Chapter Text
The first time Michiru found Haruka’s favorite snack happened by accident.
Michiru had stopped into a konbini after rehearsal — hair still pinned, fingers dusted faintly with rosin. She wasn’t thinking of Haruka, not directly. Just tired, maybe a little indulgent. She picked up tea, tissues, hand cream. Almost left.
Then she saw them.
Almond Pocky. A new seasonal release — honey butter dipped. Michiru hesitated. Haruka didn’t eat sweets, allegedly. Said it made her “less aerodynamic.”
But Michiru remembered a night two weeks ago: Haruka distracted, thumbing a half-crushed box of regular chocolate Pocky she'd “borrowed” from Mako. She’d eaten three in silence, looking oddly guilty about it.
So Michiru bought the honey butter ones.
She didn’t even say anything when she handed them over later that evening — just set the box beside Haruka’s keys, wordlessly, as she practiced her scales.
Fifteen minutes later, the box was open. Three sticks missing.
And Haruka’s voice from the couch: “These are dangerous.”
Michiru smiled, not looking up. “I know.”
Haruka wasn’t good at stores. She was fast, efficient, a blur through aisles — but thoughtful shopping? That was Michiru’s terrain.
Still, she tried.
She’d ducked into a little street shop for engine oil and somehow walked out with… a jar of imported peach jam. It was expensive. It was pretentious. It was very Michiru.
But it was also silly. Haruka didn’t do jam.
So when she handed it to her with all the grace of someone handing over a bomb, she added, “I figured you’d like it. Or laugh at me for trying.”
Michiru blinked, then smiled — that soft, crescent smile that meant something private bloomed in her chest. “Haruka.”
“Don’t say anything cheesy,” Haruka muttered. “It’s just jam.”
Michiru took the jar gently, as if it were more fragile than it looked.
“I was going to say,” she said, brushing her thumb over the label, “you remembered I always eat toast before concerts.”
Haruka looked away. “Of course I did.”
She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to.
The next morning, there were two slices of toast on the table. One with butter, one with peach jam — half gone, teeth marks still visible.