? I’m pretty sure if I told someone I was going to mag them they would call the police on me and I’m not looking for that right now so you’ve got to help me beat his ass in this “great mag off” or whatever we want to call it
It was really Altare’s fault though; he’s the one that sent them Google Calendar invites last week for “the great elysium mag off” after a groupwatch session of Bake Off. Apex was getting a little too heated so they had to turn to pastries to cool down. Sure. And mix a bunch of competitive guys together with a little insinuation that they’d burn down the kitchen by the end of the day and suddenly Bettel’s dragging him off to the Hakkafe to learn how to bake the best damn cookies in the world.
The Hakkafe… Mr. Perfect Husband Banzoin Hakka just so happened to host a weekly baking class and donated the profits to a new charity every month. Holy shit. Someone nerf this man before he ends up on the “Anything Goes” meta tier list of life. Did he lose his power limiter early on or something?
People have asked him to go to his classes before, sure, but now he really has no excuse to avoid it. Hell, even Shinri had asked him if he wanted to go once on an emptier night, but he felt too bad interrupting the flow of his work and he was a little too scared to learn more about this place. Shinri was the type of guy who wouldn't push nor make him explain himself so he let it be. He didn’t really need his help anyway. That man knew his way around a cake like no other. But nothing fuelled Bettel’s insistence more than the thought of winning this competition amongst their friends, and even though Flayon thought it wouldn’t be that hard anyway considering he’s never even seen Magni use his oven as anything other than a clock and a cabinet, he still agreed to come with him to balance out their skill levels.
So yeah, Friday night rolls around and here he is grabbing a red apron off a pile in the front and settling down in front of a table-turned-workbench while he waits for Bettel to arrive. Bettel’s the best person to do these things with at least, the kind of guy who won’t judge you for being shit at something new even if he could run circles around you. He’ll just crack a joke and mess around until you don’t feel so self conscious. Flayon always liked that about him. He makes things fun just by being around.
In three hours, they’re going to come out with the knowledge on how to make the best freaking cookies in the whole world. Probably. Or at least they’d be able to make something pretty decent, which would probably be good enough to win their competition.
He’s high off reading some recipes and probably a hundred hours of watching friendly posh people baking various treats so Flayon’s ready to bake his heart out! Or he would be, but can Bettel get here already because it’s hard to tie aprons securely when he usually doesn’t need them and he feels awkward standing around surrounded by groups of people who obviously know each other and he could really use the moral support right now. He liked cooking, but he could do without the audience. Bless his heart though, that must be Bettel now because someone grabs the loose strings hanging in a poor imitation of a knot by his sides and ties them snug against his back and he turns around ready to chastise him for almost being late and-
Oh.
That’s not Bettel.
Oh.
This must be Mr. Birbmaster Supremo Banzoin Hakka, if the pretty smile and the purple embroidered chef’s jacket is any indication. He’s so pretty. Wow. His hair is tied back (for sanitary reasons, his brain reminds him, but it also looks so good) and his eyes are so blue and wow. And his hands were warm as they left their position on his back to return back to his own sides. And he's just pretty, not just because of how he looks but more importantly because of how he carries himself, all composed yet relaxed. And did he mention his nice smile already?
“Thank you,” Flayon finally says, cheeks warming a bit in embarrassment, hoping he didn’t wait a beat too long and make things awkward.
Flayon tries to not be shallow, to not get hung up on people’s appearances too much, but this guy looks sweet as spun sugar. No wonder he ended up in the baking business.
And if his smile was good, his laugh is even better, a little huff of a thing that springs free and injects liquid energy straight into your veins. He wants to hear it in full, wants to be the one to draw it out of him. “Sorry if I startled you, I just thought maybe you’d like a hand. Should have asked beforehand, my bad.”
Sweet and knows boundaries? Ding ding ding, we have ourselves a winner here. Maximum Charisma points. Maximum Heartthrob points. Maximum Rizz. The Rizzler to end all Rizzlers.
“Don’t worry, I really appreciate it. Thanks Hakka,” he replies, glancing behind him to see Bettel finally scurry into the room, chest heaving a little as he catches his breath. Perfect timing.
Hakka seems to shine a little brighter as he walks his way up to the table in the front. Maybe he really is just a nice guy who owns a cafe, no Hamburglar-isms, no narcissist-grounded naming tendencies, just a little bird-loving smiley-eyed guy who wants to share things with the world around him.
Flayon ponders it a little until Bettel throws a bit of flour onto his shirt and suddenly he’s too caught up having fun fighting back to overthink about the meaning of purple bird lovers and whether or not it was weird to call him by his government name so much in his head before he even met the guy.
But for the record, it's not and he's not obsessed with him. He’ll make some cookies, learn some tricks, and make sure they win the Mag Off if it's the last thing he ever does.
-
“Bettel, do you remember the steps we talked about today?” he asks, running a rag around their station. He might have spaced out a little when Hakka brought out that cute little chicken timer. And then again when he was giggling about throwing a couple bad boys (read: cookies) into the oven.
Bettel was busy inspecting the tray of cookies before them, a little misshapen but still pretty good for a day’s work. “Dude, I’m pretty sure you’re getting more flour everywhere just by moving around the place.”
Okay. Fine. Maybe they went a little overboard with the flour earlier. As if the world can hear him, a little cloud of it flutters off from his hair the moment he looks down at the cutting board to their right.
“It’s still important to keep a clean bench!” Flayon yells back, breaking off part of a cookie to give it a try. It’s pretty good actually, has a nice crumb to it with a good balance between sweet and buttery. Seems like Mr. Master Baker Banzoin Hakka really knows his stuff.
“Room temperature butter,” he starts, walking through the steps in his mind. “Chill before you bake, a good base is important and the add-ins are optional as long as they’re not too watery or dry,” he continues, pacing back and forth behind Bettel.
Someone starts laughing near them and from the bright, punchy staccato that warms the air it seems like it might be the man of the hour himself. Shit.
“I can write a recipe down if you'd like,” Hakka says, staring at the avalanche of flour they gathered on their bench over the course of the last few hours. Oops. If he’s upset about the mess he doesn’t show it though. If anything he just seems amused by it all which is even worse. Why is he so cute?!
Flayon flips through the list of possible responses to that and sure, there are a lot. That would be great, a normal one. Don’t worry about it, we’re all good, the path of least resistance. I can think of other things I’d like, the worst of them all.
There’s a lot of things he could say but none of them feel quite right, the words feeling alien as they bounce around his mouth. He decides to just leave it to Bettel. Bettel’s done this dance before, he’d know what to do and how to cover for him when he needs it.
“Sure, that’d be sweet,” is what Bettel says, hearing all his silent pleas to answer for them.
Perfect. Now they can leave and beat Magni and he can be at peace with the knowledge that Hakka must really be running some magic business here with his infinite sweetness and-
“I’m Bettel, and this floury little guy over here is Flayon. Sorry about the mess,” he continues, grinding all thoughts of escape to a halt. Bettel is too nice sometimes. Curse him.
Hakka just laughs again and he twinkles like bells. Like actually, the world genuinely looks a little softer and fuzzier when he’s laughing and that must be its own kind of weird baking magic. Or maybe Flayon’s had too much sugar for the day or something and this absolute gem of a man is not helping things. He radiates sugar. He is sweetness incarnate. Any second now he's going to get a toothache just by looking at him and that'll suck because dental is expensive.
“No problem, bro. A little mess is just a part of the job, you just have to clean up regularly to make up for it,” he replies, hopping over to grab a piece of paper from the counter.
That’s a nice mindset to have about life.
And maybe, just maybe, the way that his heart stutters as Hakka grins and his eyes crinkle while he calls out “bye Flay” seals the deal. Attending one more class wouldn’t hurt, right? To win the bake off. Not to see him. He just needs time to freeze his traitorous heart first.
-
They almost win the bake off. Maybe they didn’t need the classes anyway, with Axel’s deceptively raw cake and Magni’s inability to even turn the oven on. Maybe befriending and inviting a literal baker to the party was not the best move to secure their victory. It was worth it though, having Hakka there, bringing him closer to their orbit.
So maybe he started spending more and more time in the Hakkafe. It had a comfy atmosphere and helped him focus on his work! If that’s a crime, then sue him! But actually please don’t because legal fees are expensive and Flayon would really rather not spend a few months arguing about the personal implications of spending more and more time in a specific place of business with a certain bird. Besides, he and Hakka were friends now so every dollar spent here was just another way to support his friend. They played a game of sniping free drinks and $20 tips to balance things out.
They’d go from chilling at the cafe to playing games at night after he closed and it was just really, really nice, okay? Sometimes they’d still bake together too: cakes and breads and other little things. Last week it was a batch of cupcakes to snack on before a binge of the Megaman series.
“I bought ice cream,” Hakka had said last time, holding out a black plastic bag that crinkled as he fumbled with his keys. “You can eat it when you’re happy and when you’re sad so it’s perfect for tonight.”
That night it was movie marathons, a weird combination of tragicomedies and hard hitting mindless action.
Flayon catches up from behind, bounding up the steps two at a time, knocking patterns on his door. He knows that Hakka loves cooking, but tonight was different. Tonight was about singing, about jamming out on stage with a bunch of other people who understood it all much better than he could. It wouldn’t stop him from trying though. It was a really good performance.
“But then you started screaming, and you were so cool. But it’s also familiar, you know, just an old bird learning new tricks. But you were really, really cool.” Flayon waves his arms around as if to emphasise his point.
Hakka laughs, voice still a little tousled at the edges, and he wants to bottle up that sound and keep it close forever. “Did I make your heart flutter?”
“Never,” Flayon jokes, rolling his eyes. “Narcissist. This is all I get for supporting your dreams? I want a refund.”
Hakka’s laugh dissolves into a faint smile until it wraps around him at the edges. It makes him feel safe.
"Hmm," Hakka starts up again, staring at the ingredients he's measured beforehand. Tonight is strawberries, plain cheesecake with strawberry syrup for Hakka’s portions to satisfy both their tastes. The living room looks like a disaster again, scarves and coats and blankets piled up for later, but what’s new?
He sits at the table, stacking and unstacking cups and spoons as Hakka grabs his sugar from the cabinet. One cup. One half. One quarter. He plays with the edges of one of them, cat-themed, a present from Christmas. Hakka gives him a thumbs up. Flayon grabs a strawberry from the plate and pops it into his mouth, a little treat for today. The first of many.
Hakka left to see his family earlier that week. Family. It’s nice, the kind of concept he enjoys when he frames it in just the right way. He sent him pictures, trees and meals and remnants of the home he carries inside his heart. Hakka brought him a flower pressed in a book saying it reminded him of him. It was nice. He kept taking pictures and updates of this one potted cactus and insisted on naming it Flayon. Because it was small and red and prickly.
And because it made him happy just like he did, Hakka said that too, but it was safer to ignore that part, to pretend that it was part of some fantasy tucked away in his heart. He realised a long time ago that love is not the solution to every problem.
Tonight’s movie isn’t a very good one, too close to home, makes him feel like the ends of a live wire. Or maybe it was the concert, the way that it reminded him of the dreams he pushed so hard to keep tight to his chest as his head fell underwater. Or maybe it was the cactus, another thing tucked away until it prodded into his bones. Maybe he was just hungry.
He stares at the cheesecake, slices left plainly on the counter. Plain, for him, because he likes it better that way. With strawberries on the side.
Kind, even when it’s out of his control, even when it’s not his burden to bear. That’s just the kind of guy Hakka is. Hakka’s mouth opens and Flayon’s name is all that tumbles out. It’s a graceful sound though, something floaty that flutters out with that underlying lull of tiredness that creeps in as the hours grow late. He’s soft and sleep-rumpled and everything feels a little rough around the edges, colours bleeding into each other, a little too much like the product of his dreams. Maybe he fell asleep at some point between Spider-Man 3 and reruns of Animal Planet.
Flayon doesn’t say anything, his arms slack beside him as if he’s unsure what to do with them, saddled with the burden of being here, of being alive. He doesn’t want to think about it. It feels weird.
Or maybe it's this: Hakka’s hand is warm and everpresent and impossible to ignore, hold loose enough that Flayon could easily slip his hand out of it if he wants to.
It burns worse, knowing he doesn’t.
-
hey altare, am I being a burden if I spend more than 48 hours at a friend’s house? not about you. just got home. gonna eat. gummies or smth nom nom nom
So one long phone call later and many assurances that no, most friends don’t plan to spend literal days together during the week every week but yes, Hakka is probably okay with it because he isn’t the kind of guy to mindlessly go along with things that he doesn’t like, Flayon started to think that maybe it was more than a little admiration crush.
He hates that it kind of makes sense, if he thinks about it too long. Which he does.
It’s not like loving Hakka was a bad thing. It came as natural as breathing and Hakka really was the best kind of man to be in love with, sweet and simple and playful, the kind of guy that just gets you. It was just another part of his daily routine. That wasn’t the problem. It’s just that sometimes a silly little admiration crush is supposed to stay within its drawn boundaries. It’s supposed to stay as that little tremor of extra excitement that underlies any interaction when they’re truly in their element, something safe and small that no one has to know about. It’s not supposed to develop into something more.
He doesn’t like being in love because it’s scary, because it makes him wonder how obvious he is. Sometimes he worries it’ll show too bright like a neon sign irrevocably flashing over his head saying “I am so hopelessly gone for this man” when he just wishes everyone would look away. Hakka is the best kind of guy to love but he doesn’t feel like the best kind of guy to love back. And that’s scary too, the thought that someone could know him so well, could get close enough to him to cut themselves on his jagged edges and still decide to stay all the while.
New feelings means creating new rules and every failure to follow them means potentially disrupting the Flayon-Hakka-bestie agenda which means potentially driving Hakka away. Most rules are meant to be broken, but when the alternative is losing Hakka there’s just no room for noncompliance.
I can keep living with this.
It’s cold, even though he’s huddled deep beneath his blankets, and the darkness warps the shadows into rigid shapes, into monsters that lurk beneath his eyelids.
It would usually be Hakka he turns to at a time like this, but he’s not sure what he’d say, afraid of the thoughts that simmer in his brain. Flayon feels like over-proofed dough, too full of gas, too fragile, exhausted, ready for the world to punch him down.
Someone please punch him down.
So instead, he calls Altare again, three rings, and lets the sound of his breathing ease him to sleep.
-
He knows it’s a dream when he looks up and sees the universe stretched out in front him, a whole sea of stars. They don’t make stars like this nowadays, at least not for him, not here, not in this world. Stars are for people in storybooks, people in quaint villages with big dreams and even bigger quests to overcome.
Sometimes Hakka is here in his dreams, and sometimes he’s not. His other friends visit too, Magni, Axel, all of them. Sometimes he’s alone, a lone child strung against the stars.
Last time Hakka was here, they just sat on the grass doodling patterns in the sky. It suited him, the moonlight, the way his smile burned against his eyes like a floodlight. And he’s always smiling in his dreams, happy in the way he should be all the time. Happy in the way he deserves.
Sometimes Flayon wonders if he’ll get smile lines when he’s older. They’d suit him.
Hakka turned to him, hair pooling around his head in waves of moonlight. He looked over for a second and the sight of his eyes knocked the breath from his chest. Dangerously sincere.
In his dreams sometimes he imagines it, plays with the idea in his mind as he shapes his own reality. Hakka is special. There’s no one quite like him. He could say that about a lot of people, but it’s different with him. Hakka is different from anyone he’s ever met and that fact alone consoles him. He was hand-shaped by the universe, the kind of person intrinsically baked with love.
“What changed here?” Flayon wants to ask, words never quite finding the courage to leave the nest. “What changes after we… y’know.”
Nothing, it seems like.
He’s never been able to protect anything he actually wants to keep.
It just gives them more time.
“But,” Hakka interrupts, as if he can hear the thoughts rumbling in his head, starlight marking him as one of their own, cocooning him in an ephemeral glow. “Isn’t it nice?”
I miss you, he thinks about saying, or maybe Why are you still here? But instead he says nothing, and the silence stretches between them like the sea of stars. Both real and unreal and utterly unnavigable.
Now he stares at the grass, at the spot where dream Hakka and dream Flayon created their own constellation, almost luminescent with the remnants of his incandescence. He wonders if he’s the only person that sees it, the way his feelings roll off his chest like waves.
Flayon gnaws on his words and tries desperately to digest them.
They never quite make it home.
-
The feeling of awe faded overtime, no longer flustered by the mixture of Hakka’s glowing charisma tempered by his dorky side. No, now instead it was warmth and affection spurred on by his unfortunate habit of being too cute and honest about how much he loves and respects his friends. Hakka never even tried to catch him off-guard, that’s just the kind of guy he was. That’s why he was the real Rizzmaster 3000 Bad Boy Supreme; it was just a natural part of him! It radiated off of him.
He was just such a good guy.
It was unfair.
Hakka was so sweet that it made him want to throttle him sometimes. They would have a battle of the ages: exorcist versus mecha pilot trading blows until suddenly a horde of enemies surround them and suddenly they’re fighting back to back covering each other’s blind spots as if they were born for it. That’s the kind of relationship he wanted with him, one where they could fight back to back for the rest of their lives.
“Dude, you don’t even like macarons! Just tell him already and-” Flayon yelped and slapped a hand over Bettel’s mouth.
Maybe he just wanted to spend a little more time with Hakka, okay? And sure he doesn’t like macarons but they’re hard to make and it’ll take a while to master them and it’s good to get out of your comfort zone sometimes! At least, when it comes to baking that is.
The day he confesses first is the day he dies.
He grumbles as he takes a sip of his drink, passing off half his brownie to Bettel. This is why he liked coming here with Shinri more. At least he saved the unnecessary teasing for when Hakka wasn’t within earshot.
“Aww Machi, you don’t like macarons? They’re just like you though! Soft and sweet and a little complex,” he coos, poking Flayon’s cheek. And when Flayon turns away, face suddenly a little hotter, Hakka just laughs and plops down next to him. He runs a spoon through his drink, watching the foam bob around like a kite in the wind.
Fuck. Hakka’s here and listening, because of course he is. He’s using that voice again too, the mushy “this is so cute” baby voice that’s usually reserved for their late night “I love you”s as they hang up the phone. It belongs there in that liminal space between night and dawn where he can pretend like the Hakka on the other end, the one who knows him better than anyone should, will never see the light of day. The thought bounces around his head a little (a lot) as he thinks about all the ways his secret could unravel. Flayon thought he was over the stage of hating things that are too much like himself. Also Hakka is cute. And he seems weirdly okay with his hatred of macarons. And he should be working right now. His brain was overloaded, firing on way too many cylinders to be healthy, both the self-image ones and the many, many Hakka-related ones.
“I like them a lot though,” Hakka continues, completely oblivious to the mental turmoil he put him under. “I think they’re very expressive and colourful and bright, the kind of little treat that can brighten someone’s day. They’re artistic and the people that really know them really like them a lot. It’s worth the effort to figure them out.”
If he was a lesser, more hopeful, more desperate man, he would take that as a confession. You can’t say something like that after comparing them together. You can’t. You just can’t. It’s illegal. His brain is still running 1000 miles a minute, running through every pre-made response he could possibly find to reply with so he doesn’t have to come up with his own. A movie quote? A thank you? Pretending it never happened? Ignoring it completely?
“I like you a lot,” is what escapes from his lips unbidden before he can finish processing, hummingbird heart still rattling around his body.
Shit.
Worst option.
Shouldn’t have even been an option.
Time to backpedal.
“Sorry, scratch that. I mean, what I meant to say is that I like your passion a lot, you know? Like that way that you put so much love into all your baking and like how you’ll spend so much time teaching me things even though I don’t know a lot and I know I can be hard to work with and I’m very particular and you’re just so patient and I really like that… and um... yeah!”
The words bump into each other as they sprint through his teeth, a messy tapestry of a thing, eager to get out and fix things. Because he can’t lose Hakka, can’t risk making him uncomfortable over something as silly as a macaron.
His cheeks feel burnt, hot in the way that only registers after you’ve processed everything and the sheer weight of embarrassment finally gets a chance to settle in. He’s the one under the broiler, left blistering in the oven too long. Fuck macarons. If he didn’t hate them before then he certainly hates them now. Sandwich cookies straight from hell itself.
Hakka looks dead serious, eyes sharpening as he fixes his eyes on him. They drift down to his cheeks and then back up to eyes, up and down in waves as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, shifting his weight back and forth as he purses his lips. He looks more troubled than Flayon’s ever seen him before. Stricken. Is this some kind of weird poetic justice or something? His friendship with Hakka, destined to start and end because of cookies. Great. Amazing. Wonderful.
Fucking macarons.
“Flay. I love cooking, but I do it with you because I love you. I like macarons because I love you. I’m always happy to see you because I love you.” A pause. Then Hakka grabs his hands and pulls them towards his heart. “I think I need to be really clear right now. I’ve felt this way for a long time. Romantically. Platonically. I love you a lot and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
And what else can he do but kiss him, something featherlight and delicate and overflowing with all the things he feels but cannot possibly say in reply.
“I love you too,” Flayon says at last. “I didn’t mean to say I didn’t.”
“I know,” Hakka tells him, voice warm and smooth like foamed milk. “I just wanted you to know. Wanted you to be sure.”
Of course he knows. Words are hard, but loving Hakka is easy, is something intrinsically embedded in everything he does. But there's a difference between knowing and knowing. It's not so scary though, cushioned by the way that nothing is quite as scary when Hakka is around.
Flayon knows that Bettel is still here, that somewhere in the haze beyond he’s probably cheering and putting them on blast for the others to see. But for now, there’s only Hakka and the warmth in his heart. He looks at Flayon, and Flayon looks back at him, and they stay like that for a very long time.