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Vegetta doesn’t like sweet things.
He’d rather have two helpings of the main course than dessert, and white chocolate makes him grit his teeth and wince from the sickly taste that leaves his tongue sticky. He never understood the hype over the types of bakeries that would brand themselves as selling diabetes on a plate, piling sugar higher and higher, more and more – he just doesn’t get it. The occasional biscuit with tea, fine – anything more, too much.
So.
Vegetta doesn’t like sweet things, which is why, when he walks into the quaint little bakery strung with Christmas lights in the middle of the evening on a street he doesn’t usually walk through, hoping they sell coffee, he is blindsided.
“Hey! Welcome to Fool’s Gold, where our treats are your treasure! My name is Foolish, and I’ll be helping you out today. What can I get ya?”
Vegetta blinks.
The man on the other side of the counter grins. He’s a little breathless, as if he’d ran to greet whichever customer walked through the door as soon as the bell rang, and there’s a smudge of – icing? Butter? Cream? – something on his cheek that he doesn’t seem to notice. A large, pink apron with white frilly edges is protecting his front from mess, and is at odds with the black, fitted t-shirt he’s wearing underneath. Vegetta tries not to notice the way the t-shirt shows off his muscled arms. He fails.
All in all, he’s – well, he’s staring at Vegetta with the brightest smile the man has ever seen, and it’s a little difficult to think in the face of something so sweet.
“Ah…” Vegetta begins bravely; the man – Foolish – is still grinning, as if Vegetta walking through the door was the best thing that could ever have happened at seven o’clock on a weekday evening. “I … a coffee, please.”
“Sure thing!” Chirps Foolish, so cheerily that Vegetta almost startles. “We’ve got your classic lattes, americanos, cappuccinos, espressos, mochas – then there’s our specialty iced coffees in a variety of flavours with all your favourite syrups to choose from; I can do you an Irish coffee, a flat white, a frappuccino, or if you’re feeling adventurous, I can whip you up our special house blend, which –”
“Just – normal,” Vegetta interjects, a little panicked. “Normal black coffee, please.”
Foolish pauses, smile slipping a notch for the first time. Then – “No problem! The most normal black coffee, coming up!”
Vegetta breathes a sigh of relief as Foolish turns away, and the weight of his gaze lifts. He feels strangely cold without it, but brushes the feeling away – the door must have opened a little in the winter wind, sending a draught through the shop. As he waits, the glass case before him catches his attention: inside are rows upon rows of sweets, cakes, cookies, pastries – all carefully placed with neat little labels detailing their name and ingredients in clear handwriting. The attention to detail is admirable, even if Vegetta feels a little sick just looking at all the sugar on display.
“Here ya go!” Foolish declares, placing a paper cup on the counter, hopefully containing some blissfully sugar-free coffee. “And what can I get you to go with that?”
Vegetta pauses, wallet halfway out of his pocket. “Hm? With it?”
“Yeah! To go with your coffee! You…” the other man falters for the second time, and Vegetta absently rubs at his chest. For some reason, he really doesn’t like the way it feels. “You’re not gonna try anything else?”
“Ah…” Vegetta hesitates, glancing over at the glass display. The pastries stare back menacingly. “No – no, thank you. Just the coffee, please.”
“Oh,” says Foolish, a shade dimmer than before – and then the bright smile is back like it never left, the shine of it almost causing Vegetta to stumble back a step. “Then I’ll ring you up now!”
A minute later, Vegetta is leaving the bakery, coffee clutched within his hands like a lifeline. That clear windchime voice and beaming smile flicker across his mind as the biting wind begins to eat into his skin, but, somehow, he feels strangely warm.
The next day, Vegetta returns.
He hadn’t meant to, honestly. Actually, he’d told himself he really didn’t want to return, because he’s an introvert at heart and that much cheeriness in a person really doesn’t do well with him, and it all just seems like a little much just for a coffee, but.
But.
“Hey! Welcome to Fool’s Gold, where our treats are your treasure! My name is Foolish, and I’ll be helping you out today! What can I get ya?”
“A black coffee, please,” Vegetta says, offering a small, stiff smile – one that feels woefully inadequate in the face of the one shining over the counter at him.
“Sure thing! Coming right up!”
Today, Foolish is wearing a light blue apron. It’s still frilly around the edges, and Vegetta wonders if he got it in a set – a different colour for each day of the week. The thought is oddly endearing, and Vegetta finds himself snorting quietly, the tiniest puff of air leaving his nose – before quickly straightening, hoping Foolish didn’t hear. He seems to be in luck, because the man on the other side of the counter shows no sign of noticing, walking back to Vegetta with sparkling eyes.
“Here ya go!” He says, and Vegetta almost reaches for the coffee cup before realising it’s still held within the other man’s grasp. Confused, he glances up, opening his mouth to ask what’s wrong, when – “And can I have a name for that coffee?”
“A name?” Vegetta asks, perplexed. A quick look around the small bakery shows that he’s the only one here – he had shown up late again, just like yesterday. But when he turns back to the other man, Foolish simply nods, looking expectant. “Ah – Vegetta.”
“Perfect,” Foolish says, voice infused with warmth, and Vegetta thinks he can feel it seeping into the skin of his cheeks, bringing a blush to the surface. “That’s V – E – G – E – T – A?”
“Two ‘T’s,” Vegetta corrects quietly as Foolish writes the name on the side of the cup. For some reason, the way his fingers curl around the pen catches his gaze, and he finds himself almost captivated, lost in thought as they move. Then Foolish is finished, holding the cup out with a grin, and Vegetta jolts.
“Thank y –”
“And what can I get you to go with that?”
“Go… with…?” Vegetta mumbles, trailing off. “Nothing, please. Just – the coffee. Thank you.”
This time, the smile doesn’t slip, but that same uncomfortable feeling within Vegetta’s chest returns as Foolish rings him up. Is it just him, or is the other man’s tone a shade dimmer than usual? Surely he’s overthinking, and he tells himself as much as he leaves the shop, one coffee and zero pastries richer.
The next day is the same – but different.
When Vegetta enters the bakery, it seems to have undergone a transformation: there’s a Christmas wreath on the door, and inside, decorative foliage dotted with pinecones and red berries line the walls. Nobody stands at the counter when Vegetta approaches it, so he takes the time to inspect the glass display: everything is now Christmas themed. There’s cookies with white ‘snow’ icing, eclairs designed to look like a chimney for Santa to climb down, pastries in the shape of presents and sweet pies decorated with little fondant eyes and carrot noses, like snowmen. Of course, there’s gingerbread men and Christmas pudding and Yule logs and mince pies, and – well, even though absolutely none of it looks enticing, Vegetta can’t help but admire the work that Foolish clearly puts into it all.
The thought of the other man makes Vegetta look around – where is he? Usually he rushes from some back room to the counter as soon as the bell on the door rings – but there’s no sign of him. Then – tilting his head to the side, Vegetta listens… and, yes, there – there’s faint music coming from a door he now spots behind the counter. It’s getting louder, and as he watches, the door bursts open, the very man he’s been missing spilling through.
“What a bright time, it’s the right time to rock the night away!” Foolish croons, holding what looks like an entire pie high over his head, oven gloves still on. His apron is a pale purple this time, and Vegetta privately delights in the knowledge that his previous guess was likely correct – Foolish really does have a different colour for each day of the week.
“Jingle bell time is a swell time – badum ba – to go glidin’ in a one-horse – FUCK!”
“A one-horse what?” Vegetta can’t help but ask as Foolish startles so violently upon finally spotting him that he almost drops the pie, thankfully managing to place it down on a nearby counter before it goes crashing to the floor. The sight of him is – well, it’s something, with the way he’s scrambling out of the oven gloves, face flushed from the heat of the kitchen or, perhaps, embarrassment at being caught belting out the lyrics to Jingle Bell Rock in front of a customer. As usual, his face is smudged with something – Vegetta thinks it might be icing sugar this time, but he’s no expert – and he frantically dusts his hands off on the front of his apron, likely getting them even more dirty from the amount of ingredients that stain it already.
“Uh – hey! You’re Fool’s Gold, where I’m a treat, and you’ve got treasure! My name’s Foolish, and I’ll be taking you out today – helping! I’ll be helping you. Today, I’ll be…” Seemingly giving up, Foolish trails off, and Vegetta simply cannot hold it anymore – he bursts out laughing, hand shooting outwards to brace himself on the counter. He thinks he hears the other man mumble a faint but emphatic “fuck,” as he nervously runs a hand through his hair, smudging it with white powder – yeah, that’s definitely icing sugar – and it only makes Vegetta laugh harder, stomach aching with it. It’s as a small, embarrassed smile begins to grow on Foolish’s lips and he lets out a quiet giggle of his own that the thought crosses Vegetta’s mind: this is a much, much better way to spend his evening than at home, alone, lights dim, television low in the background just for the sake of it.
“Um,” Foolish manages eventually, scratching at the back of his head. It draws attention to his arms, the way they’re unintentionally being accented by the cut of his t-shirt, and the sight of it causes the laughter to stumble within Vegetta’s throat; he clears it, finally quieting. “Sorry. That was – I, uh, didn’t hear the bell, since I was…”
“Singing?” Vegetta guesses, and Foolish shrugs, as if to say well, what can you do? His nervousness, so at odds with the confident smile he’s sported for the past two days, is undoubtedly endearing, as is the way pink tinges his cheeks still, embarrassment clearly lingering. Vegetta finds himself wanting to reassure him; let him know that – yes, it was absolutely hilarious, but please don’t be embarrassed; actually, please feel free to do it again – because hearing the sweet, carefree lilt of Foolish’s voice is the most cheerful Vegetta has felt this Christmas season, and he really wouldn’t mind being greeted by it every day.
Wait –
What?
Vegetta shakes his head, hopefully dislodging those strange thoughts in the process. “Black coffee, please,” he says, hoping to bring this interaction back on track – back to something usual; expected; something he can control. Foolish nods – and then hesitates, glancing backwards, before looking back at Vegetta, seemingly nervous all of a sudden, and Vegetta tenses, suddenly anticipating.
“Do you wanna, um…” Foolish begins, uncharacteristically quiet. “I tried out this new pie recipe? It’s apple and cinnamon, but I changed the ratios of sugar in the pastry because I wasn’t really happy with it before, so I… I mean, it’s not going out on sale just yet since this is my first time making it with the new recipe, and I can’t eat all of it myself, so you could… maybe? Try some? Now? With me?”
When Foolish finishes speaking, his cheeks are redder than before, and he’s shuffling on his feet – Vegetta doesn’t think he realises he’s doing it, but he’s restlessly edging back and forth while he speaks, eyes darting about the room, landing anywhere but Vegetta. And – oh. Vegetta feels his heart sink a little, letting his gaze slide over to where the pie sits innocently on the counter behind Foolish. Honestly, it looks perfect. Anyone with any hint of a sweet tooth would probably love to have been offered some; would jump at the chance. Vegetta, on the other hand…
“Oh, I don’t…”
“Free of charge! I wouldn’t charge you, of course. I mean, you’re doing me a favour, letting me know what you think,” Foolish chuckles hastily, hands waving in front of him. Vegetta deflates. That aching feeling in his chest is back, seeing Foolish, for some reason, so nervous to ask this – he clearly really cares about Vegetta’s opinion on his pie – and knowing he’s going to turn him down.
“I…” Vegetta starts, watching the way Foolish’s eyes widen a fraction, large with hope. “…No, thank you. I – it looks very good, but pies are… not my favourite. Sorry. Just the coffee, please.”
Foolish visibly deflates.
And then he’s perking up again, just as he always does, ringing Vegetta up without a protest. Vegetta watches him work, ignores the ache behind his ribcage, and wonders what it would have been like if he had accepted Foolish’s offer.
A few minutes later, as he goes to step through the door, coffee in hand, Foolish speaks.
“So, what is your favourite?”
Vegetta turns, confused. Foolish looks back at him from behind the counter, something strangely determined in his eyes.
“Like, your favourite – pie, pastry, whatever,” Foolish clarifies. “What is it?”
“Ah…” huffs Vegetta, feeling a little awkward. “I don’t really… have a favourite.”
Foolish narrows his eyes, and all at once Vegetta feels trapped, frozen within his gaze. Then – the feeling disappears as Foolish grins once more and bids him goodbye with a cheery wave. Vegetta steps out into the cold a little confused – but a lot warm, at least, where the coffee cup touches his hands, and somewhere beneath his skin, too, tentatively making its way deeper.
It turns out that Foolish has taken his words as a challenge, and Vegetta finds this out the next day.
“Hey, Vegetta! Cheesecake?”
“Qu– what?” Vegetta stutters, so startled at abruptly being addressed by his name, sans Foolish’s usual professional greeting, that he almost answers in Spanish. Foolish simply grins, holding out a little plate with a beautifully prepared slice of cheesecake, little chunks of crumbled biscuit on top and a swirl of chocolate sauce at the side.
(His apron is green today).
“Cheesecake!” Foolish explains helpfully. “Want some?”
“N – no, thank you, I – coffee, please. Black.”
Foolish’s grin slips. He narrows his eyes, just as he had the day before as Vegetta left, and he looks so comically suspicious that Vegetta can’t help but let out a short breath of laughter. In response, Foolish cracks, grinning back – and there’s something different about it, this time, something a little less I’m a customer service professional and I have to be happy all the time because my income depends on it and a little more I am a person, you are a person, and you made me smile.
It's… sweet.
“Alright, fine,” is what Foolish says finally, placing the slice of cheesecake down on the counter between them. “Just this once, you’ll get your coffee.”
“You gave me coffee yesterday, and the two days before that,” Vegetta rebuts amusedly, Foolish waving him away with an airy “details,” as he goes to make the coffee.
In the next few days, it becomes clear to Vegetta that Foolish is on a mission. He barely lets Vegetta step through the doorway before brandishing some sort of dessert at him – and the worst part of it is, they all look good. Vegetta can tell, without shadow of a doubt, even without tasting any of them, that if he liked sweet things he would be having the absolute time of his life consuming all this sugar – Foolish is clearly an incredible baker, and everything he presents is so neatly put-together, with sauces dripping artfully down the side of every slice of cake and icing spread perfectly over every biscuit; sprigs of edible foliage beside glittering-sugar pastries and crumbs spread deliberately over plates of shortbread, somehow managing to look classy. If Vegetta had a sweet tooth, he’d be living his best life. If…
“Just black coffee, Foolish. Thank you,” he says through an apologetic smile for the fifth day in a row, and Foolish, having graduated from narrowed eyes to increasingly dramatic displays of defeat, drops a plate filled with a beautiful arrangement of miniature macarons with a clatter (thankfully only an inch from the counter – the plate survives) and groans, clutching at his chest as if shot, disappearing from view as he collapses to the floor in a heap.
“Foolish,” Vegetta chides through barely contained laughter. A hand appears, clutching at the countertop, and then Foolish follows, pulling himself upright in a fashion not dissimilar to the way one might drag themselves from the depths of hell. He mutters a pained: “I’m fine, I’m good, don’t worry about it, it’s all just dandy –” before staggering away to make Vegetta’s coffee. Shaking his head, Vegetta wonders where he gets the energy for it all – not just the dramatics, but the baking: he claims to make each dish especially for Vegetta each day, on top of all of the ones for the shop, and it makes something very, very pleased wind around itself within Vegetta’s chest, tittering happily.
He only wishes he could actually eat any of it.
“One boring – uh, black coffee for Vegetta,” Foolish calls in what Vegetta assumes is his best bored-out-of-his-mind, droning customer service voice. Vegetta rolls his eyes, stifling a laugh. He reaches for the cup – which Foolish holds onto, opting to pass it over the counter instead of place it there for Vegetta to pick up, and their fingers brush as he does. Foolish’s skin is warm, a contrast to Vegetta’s, still chilly from the outside air.
Vegetta clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says, offering a smile, a small repayment for everything Foolish has made him so far, but the only one he has. Foolish accepts it, readily giving one in return, brighter, sweeter.
Vegetta leaves the bakery feeling warm, and wishing he’d stayed longer.
The next time Vegetta walks through the door, there is a child sitting on the counter.
Or – not a child, but a teenager, Vegetta realises as he slowly moves closer, cautious. Foolish is nowhere to be seen, which is strange – but then something registers, something that was missing as Vegetta entered the little bakery, and he looks upwards to find that the bell that usually alerts Foolish to new customers is gone. Confused, he turns back to the child – teenager, still sitting atop the counter, staring right at him.
“Hello,” he tries, nervous. The teen blinks. They’re chewing gum, and as Vegetta watches, they blow a large, pink bubble, letting it pop and sucking it back into their mouth before replying.
“Hi,” they say simply. Vegetta swallows, moving closer to the counter and trying to subtly lean around the teen, a corner of the door to the kitchen creeping into view as he does. It’s closed, no sign of Foolish, so Vegetta focussed back on the situation in front of him: the teen, still staring at him, still popping bubbles. They’re wearing a red cap, backwards on their head, hair dark and messy beneath it. A large red and green Christmas jumper hangs off their frame, dropping down to their knees, and Vegetta wonders where on earth they got something so clearly not their size. The way they are staring at Vegetta is not intimidating, exactly; more searching – but it does set Vegetta’s nerves on edge, to be looked at so intensely.
“Are you looking for my dad?” The teen asks, and Vegetta jolts.
“Your… dad?” He asks, confused. Why would be he looking for this kid’s dad? He doesn’t even know them. Are they lost? “I’m sorry, I don’t…”
“You know, the baker. The one who owns this bakery. My dad. Are you looking for him?”
Vegetta’s stomach drops.
“Your…”
Oh. Oh, of course. Of course – Foolish has a child, a family – how could he not? He’s a successful baker, so adept at his craft, and he’s clearly got the good looks and personality to find a partner, given how charming he is, effortlessly drawing people in with just a smile – of course. Only – why does this realisation feel like a rock has settled deep in Vegetta’s gut, weighing him down until he finds himself sinking through the floor, breathless with it? He wants to leave, he realises, confused with the intensity of the feeling – why does it feel so awful? – he wants to turn around and walk right back through the door; doesn’t want to see Foolish’s face again, knowing that he’ll never get a chance to –
“Are you crying?”
“What?” Vegetta jumps, hand flying up to prod beneath his eyes – then stops, realising he’s been caught. A person who isn’t upset would not have to check if they are crying. The kid simply pops a bubble, raising their eyebrows as Vegetta slowly lowers his hand again.
He sighs.
“I… didn’t know Foolish had a child,” he says quietly, the heavy feeling within his stomach slowly melting into something like defeat, instead of sharp, painful shock, swift enough to take his breath away. The child in question is watching him intently, carefully, as if taking in every tiny action and reaction he makes. It’s unnerving to be regarded so closely, and Vegetta clears his throat, looking around again – still no sign of Foolish. Maybe he can make a run for it now, before he appears? Then he won’t have to see his face and remember that he’s… unavailable.
Not that that’s a problem. Not that Vegetta cares about that at all.
“Hey, Leo?”
Never mind.
Foolish’s voice is muffled, but clearly his, sounding from behind the door that Vegetta assumes leads to the kitchen – the one that Foolish had stumbled from behind that day before, singing loudly. The kid on the counter perks up at the sound of it, twisting around, eyes brightening as they turn from mildly suspicious to eager, and – oh, that is sweet, Vegetta thinks, despite everything. They clearly love their dad a lot, to visibly light up so much at just two words from him.
“Yeah, Pa?” Leo yells back, making Vegetta jump a little.
When Foolish responds this time, his voice is a little louder, like he’s moving closer. “Have you seen my sweater? The Christmas one. I was gonna change into it before – well, I was gonna change into it now, but I can’t find it. Did you move it – oh, shit!”
Not for the first time, Foolish pushes through the door behind the counter and breaks off what he’s saying upon spotting Vegetta there. This time, though, he isn’t singing loudly and carrying an apple and cinnamon pie – no, this time, he’s clothed only from the waist down, top half bare, light purple apron in hand and bunched up into his fist where he’s carrying it. Immediately, Vegetta feels blood rush to his face, averting his eyes as quickly as possible – but not before the sight of Foolish’s bare chest imprints itself into his mind permanently, and – holy fuck, why does a baker need to have abs? Foolish, for his part, is frozen, cheeks red himself, glancing back and forth between the kid – Leo – and Vegetta, seemingly torn between sorting out the current situation and being curious towards whatever conversation happened between the two while he wasn’t here.
Eventually, he opts for – “Leo, why would you not warn me that V– that someone else is here?”
Leo shrugs, popping a bubble. “How was I supposed to know you’d walk out here like that?”
“You – how did I not –” Scrambling for words, Foolish’s eyes dart about – over to where the bell should be above the door. “Did you steal my bell?”
“Well, if you heard him coming in, I wouldn’t be able to talk to him before you came out here, would I?” Leo says simply, as if it makes any sense at all – as if Vegetta entering the bakery is something that Foolish’s child specifically planned for. Surprisingly, Foolish seems to understand whatever sentiment is being communicated here, and flushes redder, mouth gaping around words he’s clearly too baffled to form. After a few seconds of stunned, indignant silence, he manages –
“What did you say to him?” – a hissed whisper, as if Vegetta can’t hear him despite standing only a few metres away.
Leo shrugs again. “Nothing too much. Just that you’re my dad.”
There’s quiet as Foolish seems to assess whether or not Leo is being sincere. Vegetta stands awkwardly, trying his absolute hardest not to let his eyes drift to Foolish’s bare skin – and, well, he only fails once or twice or five times, but surely nobody notices.
“Fine,” Foolish says eventually, seeming to conclude that Leo is telling the truth. “That’s fine, that’s. Okay. That’s – are you wearing my sweater?”
Leo pops another bubble.
“Okay, whatever,” Foolish sighs, running a hand through his hair. And then, to Vegetta’s utter dismay, he unravels the apron from his hand, loops it over his head and swiftly ties the strings behind his back, leaving still far too much skin on display. The apron only covers the middle of his chest, arms, shoulders, and sides still very much visible, and Vegetta finds himself opening his mouth to protest – but what would he say? Please go and put a t-shirt on, your bare chest is very distracting – no, of course not, that would be entirely inappropriate to say to a taken – possibly married – man. So Vegetta keeps his mouth shut as Foolish hurries back through the door, and appears again only a second later, this time holding a plate with several small, heart-shaped… things on top, brown and biscuit-like.
Vegetta squints. “Are those –”
“Mantecados!” Foolish declares, holding the plate out like a child proudly showing their parent what they drew at school that day. “They’re – well, I guess you may already know, but the internet told me they were a popular Spanish dessert around Christmas time. I didn’t mean to – uh, assume, but from your accent and that one time I swear you almost said qué instead of what I guessed that you’re, maybe – maybe you’re Spanish? Or, maybe you’re not and I just got that completely wrong, but, uh, anyway, hopefully you’re tempted to try these even if you’re… not. Sorry, was it rude to assume? Is this weird? I just thought it’d be nice to –”
“It is, it is nice, Foolish, it’s –” Vegetta cuts himself off, holding back an incredulous laugh, because did Foolish really look up Spanish desserts just so that he could make them for Vegetta? “It’s very sweet of you. And – yes, I am Spanish, you guessed right.”
“Yes!” Foolish cheers, pumping his fist, eyes gleaming. Vegetta can’t help but laugh, so, so endeared. “So do you wanna try it?”
Ah.
Vegetta’s smile fades. “I…”
His voice trails off, Foolish’s hopeful smile sending that now-familiar ache, sudden and painful, lancing straight through his chest. He imagines accepting, finally, taking a bite and feeling the sharp sweetness on his tongue, grimacing through a swallow and mustering a grateful smile – and, that’s the thing, even if Vegetta does accept, he’s a terrible actor. He wouldn’t be able to hide how much he doesn’t like it, and that would be far worse than not accepting at all – Foolish thinking that his creation is bad, just because Vegetta doesn’t like it.
“Foolish, I’m sorry,” Vegetta says, and abruptly the counter is full of a large, groaning man as Foolish sprawls over it, fake-sobbing. Vegetta chokes, because now the muscles of Foolish’s back are right there, bare skin petering down into the waistband of his trousers – holy shit, his waist – and it’s all he can do to blink hard and avert his gaze. Unfortunately, this brings him face to face with Leo, who’s staring at him with narrowed eyes.
He gulps.
“No, no, it’s fine, of course,” Foolish is saying, a little muffled as he picks himself up off the counter. “It’s totally fine, I’ll just… keep trying…”
“You really don’t have to, Foolish,” Vegetta protests, a little desperately. “It’s just… not my taste. I feel bad that you did all this…”
“Hey – no, wait,” Foolish interjects, a hint of seriousness colouring his tone. “I’m doing this because I want to. I like a challenge.” He grins, then, eyes glinting, and it’s so wickedly attractive that Vegetta feels a little weak, gripping the counter to keep himself upright. “I will find out what you like eventually, Vegetta!”
You, Vegetta thinks, abruptly, with so much force he’s shocked he didn’t say it out loud. I like you.
And that’s –
That’s –
Fuck.
“Mine now,” Leo declares, reaching between them and scooping up the plate of mantecados, interrupting the minor crisis Vegetta feels brewing. Only – where he expects to feel panic, there’s only a heavy sort of defeat, as if this is something he’s known for far longer than he likes to think. He likes Foolish, the man with the bright smile and shining eyes, who sings when he thinks nobody is listening and has a different coloured frilly apron for each day of the week; who makes dessert after dessert specially for the quiet, introverted man who only comes into the bakery after everyone else has left and asks for black coffee –
Who is so, so sweet, and everything that Vegetta cannot want.
“Yeah, whatever, pipsqueak,” Foolish jokes, earning himself a quick jab on the arm from Leo, which prompts giggles and grins from the both of them. Leo makes their way to the door Foolish came from earlier, but not before darting forward and squeezing their father in a short but firm hug. Foolish drops an affectionate kiss atop their head, and it makes Vegetta’s heart squeeze with fondness and sorrow alike. He’s a great dad, that much is clear already, and probably a great partner too, to whoever is waiting for him at home.
Foolish turns back from watching Leo disappear through the door, remnants of a father’s loving smile still visible on his face. “So,” he says, fingers tapping absently on the counter. “Black coffee?”
It’s only after Foolish hands over the coffee and Vegetta is taking his leave that the question is asked, tone nervous and a little quieter than usual, causing Vegetta to turn, one foot out of the door.
“She didn’t… say anything weird to you, did she?”
Vegetta pauses. “Weird?”
“Like…” Foolish fidgets, blush inexplicably forming on his cheeks, avoiding Vegetta’s eyes. “Like, anything. Anything other than that I’m her dad.”
Confused, Vegetta thinks, but – no, all Leo had said was hello, and asked if he was looking for her dad. “No, nothing,” he tells Foolish, and the other man seems to deflate a little, relief clear in his expression.
“Oh, good. Right, okay. Great. Well, I’ll see ya when I see ya, Vegetta!”
And with that, Vegetta turns, after a goodbye of his own, still a little confused but, at least, warmed by the coffee cup between his palms.
Vegetta doesn’t get coffee the next day.
It’s Christmas Eve, and he avoids the street that Fool’s Gold sits upon, just so he won’t have to see the way the lights twinkle comfortingly outside the windows, sending glittering warmth over the desserts on display. He doesn’t want to look inside, searching for the outline of the one man he wants more than anything to see – would he be waiting for him, dessert ready, hopefully staring at the door? Would he be relieved that Vegetta never comes, becoming tired of this routine they’ve got themselves into? Would he sit past closing time, waiting and waiting and waiting, only to realise that it’s all for nothing?
No.
No, surely not. He’d probably go home early, glad to have an excuse, greeting his partner warmly at the door with a kiss.
Vegetta tries not to think about it.
On Christmas Day, Vegetta can’t help himself.
Luckily, he isn’t alone – he’s spending the evening with his nephew, Roier, and his husband, Cellbit – they’ve invited him to their home out of what Vegetta is pretty sure is pity, seeing as Roier knows for a fact that Vegetta wouldn’t be doing anything else with his time if not for the invitation, but – well, Vegetta will take it. Coincidentally, Vegetta’s place is on the way home from Roier’s workplace, so he offers to pick him up, and Vegetta finds himself absently tapping at his nephew’s elbow as they approach a familiar street.
“Turn in here,” he tells Roier, earning himself a confused glance.
“But it’s straight ahead.”
“Just – turn,” Vegetta insists, a little desperate, as they approach the turning – and Roier regards him with furrowed brows, still clearly confused, but makes the turn.
Vegetta directs Roier to pull in a few buildings down from Fool’s Gold, for some reason feeling on edge at the thought of Foolish watching him arrive. He mumbles a short “be back in a moment,” to Roier, ignoring his bemused protests, gets out of the car, and makes the short walk towards the bakery.
Just as he steps towards the door, it opens.
“Hey,” says Leo, stepping outside. She’s chewing again, and Vegetta finds himself distinctly intimidated by the noise of a bubble popping, reminded of slow, judgemental stares and narrowed eyes.
He swallows. “Hello, Leo.”
“We’re closed,” is all Leo says, then, leaning against the wall beside the door and tapping on a tiny piece of paper pinned there – opening and closing times for the week, 8:00 AM to 6:00 PM on weekdays. Vegetta squints, getting closer – surely he’s misreading it – but, no, there it is, clear as day. He thinks back to that first day he stepped inside, definitely later than 6:00 PM, and the way Foolish had been standing there, customer-ready, beaming smile showing no sign of confusion at the sight of a customer walking inside after closing time. And then – every day after that, same time, same order – same bright eyes waiting for him to enter.
“But…” Vegetta starts, but Leo interjects before he can finish the half-formed thought.
“The first day, he was open. Stayed late to get the Christmas stock all ready, decided he might as well keep the shop open for customers ‘cause he thought nobody would come in that late anyway. But every day after that – closed. Or, he should’ve been.”
Stayed late… thought nobody would come… closed, every day after…
“If not for you.”
“If not… for me?” Vegetta asks slowly, still trying to make sense of what Leo is telling him.
The kid steps closer, arms folded, eyes determined. “He stays, every day, more than an hour later than he should, waiting for you to come.”
“Why?” Vegetta whispers, feeling a little like the gears within his brain have stuttered to a halt, clinking noisily against each other as they try desperately to get moving again, attempts fruitless. He knows he probably looks stupid, staring at Leo open-mouthed as he tries to figure out exactly what she’s telling him, but she only stares back, quiet.
Then –
“Go inside and find out,” she says, nodding to the door. Vegetta follows her gesture, and – there, inside, he sees the outline of Foolish, already waiting at the counter. He hasn’t seemed to notice them yet, but he looks different somehow; Vegetta squints, trying to figure out what’s changed through the slightly blurry glass of the door –
“Go on,” Leo insists, stepping aside deliberately, and if Vegetta wasn’t so caught up on not tripping as he walks through the doorway, head still spinning, he might have noticed the small, secret smile playing at the edges of her lips.
When Vegetta steps inside, he realises what’s different.
“Hey! Welcome to Fool’s Gold, where our treats are your treasure! My name is Foolish, and I’ll be helping you out today. What can I get ya?”
The greeting startles Vegetta for a second, taking him right back to the first time they met, but it doesn’t distract him enough to pull his attention from the way a smooth, silk red shirt drapes itself over Foolish’s frame, dipping low at the front and tapering down to hide within the waistband of sleek, black trousers. The sleeves are rolled up and held just below the elbow, and Vegetta can’t help but admire the way the red sits pleasantly alongside the thin gold necklace that Foolish is wearing, as well as the matching earrings that dangle when he turns his head. The whole ensemble almost brings Vegetta to a halt, but he pushes forward, finding himself at the counter without really realising how he got there, those very same bright eyes that he was captured by the first time he stepped foot inside this little bakery staring back at him.
“Hello, Foolish,” he says, finally, and the mock-customer service smile that Foolish had been sporting melts into something kinder, and warmer, and far more familiar.
“Hey, Vegetta,” he greets, a shade quieter than usual. Something within his expression confuses Vegetta – is he nervous? – but he dismisses it; there is nothing for Foolish to be nervous about here, with him.
“You look…” Vegetta begins, then trails off, realising that whatever he’s about to say might be entirely inappropriate given that he now knows that Foolish is off the market – he’s probably dressed like this in preparation to go home and see his partner. “Nice,” he opts for, although something like wonderful gorgeous beautiful perfect would have felt much more at home falling off his tongue.
Either way, Foolish’s grin widens. “Really? I mean, thanks,” he says, a little breathlessly, although Vegetta can’t fathom why. Then, so quickly Vegetta blinks, startled, he spins around and grabs a plate from behind the glass display, placing it between them on the counter. It’s a slice of cake, dark, with thick, almost-black sauce oozing artfully down the sides, cherries arranged neatly atop it. It looks rich, and just the right amount of moist, and there are two forks at its side, resting atop the plate.
“Foolish –”
“Dark chocolate. Sour cherry liqueur. Fresh cherries on top. Whipped, unsweetened cream,” Foolish rattles off quickly, as if trying to finish before Vegetta can pass judgement. “You’ve said no to everything I’ve tried so far, so I took a shot in the dark and went for something completely different. It’s… really not sweet at all, actually,” he huffs, laughing quietly as if embarrassed. Something rises within Vegetta’s throat – some sort of emotion, one he isn’t sure he’s ever felt before. It’s like affection and gratefulness and sorrow all at once; like falling in love and feeling like he doesn’t deserve it, both at the same time. He realises that it’s because of this – because, despite everything, despite failing so many times, Foolish hasn’t decided that, actually, Vegetta is far too much work, and he’d be better off trying this with someone else. Instead, he’s stayed.
Vegetta doesn’t remember the last time someone stayed.
“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” Foolish is saying, avoiding his eyes, cheeks pink. “I’m fully prepared for that, so – I won’t be upset, I promise. I just… since it’s Christmas, I thought that maybe you’d like to –”
“Vegetta, what the hell is taking so long?”
Vegetta jumps, the noise of the bell combined with Roier’s loud exclamation startling him. It seems Foolish jumps too, because the noise of a fork clattering against a plate rings through the room. Roier makes his way over, and when he reaches Vegetta, he drapes himself across the older man’s shoulders, groaning dramatically into his neck.
“You’ve been gone so long, where have you been, you said you’d only be a moment but it’s been years –”
“Roier, it has not been years,” Vegetta mutters, rolling his eyes, used to his nephew’s dramatics. However, he can’t help the small, fond smile that tugs at his mouth – he loves this boy, no matter how much of a nuisance he is. Glancing up, Vegetta intends to make apologetic eye contact with Foolish, but the other man isn’t looking at him – actually, he isn’t next to the counter at all anymore, instead standing somewhere to the right, the tall glass display partly blocking his face as he messes with something behind it.
“How much longer are you gonna be?” Roier whines, giving Vegetta no time to be confused about Foolish’s actions. With a short huff of exasperated laughter, Vegetta tells him that he won’t be long, and bodily shoves him away – but not after the boy manages to plant an obnoxiously loud kiss atop Vegetta’s cheek.
The bell jingles as he leaves the bakery, and Vegetta sees him hurry away, cold no doubt nipping at his heels as he makes his way to the car. A fond smile settles on Vegetta’s face.
“Sorry about that,” he tells Foolish, turning back to the other man – just in time to watch him carefully lift the slice of cake from the plate and place it inside what must be a to-go box. Something seems a little different than before, and it takes Vegetta a moment to place it – there’s only one fork on the plate now, where before Vegetta had been sure there was two.
“Merry Christmas, Vegetta,” Foolish says quietly, handing over the box. “Try it for me, yeah?”
Vegetta frowns. Standing in front of him now, Foolish seems muted; greyed, compared with his brightness not one minute ago, before Roier appeared. He’s avoiding Vegetta’s eyes, focussing on the counter between them, only flicking upwards for a fraction of a second to offer a half-smile, a weak imitation of the sweet grin Vegetta is used to, and something about it has Vegetta opening his mouth, leaning forward, as if his body is straining to comfort, to make things right – but how can he, when he has no idea what’s wrong?
“Foolish… are you –”
“Merry Christmas, Vegetta,” Foolish says again, firmly, and Vegetta is intelligent enough to see it for the dismissal it is.
So, he leaves.
“Merry Christmas, Foolish,” he offers, one foot out the door, cold air already creeping across his body, taking over the warmth of inside. “I’ll try it. I promise.”
Foolish nods, that same, tight smile so out of place on his face, and Vegetta steps outside.
In the car, he’s quiet.
“What the hell took you so long?” Roier complains, glancing over inquisitively when Vegetta doesn’t answer. “Vegetta?”
Vegetta shrugs. The box sits atop his lap, hands folded protectively over it, as if it holds a little of Foolish himself inside. Roier drops the topic, chattering about something unrelated that happened today, and Vegetta is grateful.
When they arrive home, Vegetta beelines for the kitchen.
“Hey, where are you – ooh, what’s that?” Roier asks, finally spotting the box Vegetta holds. He reaches out for it, and, without thinking, Vegetta tugs it away, scowling. The intensity of the reaction hits him not a moment later and he feels himself turning red, Roier raising an eyebrow at him incredulously across the kitchen table.
“What the hell, Vegetta? You don’t even like desserts,” he laughs.
“Well, this one is mine,” Vegetta responds haughtily, turning to reach into a kitchen drawer and pull out a fork.
Roier seems unconvinced. “Okay…” he says slowly. “Well, I’m gonna go pull Cellbo away from his work so he can actually be a normal person and enjoy himself. You have fun with your cake!”
With that, he leaves, and Vegetta can hear his footsteps as he darts up the stairs, no doubt intending to burst into Cellbit’s study and give him a minor heart attack. And then – it’s just Vegetta, alone, his final boss staring up at him intimidatingly from the kitchen table.
“Here we go,” he mutters to himself, and opens the box.
It looks just as it did at the bakery, innocently perfect, so carefully put together by a clearly loving hand.
Vegetta holds tightly onto his fork.
Then – he reaches down, sinks the prongs into the end of the slice, bringing it up to his mouth, and closes his lips around it, allowing the fork to slide out, leaving the mouthful of cake atop his tongue.
He braces himself.
It’s…
It’s…
It’s good.
It’s dark chocolate as Foolish said, with none of the sickly sweetness of milk. The sour cherry liqueur comes through nicely, not too much or too little, perfectly balanced with the bitterness of the chocolate. The whipped cream on top saves it from being just too sour or too bitter, but isn’t too sweet itself, and when Vegetta picks one of the cherries off to bite into it and add to the flavour, the unprocessed, fresh taste of it brings all the others together in a neat little package, bow tied perfectly on top.
It's really good.
“What the…” Vegetta mutters to himself, swallowing the mouthful. It’s delicious, but so very clearly not something that would usually be sold in a bakery, flavours not nearly sweet enough. Vegetta imagines Foolish poring over recipes, figuring out the perfect ratios of ingredients to make a cake like this that actually works, just for Vegetta, and that feeling from before is back; the one that reminds him of how Foolish has stayed, despite everything, and all of a sudden –
Vegetta has to go.
“Roier, I might be back,” Vegetta says as he walks swiftly past Roier, who has reappeared outside the kitchen doorway with a sleepy-looking Cellbit in tow.
“Might be? What – where are you going?” Roier asks, bemused, and Vegetta feels bad enough about walking out on Christmas day (but not that bad; Roier still has Cellbit) that he stops just long enough to turn and tell him “don’t wait up for me,” before speeding out the door.
He realises as he half-walks, half-runs down the path that he’ll either have to steal Roier’s car or make his way to the bakery on foot, and – well, he’s not that much of an asshole, so he takes off running, preparing to sprint the whole way – before spotting a taxi making its slow way down the street, clearly searching for business.
“Christmas miracle,” Vegetta mutters to himself gratefully, waving it down.
The drive isn’t far, and within the next ten minutes, they’re making their way down the street that Fool’s Gold resides upon.
“Here is fine,” Vegetta says, practically throwing a handful of bills at the driver – Merry Christmas, he thinks, watching their eyes widen – and throwing the door open, hurrying down the path towards that familiar doorway, watching it approach, and realising –
The lights are off. Inside, it’s dark.
Fool’s Gold is closed.
Vegetta’s heart drops.
Then –
“No, Leo, it’s fine. I’m fine,” says Foolish, stepping out of the door. He’s wearing a coat, now, over his red shirt, and holding a phone in one hand and a bunch of keys in the other, and he hasn’t spotted Vegetta – facing the other way, he fiddles with the keys, slotting one into the keyhole and turning. “Look, I got the wrong idea, it happens. It’s not like… I should’ve known, when he kept turning me down, honestly.”
Vegetta tilts his head, listening. He feels a little bad for eavesdropping on Foolish’s conversation when he doesn’t know he’s here, but there’s something about Foolish’s voice that stops him in his tracks. It’s bright, on the surface; anyone listening with half an ear wouldn’t think twice, accepting the sugary coating for what it is – or what it appears to be – but there’s something deeper, a bitter layer hidden beneath the frosting, a darker, muted flavour. It settles uncomfortably on Vegetta’s tongue, and for once, he finds himself wishing for something sweeter to taste, if only he could see it reflected on Foolish’s face once again.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll be home soon, don’t worry. Love you, Leo. Bye.”
With that, Foolish hangs up the phone, still facing the door of the bakery. He stays for a moment, standing there, as if collecting himself. A sigh lifts his shoulders, loud in the still, biting winter air – and then he turns, suddenly, Vegetta startling as he remembers he hasn’t announced himself yet –
“Oh, shit!” Foolish yelps, jumping backwards as the sight of Vegetta standing behind him sends him leaping backwards into the door.
“Sorry, sorry!” Vegetta says hastily, hands waving in front of him. Foolish is leaning against the glass of the door, hand pressed against his chest, and Vegetta finds it within himself to be amused that this is the third time he’s startled Foolish into swearing, even as the sound of his voice, muted and low, lingers at the front of his mind. “I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s fine,” Foolish shakes his head, breath still a little fast. There’s a pause, where neither say anything, and the only sound is faint, muffled chatter, as if nearby there’s some sort of gathering – a pub, perhaps, full of people celebrating the holidays. Then – “Why… why are you here?”
Vegetta opens his mouth – then stops. Why is he here? Embarrassment creeps up on him as he realises that he really doesn’t have a reason. He’d tasted the cake Foolish made him and been overcome with some sort of need to – to tell him, to thank him, to let him know that after all the effort he’s put into making something for Vegetta, it finally paid off. To make sure he understands how grateful Vegetta is. To tell him, since it’s Christmas, and Vegetta has nothing to lose, that…
“I liked the cake,” Vegetta says quickly, to stop himself from saying anything else – anything worse. For a moment, Foolish’s expression stays confused, stuck like a scratched record, but then surprise dawns, melting after a moment into – into some sort of happiness; not the bright, shining joy that Vegetta is used to on Foolish’s face, but it’s something, at least.
Foolish steps away from the door, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Really? You’re not just saying that because it’s Christmas?”
Vegetta laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. “No. No, I wouldn’t come all the way back here just to lie to you about liking it. I… I really, really liked it.”
And then – Foolish laughs too, a quiet huff of breath coupled with a ducked head, like he’s trying to hide how pleased he really is. He shuffles on the spot, toe hitting the pavement before kicking out a little, movements stiff in a deliberately contained sort of way, and Vegetta can’t help but smile – it’s as if Foolish is holding himself back from doing some sort of victorious little dance. The idea of it is so Foolish that Vegetta finds himself wanting to move closer, place a hand on the other man’s arm and tell him go ahead, I won’t judge you, I’ll like anything you do – but then he remembers. He remembers that there’s someone at home, waiting for Foolish to arrive, greeting him with a kiss and dinner on the table, and that someone is not Vegetta.
His smile fades.
“Good, that’s good, that’s – that’s awesome,” Foolish is saying, chewing on his lip between words, smile threatening to break free. “That’s cool. Like, in a normal way. Like, a normal amount of cool. I’m cool about it. Um.”
He breaks himself off with another laugh, and affection swells so hard within Vegetta’s chest that he almost chokes with it; almost brings his hands to his throat in panic as it becomes constricted, breathing stoppered by the sheer force of how much he wants to scream I like you, I like you, I like you so much I bleed with it; how much he wants to gather up all of the shining pieces of Foolish’s sweet-edged brightness and put them back together once more, because he deserves to be all of himself and nothing less, not something dampened; not something smaller and muted. The immensity of it almost crushes him, and that’s when he realises –
“I have to go,” he chokes out, and Foolish’s smile slips. “Thank you, Foolish, for the cake. And – everything. Merry Christmas. I – I have to go.”
With that, he turns, knowing that if he walks away now, the last time he ever saw Foolish will forever be when he was shining a little dimmer than usual.
He takes a step.
“Was that your boyfriend?”
Vegetta freezes. Turns, just a fraction. “What?”
“You know, earlier, when you – when you came into the shop and I was about to – I mean, he came in and, like, hugged you. That guy. He was your boyfriend, right?”
Reeling from the abrupt change within his mind from splintering loss to sudden confusion, Vegetta can only furrow his brow, answering slowly. “…No, that – Roier? He’s my nephew.”
There’s silence, and when Vegetta finds it within himself to turn back fully, Foolish is gaping, eyes wide, cheeks pink.
“…Oh.”
Vegetta steps closer, mind a stuck record, desperately trying to get back in motion – but something is stopping it, some piece of the puzzle still missing, leaving room only for confusion. “Foolish? Did you –”
“So you’re single? You’re not with anyone?” Foolish blurts, just loud enough that Vegetta startles slightly.
“…Yes…?” Answers Vegetta slowly, so, completely lost on where this conversation is going. Why on earth would Foolish need to know if he’s single? The other man seems to be struggling for words, lips moving where no sound is escaping, and Vegetta tilts his head, trying to make sense of the situation –
“I was going to ask you to eat it with me, in the bakery, earlier,” Foolish says, all at once, the words whooshing out of him like a waterfall, crashing in waves at Vegetta’s feet. “I – I had it all set up. Nice music, I bought candles, I – I hate dark chocolate, but I would’ve eaten it with you. I even dressed up all nice,” he laughs, quiet and a little embarrassed. “I thought, since it’s Christmas, might as well shoot my shot, right? But then – that guy, your nephew, came in, and I… fuck, it’s so dumb, I thought…”
And Vegetta – Vegetta is frozen. Somehow, this conversation makes even less sense than it did thirty seconds ago, because – would’ve eaten it with you, dressed up all nice, shoot my shot – there’s no way Foolish is implying what it seems like he’s implying, because – because he has a partner and a child and he’s unavailable, off the market, there’s no way, there’s no way –
“Foolish,” Vegetta whispers, faint.
“Vegetta,” Foolish mumbles, cheeks still flushed from embarrassment or, perhaps, the way the cold nips at his skin, turning the tip of his nose red. “I like you so much.”
And then, he steps forward, erasing the space between them, takes Vegetta’s cold face between warm hands, and kisses him.
It’s bliss, for a moment. It’s eager but somehow still hesitant lips; it’s large hands, gentle on wind-chilled skin; it’s Foolish, kissing him, holding him like he’s something so, so precious –
And then it’s Vegetta’s hand on Foolish’s chest, pushing him away.
The stricken look on Foolish’s face almost makes Vegetta break.
“Fuck – sorry, I didn’t mean –”
“Your partner?” Vegetta asks, quick, breathless. He has to knows this; has to get this out of the way before he allows himself to crack open, letting everything he kept close and secret inside spill out into Foolish’s hands, his to keep. “You don’t – have a partner? Wife? Husband?”
Foolish’s expression turns from upset to confused in a second. “I – no? It’s just me and Leo at home, uh. Has been for a while.”
It takes a moment for the words to settle in, sleet melting into warm skin, but then it does, and it’s relief, tumbling from Vegetta in a long, heavy sigh.
“Good,” is all he can manage before moving forward again and moulding himself to Foolish in a way he has wanted to for a long time; longer than he’s been able to admit to himself. Foolish accepts him gratefully, and this time it’s Vegetta’s hands on his face and Foolish’s hands winding around Vegetta’s waist, arms crushing him against Foolish’s body in way that almost punches the breath from his own – but it’s okay, because Foolish stole his breath away a long time ago, if only something freely given can be stolen.
“You taste like cake,” Foolish giggles, bubbles of joy against Vegetta’s lips. He’s lovely, so lovely in his laughter, and Vegetta can’t help but nip at his bottom lip in an effort to make him smile again, to hear that laugh again, and again, and again – and it works, joy spilling out readily, scattering between them and filling in the spaces between their bodies, making them whole, together.
It's strange – as they stand there, December air frosting the pavement below them, Vegetta feels strangely warm. It’s not a new feeling, he realises: it’s always been there, ever since the first day he walked into Fool’s Gold bakery and left confused, cradling that little pocket of refuge from the winter wind between chilly hands. It swells now, encasing him, all of him, and as Vegetta pulls back from another soft, honey-slow kiss, he thinks that he knows where it’s coming from. Foolish looks back at him, eyes glittering, smile a crackling fire thawing ice walked in on hardened boots after a workday, and –
And if this is what sweet looks like, then Vegetta thinks that, maybe, it could be a taste he learns to love.