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The first thought that crossed Flayon’s mind when he stepped in the door, and he's not even ashamed to admit it, was that he should have brought the burnt muffins instead.
He should have brought the burnt muffins or the soggy macarons or absolutely anything else because it’s not worth wasting nice ones on people like him. He even brought the blueberry ones he’d been saving for himself, each dome decorated with neat little mounds of streusel and sugar.
When his sister told him about the friendly owner of the cutesy café around the block, he was expecting anyone else. She liked him well enough, and perhaps more importantly, she kept telling Flayon about how she thought they’d get on well. He had no issues with spearheading the partnership either, it would be better to have creative control over whatever he bakes after all, but now that he sees his potential partner-in-the-making, he’s suddenly not feeling that excited.
He was not expecting fucking Banzoin Hakka to make it out the city and all the way out here. Why isn't he strung out in the back of some fancier restaurant chopping carrots or whatever the fuck it was he did every day? Flayon came here to be with his sister, but he has no such excuses.
Hakka is as infuriating as ever, too. He even has the audacity to grin when he spots Flayon coming through the door. Only the central lights are on and it casts him in an unfairly bright glow. Does he fancy himself to be an angel or something?
“Flayon!” Hakka shouts, beckoning him behind the counter. “Glad you could make it!”
His café is beautiful in its quaintness. There are hand drawn pictures lining chalkboard menus and plants hugging the walls. The yellowing lights make everything look even softer and gentler. It’s not an elegant space, but it’s warm and cosy and a mug of cinnamon tea would probably make it even warmer and cosier.
It's a nice thought to linger on, but then Flayon remembers that he’s supposed to be mad, so he makes sure to frown extra deeply when he hands over the tin of muffins. It’s supposed to be a sign of goodwill, so he can't exactly un-bring them, but he certainly doesn't have to look happy about doing it.
“Charmed,” he says, feeling anything but.
Blueberries are his favourite fruit and it’s a shame to waste them in enemy territory.
Hakka does not lose his smile. He never seems to when they’re together. Instead, he just accepts the tin with both hands, tossing out an offhanded compliment about how Flayon was always so good at baking, and he's generally so nice and accommodating that it would make a lesser man swoon and possibly even consider making amends.
Flayon refuses to be that lesser man though. He’s certainly not going to break his petty vow of enmity just because Hakka approaches with a morsel of kindness the second they reunite.
He’s not a duck or a dog or the kind of animal that grows to love you just because you approach with a kind heart.
When Hakka takes him to the back, pulling out a chair so they can jot down some ideas, he sits briefly with a heavy heart before casting it aside to get to work. Flayon is a consummate professional, after all, and has trained under infinitely worse conditions than this.
He can survive at least one meeting with the likes of him.
-
The second semi-permanent job Flayon got after culinary school was a blitzing gig as the pâtissier at Elysium. He barely expected to make it through the year, and was even considering grovelling and going back home if necessary, but they opened up a vacancy around the same time he was made redundant at his old gig, so he accepted the role with barely concealed gratitude. It is there that he first met Hakka, senior to him by a scant few months.
He did not notice him at all at first.
No, Flayon was grateful when he joined but already slightly tired and jaded, so his primary concern was continuing along the path that had been beaten into him: emulating perfection and exposing no weakness. He spent all his energy on consistency and efficiency, weaving around with compotes and curds consuming the bulk of his thoughts.
He cannot let this be a repeat of last time.
X, they would all call him, not because of his middle name, but because the chef de cuisine refused to see him as anything better than a destined failure. He would unleash cutting words about the barely inconsistent crumb of his cakes or slightly weepy meringues, dissecting it all and relishing at any flaws he unearthed. They were not weepy, just decorated with sugar like fallen rain, but he would hear none of it and toss them all out, barking orders to do it again and to do it right. Freedom and avant garde ideas are for loons, and they are known for their classics, so he should just do it right from the first cut. If not, he deserves no place in their kitchen.
It was like living through all those years with his parents all over again. They spent too many years disparaging his choice to not get a ‘real job’ before cutting him out entirely.
Elysium was not like that though, a dash more relaxed and a pinch more welcoming. They even let him do some minor recipe testing once he’s gotten in the groove of things, so once he has their staples down pat, he was more than a little excited to try something new.
Perhaps it was his pride or his overconfidence and joy at gaining a modicum of trust or whatever the fuck you want to call it, but the little voice in his head refused to do anything but make soufflés, so make soufflés he did.
The eggs are whipping and there are no lumps in his boiulle and they even have a few vanilla beans to spare, so he uses one with unbridled joy. And god, he’s been fighting against this particular oven for weeks, so Flayon now knows exactly where the heat is the most even and just how long it should run before it’s consistent enough to barely fluctuate. He places his ramekins in just the right spot and everything is going to be fucking amazing and he’ll finally create something that earns him the praise he’s been refused for the last couple years.
That is the grand plan anyway, already about 70% to completion, when he starts cleaning up his station. There’s a moment where he leaves to tidy the pantry since he’s also supposed to do family today and when he comes back there’s a sheepish boy by his oven.
He looks guilty too. That’s the worst part. Flayon vaguely recognises him, but he’s not focused on that. When he peers at the oven, a minute left on his stalled timer, he can see his soufflés already deflating.
And Flayon is not upset when he rushes in to take a closer look. Upset is nowhere near a strong enough word to describe exactly how he felt.
They were inevitably going to collapse anyway, victim to time and space as the hot air escaped, but he wanted to be the one in control of the moment it started. Hakka the fucking vegetable guy who shouldn’t be anywhere near him just snatched that sacred moment with his carrot laden hands.
That is the first time he notices him as anything more than a part of the wheeled machine that is their kitchen.
It gets worse before it gets better.
Flayon cannot ruminate in his devastation quite yet because he needs to focus on family. He cannot afford two failures in one day.
He draws together odds and ends, spare ends of bread from test batches and ingredients they’ve yet to use up from their last menu change, and creates something that’s good enough. He is happy with it, even, which is a monumental feat after his struggle today. It looks good. It smells better, which is good because smell informs so much of your taste.
Everyone is gathered around and they certainly don’t look like they’re about to spit in his face, metaphorically or otherwise, so he feels redeemed enough. There’s faint laughter floating around, mixed sweetly against the ring of metal and ceramic, and everything is golden around him.
Then suddenly there’s a bit of a laughing shout as Hakka pulls up with little cups of coffee to accompany their breakfast-adjacent treats and the gold splinters into cubes of pyrite. Everyone fucking loves it. They’re uproariously happy, passing crusts and sipping their drinks and it’s worse than being insulted.
Is it not enough to ruin his day once?
It’s basically Hakka telling him directly that his judgement and taste was lacking and something was missing and now, once he had brought it out, everyone could finally be properly satisfied.
He was pretty sure it was clear on his face exactly how he felt, but no one dared to mention it.
And of course, because he can never catch a break, by the next week news had already vaguely spread about his failed test batch of soufflés. He supposes that he never made it much of a secret, but he didn't want to be turned into gossip.
The saucier is the one they elect to talk to him, describing the ways that such a dessert isn’t feasible for their kitchen and pace at the moment. There are logistical issues, the fact that each needs to be cooked to order and it’s hard to stagger and they’re so delicate. Flayon knew this. He knew it all, but that does not make it any easier. The criticism comes before the praise (they loved it, supposedly, from the bits that they tried and he’s got a brilliant mind for ideation) and the bitter taste of rejection coats his tongue until all of the praise just bounces off in an instant.
He could tell he was trying to be gentle, but gentle doesn't help when he’s already upset. It’s like trying to fight erosion by glueing together a million grains of sand. It’s just not going to work.
Then, of course, he touches on the subject of family meal.
He can’t even be upset about it. That’s the worst part. Everyone loves Hakka here. He just has this magnetism and ease which Flayon envies. And okay, maybe he did nothing wrong, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be upset. It’s not illegal to have feelings.
His feelings are not the most important thing though, so when the saucier tells him gently that Hakka likes him a lot and meant no slight by his actions during family, all Flayon can do is nod and acknowledge it, stewing in his annoyance all the while.
He notices Hakka a lot more after that.
He cannot help but notice him, in fact. Every single day he’s there somewhere, always so nice and sweet, but Flayon is determined to hate him.
It is then that he decides to make an enemy out of him, even though Hakka never really reciprocated.
-
Sometimes he feels slightly justified in hating Hakka.
He is just so stubborn about a few things, insistent they have a real partnership instead of merely one in name where they ship off pre-made staples to each other’s shops. Flayon wanted to see him as little as possible, so he’s a little eager to take the shot at never meeting again, but Hakka rebuffed him so easily with smile after smile after smile.
It would be easier if he got upset too, if he started shouting at Flayon and shutting him down, but he doesn’t do anything of the sort. It’s like he’s incapable of it, so smooth and gentle around every word.
Hakka argued that it wouldn’t be a real partnership if they did that, and although Flayon agreed, he could not help but feel a little disappointed.
So much for the easy way out.
He asks so many questions too. It’s just so grating, his voice on a constant loop as he picks out these little things that he likes or finds particularly amusing. Hakka holds out a jar of cinnamon, talking about how much he remembered Flayon liking it, how he once dumped tablespoons instead of teaspoons into a dish and how Flayon was the only one who really enjoyed it.
“We should use it somehow.” Hakka quickly added it to the list of potentials then underlined it twice.
Flayon burns scarlet. It’s embarrassing enough that he chooses to run his mouth and say shit like that, but they haven’t seen each other for so long. How can he still remember?
It’s touching too, but he refuses to let himself be fooled by his consideration.
Flayon tosses his ideas in the mix too, more practical and prudent. Maybe they should focus on one type of product, a bread or a cake or something simple. Does he have any specialties? Coffee desserts are a little overplayed, but maybe an earl grey cookie reminiscent of a London fog could be nice.
“What about something spicy? We should think outside the norm a little.”
Hakka’s mouth flattens a bit. “You know I hate that stuff.”
He does. The only time they ever met outside of the restaurant, Flayon took their little group out to eat hot wings, forgetting that their tolerances may vary. Hakka was first silent then loud, heat coming out of his ears.
“Yeah, well this is a business, so it doesn't really matter what you or I like.”
He should not have gotten so worked up about the stupid cinnamon. Retaliation is for children.
There is a momentary lull between them and feeling awkward and slightly remorseful, Flayon admits that it's better for them both if they can both develop recipes.
“How about this?” Hakka’s pulling out a couple peaches from the pantry. “We could do seasonal stuff too.”
“Might be a bit gimmicky. We’d have to do it right.”
Flayon’s pen runs out of ink and Hakka leans forward with his hand out. He leans and Flayon instinctively holds his breath, seized by the question of what he could possibly want. It’s quite hot in the room, actually, though he hadn’t noticed before. Flayon’s tongue laps against dry lips and Hakka swallows a huge gulp of air, eyes dipping down for a moment. There’s a pause before Hakka grabs it from the spot on the table where Flayon haphazardly threw it, trying to shake it and get it working again.
It doesn’t help.
They made a game of it though. For each repeated or implausible suggestion, they rotate who gets the privilege of, and thus control over, holding the pen.
Flayon snatches it gleefully when Hakka forgets they already talked about corn-based desserts half an hour ago.
Hakka grins when he regains possession, taking the time to draw a series of smiley faces on their bulleted list. He’s childish and quick to act and loud and sharp as a tack and full of patience and great ideas and it’s one big messy cocktail that’s easier to spit out and brush off as something he hates.
He tries to send Flayon back with a bag of coffee, but he swiftly refuses, already guilty for taking so long that he made them both dinner.
When he finally came back, his sister reassured him a little, acknowledging his dislike without calling it irrational, which is more slack than he got from most people that knew them both.
He stopped her before she could suggest pulling out of the agreement, though. He wasn’t going to hurt her business just because he can’t get over himself. He’s not so uncomfortable around Hakka that he can’t bear the thought of going back.
It was a little fun too, admittedly. Maybe not fun enough to form a friendship on, but fun enough that he could endure it however long it took. Fun enough to make it bearable.
So Flayon spends a couple days like that, angry and confused and trapped by his side.
-
The day before Hakka submitted his two weeks notice at Elysium, he had come up to him without any typical greeting or message in tow.
Flayon was still busy scrubbing caramel and stray bits of sugar from his station, feeling a little pissed at the unwelcome interruption and the way he just stood there, looming. It messes with his flow. He doesn’t like being watched.
“Please leave.”
Hakka grabbed a sponge instead. “Hey Flay, what would you do if you had a dream?”
“I don’t know. Wake the fuck up maybe? You seem like the type that would follow it though, so go do that instead of screwing up my cleaning.”
Hakka’s fingers curl gently as they pick up his tools. He has such long, artful fingers working so quickly. He makes short work of it and it’s infuriating.
Hakka lingers though, spending a few extra seconds compared to usual. His shoulders sag a bit as he leans against the counter. He clearly has more he wants to say, so maybe some semblance of honesty will be enough to get it through his thick head.
It’s different from his usual face. Usually he asks Flayon for help he clearly doesn't need for some inane reason. Then Flayon would help, sure, but he’d be snippy about it the whole time.
Today is not one of those days.
“Look,” Flayon said, pointing a soapy finger at his chest. “You’re great at all this stuff here, but if it’s not for you, then go for what you really do like. You’re hardy. You’ll be fine.”
It didn’t matter what it was, astronaut, idol, whatever. Hakka could probably do it. There’s this annoyingly tenacious side of him and he can never quite find it in himself to give up, always trying again and again. That’s what made him a real bother.
“You really think so?”
Flayon nodded before turning back to his routine.
In truth, Hakka was a regular fixture near him, so he put everything back exactly where it should go. They worked steadily around each other, hands and feet never colliding. He did not want to admit that it was sweet of him to care, too ingrained in the pattern of swatting away all niceties. They spent more time together than he could really fathom, even sitting beside each other when they took their meals.
The thing is Hakka never left Flayon alone because he was always on his mind if not by his person and it was terrible.
But then he quit before Flayon did without even elaborating, leaving no traces behind. Suddenly he had to do everything alone again which, yes, was his preference, but was also a bit foreign.
That was another reason he hated him, one he refused to confront for the longest time.
He did imagine what he would say to him if they ever met again, but didn't really expect to. What could he even say?
A year has passed and I still hate you. Soon, it will be two.
He wanted to know back then, curiosity burning red hot, why his opinion seemed to matter so much yet so little. Why he bothered to ask if he was going to do fuck all about it anyway.
Nothing stings worse than the infinite fall after getting your hopes up.
-
Their sessions get slowly more and more productive, switching from words on paper to drawings and real plans until they’re both holed up by the oven, testing out various things to see what actually works with the ingredients they have.
The thing about Hakka, though, is nothing is quite so simple with him. Walking down to the shops takes hours because he has to linger at every passing stall, making warm conversation and promises to meet with every shop owner at this party or that game night. He fits in like he’s lived here his entire life and carries each of their stories in a neat little knapsack right beside their berries.
Once they’re finally back, they can open the fridge and check on their doughs. It’s one thing if it works in small batches and entirely a different beast to worry about scaling it up.
They do their research too, poring over inventory and what’s most popular with each of their respective customer bases. Maybe something that fills each other’s gaps could be good. Maybe something that combines them could be better.
Hakka is not a bad partner to have, actually, and the more he finds himself thinking that, the more he realises that he could at least be civil. There’s no need to make everything into a fight or a competition just because fighting is easier than being vulnerable and spilling messy truths he loathes the idea of cleaning.
It should feel stranger, perhaps, working together in an unfamiliar kitchen, but they had done it for years with a whole host more people, so this much is easy enough to handle. There is more than enough space and they never get close enough to step on each other’s toes.
Sometimes Hakka makes a joke that he wants to laugh at, but he doesn’t know what to do with that swirling feeling, so he just tells him to shut up instead, tossing a spare stick of butter in his direction.
Nothing is simple when they’re together.
He leans a little too far to the right as he stumbles in the door and Hakka has no choice but to slide his arm against his waist to brace him lest he falls completely on his face. It is undeservedly kind of him. He has always been like this and Flayon has always exploded like roiling bubbles of oil and he knows deep down that it’s terribly unfair.
He has never ever tried to tamp it down, so Hakka often got the worst of it.
“Sorry for being so short with you,” Flayon grinds out, carefully extracting himself and trudging towards the back. “Now and back then, too.”
A good partnership should begin on solid ground. He has never been skilled at any subtlety that did not extend to flavours, voice always a little loud and strength a little high. He knew that Hakka was no stranger to his ire and yet still refused to hold it against him, which is more than he truly deserved.
“Why apologise now?”
Hakka has always loved asking questions, so curious about the world. Even back when they were both at Elysium, he would ask questions whenever he had a moment to spare and greedily swallowed every answer. Flayon, brimful of annoyance, would answer them all regardless, a little traitorously excited by his continual eagerness.
What are you making?
What’s this for?
Why?
He said that one more than most. Perhaps now with a clearer, more relaxed hand, Flayon can understand that Hakka was just hungry to learn about the world and he was a little too bristly about the whole thing. It’s not his fault that he equates questions with doubt in your abilities and an excuse to attack you, an association trained in him from a young age, but it’s not really Hakka’s fault for asking them either. Not everyone is out to attack you.
Maybe Hakka just liked pastry if he ended up opening a café of all things.
Maybe he’s been a little quick to judge and quicker still to cement that judgement.
“It was wrong of me to be so rude when you didn’t really deserve it.”
One time at Elysium he stayed late just cleaning, scrubbing and scouring and trying to strip all the day’s frustrations and bad memories away. He didn’t notice the rest of the world moving by, too focused on chipping away all these little burnt bits, and by the time he resurfaced, it was to the sight of Hakka looking a little too hard his way without blinking.
He was sitting right across from him tinkering with his faulty food processor, just loosening and tightening the same screws to give the illusion of busyness, and he made no moves to leave until Flayon finally began to stash his pans and tools somewhere safe.
He did not thank him, but he knew deep down exactly why he stayed.
“Get your apron already then. We’re in this together,” Hakka promises, disappearing into the back.
Flayon follows him inside and his cheeks are slightly flushed from a trip to the walk-in fridge.
Today is cranberry and white chocolate, so he focuses a little on the texture of the dough in his hands. It barely spreads in the oven, which is a good sign, but it’s a bit hard to cut.
To his right, Hakka is placing olives onto braided coils. Sometimes he runs over as their set of various timers go off, rotating sheets in the oven or punching down a bowl of dough as Flayon moves on to a couple different tarts.
At some point he wakes up with Hakka’s jacket draped across his shoulders, and a wave of unexpected gratitude knocks him clean off his feet. It knots his heart into a pretzel shape, but it’s not a good pretzel. It’s like a pretzel that got baked before boiling in steam and lye. It’s right in shape alone.
He is still mad at the sight of him but mad for different reasons. Hakka throws him off balance so easily, and Flayon hates losing control. He is not supposed to feel things like gratitude. He was not supposed to fall asleep in the first place.
Flayon locks up before returning home, folding up the jacket into a small enough square to fit neatly in his bag.
It turns out they both go the same way for the first half and that becomes a new part of their shared routine. It happens without fail, lengthening the day a little, the two of them walking halfway home together, arms knocking together as they march like toy soldiers.
-
Partnership is a long and slow thing.
It is something that simmers so you can reduce it down to bring out the true depth of flavour.
Flayon and Hakka go through bags of sugar and flour and spend hours pitting, tinning, mixing, and chopping, some experiments done merely for the sake of trying them rather than for any real sense that they will be good, and the entire process lasts much longer than it has any right to.
It turns out that it wasn't worth overthinking that much anyway since the first samples they dole out are met with roaring reviews, but it’s about the exercise of it all.
In the end they settle on something they mixed up in the second week of testing, a fruity quickbread and various designated pairings for coffee and tea, but the weeks after have provided plenty of chances to develop future additions. They’ve already tentatively planned something to play on the idea of Christmas markets in December, a spiced and warm sort of feeling central to it all, and they’ll probably keep going until the rest of the months are stuffed to the gills.
It turns out that friendship and enmity are two sides of the same coin, actually, because their friendship changes very little.
He still blurts out whatever comes to mind, though it's usually on the strange anecdotal side rather than the snide insults he would have said just to be contrary.
He still loses himself inside his work.
He still spends a fair share of time with Hakka, this time not bothering to bite back the smile.
Hakka is still bright and loud and, well, he supposes that maybe Hakka just acted like they were friends the whole time anyway, but the point remains. In many ways, nothing substantial changes between them.
It is really only Flayon’s attitude and his willingness to be honest about it that changes.
Hakka is mostly the same and he finds that likes that. He is familiar with him and his tendencies, working together with him in the scramble to recall exactly how much of each spice and which he put in a recent test run rather than insulting his inability to keep it perfectly straight.
He could stand to be meaner too, meaner in a way that really steels Flayon’s heart. He expects it sometimes too, but it never really comes and that leaves him feeling a little off kilter. The foiled expectation.
Hakka does not say, “we are not making a fucking roulade,” when he jokingly suggests it, pulling out a sheet pan and some tea towels and draping them on the counter.
Hakka does not care when he inevitably fucks things up, always there with a dust pan and broom ready to pick up the pieces.
Instead, he is full of laughter. He laughs when Flayon tells the same stories he’s heard a hundred times and that gets Flayon laughing too and everything is just so much better and happier if he lets it be that way.
Baking is fun, but it's always been fun. Plans are fun. Hell, even filling out shitty paperwork is fun if they're together for it. It’s crazy just how good things can really be.
Their next endeavour, having closed shop on the fun things (development, research, spending evenings together once work is done) and the less exciting business side, is to loop everyone else in. They have to train their staff, at the very least, to be familiar with the specifics of their planned additions.
There are many ways they could go about it, printed pamphlets or full staff emails or a boring training session on a Tuesday evening, forcing everyone to pipe their best rosettes.
Flayon believes their partnership is worth celebrating, though, so he suggests a bit of a casual party to seal it off and Hakka, ecstatic, agrees in an instant, sprinkling his own ideas every step of the way.
-
The party is a success and their partnership even moreso.
Training goes smoothly, with everyone either abuzz with the new ideas or placidly accepting, neither of which is as bad as it could be.
As the night wraps up, Hakka drums a fork against his glass and the crowd hushes. He has that look on his face with the quibbling smile that just screams mischief, and it’s an appropriate time for celebration, so Flayon just lets him stand up and do it if it’ll make him happy.
“I worked a lot of jobs before I ended up at my last. It was a fancy place, full service, and I was set to be the legumier. I know. I know. Why vegetables if I ended up opening up a cafe?”
Flayon wasn't quite expecting such an in-depth beginning, but there's that habitually sentimental side to Hakka too, so he's not really surprised. He waits for a laugh and someone else indulges him, letting out a soft giggle.
“I mean, I couldn't go to school for pastry or anything. I started working because my family needed the money and when I was younger I wanted to be a doctor, anyway, not a chef. So I'm good with a knife and I needed a job, what can I say?”
He is good with that knife. Sometimes Flayon gets a little distracted by the way he swiftly dispatches and disposes of everything, the way his fingers twist. And sometimes he would think about it extra hard while Hakka’s telling all these tall tales of things he’s done and things he hasn’t. Sometimes it makes Flayon wonder how hard it would be to become the kind of pretty person with a riotous smile that graces his stories.
Does he talk to others about him? Does he get up in front of crowds and tell a story like this, but instead it turns to focus on the red demon in the kitchen? The one who spit frost and flame and forced him out?
“–and it wasn't a dream, but I liked the vibes. I had fun sometimes, even if the work was hard and the pay wasn't the best. Chatting over family meal was nice. Hearing people love your food? Yeah, they should sell that feeling like a new drug, it'll make a fuck ton of money.”
He was just being honest when he said all that shit about following your dreams because Hakka may have been an enemy, but he was a capable one who didn’t deserve to doubt himself. But the first time he was honest, Hakka left, so what happens now?
Some people think he begins and ends in chaos, that Hakka stews inside it, but he’s a lot softer than that. He teases instead of complaining and Flayon takes it well now that he knows and it makes him wonder sometimes. Just because he’s willing to make a friend out of Flayon, the enemy-maker, doesn’t mean that he’s willing to take it any further.
Hakka practically glows up there, just drinking in everyone’s awe and attention. His words are electric.
“Then one day, this little sunburst comes in the door angry and brilliant and so bright. For family, he makes us breakfast. Can you believe it? Breakfast and pressed fruit and chocolate sandwiches cooked like fucking paninis. And I thought it'd be shit because c’mon, breakfast? But it's amazing. He's fucking amazing. I pull some shots of coffee and it's the best time I've had in that job.”
The longer Hakka speaks, the deeper the pit inside him becomes. Fuck.
How dare he do this. This can’t be happening right now, not in front of so many people who all know exactly who he is and can watch him fall apart at the way he’s so lovingly painted in Hakka’s memories.
Flayon’s never been stellar at expressing himself. One time he tried to cheer up Hakka by offering one of his fucked up test cookies, one that spread too much since the oven was a smidge too hot, and you know what Hakka said in return to that offer? There’s no such thing as a bad cookie.
Hakka’s not an angel, but sometimes he’s shaped like one. Even when it was his bad day, he still took the time to reassure him as if that was the real problem.
It gives him plenty to think about too.
“I thought about that day a lot, you know. The atmosphere and everything. That's why I wanted to open a cafe. It's just my luck that we could meet again like this and he could see it. It all comes full circle, I guess.”
Flayon stands up from his chair, unable to sit any longer.
“Thank you for supporting us,” he croaks out, closing his eyes as the audience begins clapping.
Flayon makes a slightly rude gesture before pointing furiously at the back, indicating that Hakka should join him there if he knows what’s best for him. His fury and consuming desire to do something about it wins out against his compulsion to be a good host.
Flayon waits exactly three minutes before making his way there.
Hakka joins him in two.
"I hated you for so long, you know," Flayon hummed, swirling his drink around his glass. "Thought you were looking down on me by bringing out that coffee. Judging my taste. Basically saying I didn’t know shit."
"I figured. You didn't exactly look happy to see me."
"Yeah, I thought afterwards I should have 'accidentally' put salt in your muffins instead of sugar. Who would have thought the nice cafe owner would turn out to be an annoying guy like you."
Hakka let out a barking laugh. "And now?"
"Now what?"
"Do you still hate me now?"
"I don't know. What do you think?" Flayon asks, leaning a little closer. Hakka’s mouth is still shiny somehow, even under the dimmed lighting. "Tell me if you don't want this."
When Flayon shuffles forward just enough to put his hand on his cheek, Hakka reaches back, placing one hand by his hip to keep him grounded as Flayon presses a soft kiss at the edge of his lips. He can feel the way Hakka’s cheeks move beneath his fingers as his voice rumbles out, the way his hand goes from gently holding to secure and strong against him.
“I think you missed.”
Hakka’s eyes are zeroed in on his own and he thinks nothing could possibly shatter the moment. His lips still tingle a bit from their little brush and Hakka simply laughs before pulling him down properly and pressing their mouths together. His head is light and fuzzy like he’s suddenly been propelled into a wispy dream.
"Yeah? Well I think this is the start of another beautiful partnership."