Work Text:
When Laurent arrives at Makoto's apartment, the front entrance has already been unlocked.
That is, apparently, a good thing—the sound of ear-splitting smoke detector beeps and Makoto's frenzied swears coming from behind a locked door might have been some cause for alarm.
Laurent calmly steps inside the dwelling, closing the door behind himself and then locking it. Low, he murmurs, “Happy holidays, soybean.”
A huff of frustration comes from within the kitchen, followed up with absolutely no verbal indication that Makoto is even aware that his invited guest has arrived. The boy really is struggling, isn't he?
Laurent decides to take pity. He tucks his luggage into the nearest corner and removes his tan suede coat and black leather gloves, hanging the pricey coat with care upon a designated hook.
Before he even reaches the kitchen, Laurent is subjected to the ruckus of a large metal pan clattering against more metal, followed by a forceful stream of water running. Laurent watches in awe as a thick, large, dark cloud of smoke erupts into the ceiling before dispersing throughout the entire apartment. The smoke detectors are positively blaring.
And yet, all of this chaos and strife pales in comparison to the sight for sore eyes that is Makoto Edamura, donning a fluffy white apron over his red sweater and khaki pants.
Well, mostly fluffy and white, as Makoto has been making his most valiant attempt at cooking for quite a while, it seems.
“Oh, my. I never pegged you for a sexy apron type, Edamame—very good to know.”
Makoto jumps about half of a foot into the air. “Jesus, Laurent! You scared the shit out of me!”
The brunet huffs, his objective being to fan away some of the smoke with a potholder in each hand as he proceeds to tell Laurent off. “Look, I have no fucking clue what you just said, but it sounded a whole hell of a lot like you not helping in any way and instead choosing, yet again, to be a major pain in my ass. Now, can you please do me a favor and open up some windows?”
Oh, isn’t Makoto just the same as always. With an amused smirk, Laurent rolls up his sleeves and complies. “Anything else you need me to do, chef?”
Makoto’s voice is a beautiful mixture of embitterment, humiliation, and quiet rage when he replies, “Go order a pizza or something. I burned the bird.”
“OMG this,” Makoto hiccups, “this right here is my favorite part of the whooooole movie. It's just. Wow.” Makoto mimics the sound of an explosion, making a mind blown motion with a hand at either side of his head. “Hey, are– are you even paying attention, Laurent?”
Laurent has been watching something for the past forty-five minutes or so, but it definitely isn't a television screen. “Of course, darling, of course. At any rate, haven't you had a tad too much eggnog to drink? I'm concerned, to be quite honest.”
“Bull shit!” Makoto retorts, cheeks flushed, “You're pretty fuckin’ drunk yourself.” And then the boy actually smirks, eyes lidded smugly, as if he has just caught the world’s biggest thief and liar red-handed.
Laurent is drowning in the cuteness.
“I'm very sorry to break it to you, my oh so green bean, but tipsy and drunk are two completely different things. I am the former, while you are most certainly the latter.”
“Yeah?” Makoto squints, leaning in close—so close, in fact, that Laurent can smell the cheap booze lingering on the boy’s breath. “What’cha gonna do about it, Laurent?”
The movie has been all but forgotten by the blond—it's a mere drone in the background, to be quite honest.
Laurent scoots just a teensy bit down the couch, more than a little desperate to return an appropriate amount of space between his face and Makoto's. He finds himself a bit at a loss for words.
Lucky for Laurent's pride, Makoto does not seem to notice the situation he has unwittingly created; the man is now fully locked into some insane car chase on-screen.
How is he still so engrossed with these things? Laurent wonders, crinkling his nose. Does Makoto not realize that he's already lived through something quite similar? Perhaps there is some sort of an ironic appeal to it that is sure to be lost on an old man like Laurent.
The doorbell rings, then, like a merciful friend. “I'll get it, chéri,” Laurent smiles. “You stay right there and enjoy your movie.”
“Ughhhhhhh whatever,” Makoto agrees, mid-swig from his fourth or fifth glass of alcohol-laced raw egg milk.
When Laurent opens the door, he expects to see a sad pizza delivery man or woman deserving of a $500 tip, not an overtly pregamed Cynthia, giggling like a schoolgirl and surging through the doorway boasting two armfuls of gorgeous, ornately wrapped gifts.
Abigail trails close behind, bearing no gifts—instead, she holds a crockpot tightly underneath one arm, and two large paper grocery bags in the crook of her other arm.
Abbie sniffs the air, “It stinks like smoke in here. Couldn't either of you himbos figure out how to open a window?” She unceremoniously dumps the bags and crockpot on top of Makoto's kitchen table and begins searching for someplace to plug in the pot.
“The hell?” Makoto jumps up from the couch, livid and swaying like a drunkard standing upright in a canoe. “I'll have you know we opened multiple windows, how dare you tell me my house stinks!” Makoto and Abbie instantly start bickering.
Cynthia must have caught sight of the stunned expression on Laurent's face. “Aww, did you think you were the only one our sweet little boy wanted to enjoy the holidays with?”
Laurent closes his eyes and smiles, quick to settle into character. “But of course not.”
Cynthia giggles, not fooled in the slightest. “Whatever you say, Mister. Mm, and it looks like you finally got him nice and drunk, too. You know, Abbie and I can pretend we forgot something else at home, if you'd like.”
“Such crude and baseless accusations,” Laurent holds a hand to his heart, feigning offense. “Edamame simply enjoys getting plastered on Christmas, is all—and watching Die Hot, apparently.” He nods his head toward the TV, where the movie is now playing unattended.
Makoto shrieks in the distance, “I can hear you two over there talking shit about me! Die Hot is totally a Christmas movie, you uncultured swine just couldn't hope to understand the level of nuance in a million years!”
“Shut up,” Abigail grits her teeth, stirring something in the crockpot and standing about two feet away from the screamer. “God, you're so loud.”
Without another word to Cynthia, Laurent moves to Makoto's side to quell the younger man’s concerns—and, just like that, Cynthia is left standing alone, shaking her head. Boys really are dumb. “Ooh, eggnog!”
“Help yourself,” a queasy-sounding Makoto offers, “I– I think I might have made too much.”
END