Archive of Our Own

The dorm is quiet when K gets in. No one comes running to greet him, and there’s an emptiness in that that he resigns himself to, but never acclimates to, not really. He shuffles around in the entryway to get his shoes off and tucked away, and shuts the door behind him, locking all his problems out for a few hours, until he has to leave again. 

With the door shut, the heat of the dorm slides through his wool coat, and as he shrugs it off he catches a scent, homey and toasty, the smell of baking, of sugar and cinnamon. He ventures into the kitchen. It’s spotlessly clean, and there’s no hint that anyone had been there, but K knows better. In the stark white kitchen, there’s a lingering warmth that is ever so familiar. It belongs to Taki. It’s a warmth that permeates every space he’s in.

K peers around the kitchen more closely, trying to find the source of the smell, but there’s nothing, which means that either what Taki made was eaten in its entirety, none saved for him, highly unlikely, or whatever Taki had tried to make hadn’t come out right. K checks the trash bin. It’s been taken out, even though it’s not trash day. The latter, then. 

K opens the fridge to pour himself some lemon water and sees an extraordinary amount of butter. It takes up almost an entire shelf, sitting like gold bars in a bank vault in one of those old American spy movies. He remembers curling up on the couch with Taki to watch one, last summer, something silly and goofy. Taki talked through the entire thing, which was fine, because they had subtitles, and K liked hearing his confusion and his surprise and his wheezy, duck-quack laughs. 

He remembers that they put another one on, after, the next one in the series or something, and Taki fell asleep, head on his lap, hands curled up under his chin. K had shut the movie off and, instead of waking Taki, decided to carry him to bed. When K picked him up, he was surprised at how heavy Taki had become. 

Now, standing in front of the open refrigerator, lost in memories, K is hit with the urge to check on him, to peek in and see Taki sleeping. He hasn’t done that in a long time. It used to be because Taki had trouble sleeping, and a tired Taki wasn’t fun to deal with for anyone. Taki’s health and well-being was his responsibility, which meant Taki’s sleep was his responsibility, and Taki slept better next to him, so K would lay in Taki’s bed, petting over his head, until he fell asleep. It was simple, and easy, and routine. 

K sets his water glass in the sink and shuffles across the dorm to Taki’s room. He cracks the door open and peeks in. Taki is curled up on his side, like always. The stuffed croissant K brought him back from Paris is tucked under his chin, his lips pressed to it, tight. He’s laying above the blankets and sheets, and shivers a little from the draft wafting in through the open door. Before K can shut the door, he sees the white of an eye, and Taki is peeking at him. 

“Welcome back, K-hyung”, he croaks out, voice thick and raspy with sleep. 

“I’m back”, K whispers, wanting so badly to enter and tuck Taki in under the covers. 

Taki reaches under himself to grab the sheets and blankets, kicking them out from under his legs to pull them up. 

“Will you tuck me in?” 

They are connected enough that K thinks maybe Taki can read his mind. Sometimes the thought pleases him. Sometimes it makes him nervous.  

K is still dressed in his day clothes. He needs to change. He needs to take his makeup off, and he needs to shower. But he needs this, too. He moves forward into Taki’s space, always inviting, and shuts the door behind him. He sinks down onto the edge of Taki’s bed, and Taki wordlessly scoots over, making room. 

“You’re needy, you know that?” K murmurs. He cups Taki’s cheek, more cautious than usual, like it’s a bubble he’s scared to pop. Taki leans in, wordlessly encouraging, like always. 

“Mm…I know you like being needed,” Taki quips, sleepy smirk interrupted by a yawn. 

K lays down beside him, squeezing his cheek. Rolling the soft dough of it between his fingers. He knows exactly the right pressure to use to lull Taki to sleep. It’s muscle memory, unchanged for 6 years.

“No more talking, now”, he croons. “Go to sleep.”

K used to play Taki music, but they discovered that K’s voice and breath alone is a lullaby. Taki squishes himself closer, adjusts his legs. He’s getting so tall, and fits in K’s arms differently, but they still slot together like puzzle pieces. In 6 years, this too, hasn’t changed. 

~~~~

Taki wakes up in quiet solitude. It’s something he’s gotten used to. He knows K only stays until he falls asleep. He knows K then has to rush through his own night routine before he gets sleep of his own. He knows that K would rather sacrifice his sleep than let Taki miss his. He knows that he is so, so loved. He knows that what he gets has to be enough, even though it never is. 

Sometimes Taki feels like a large, mythical beast, hungry, ravenous, who feeds on the tenderness and care K gives him. Sometimes, he feels like K is a large, mythical beast who feeds on Taki’s endless devotion. Sometimes, Taki wishes the relationship between them felt more normal, containable. Something that doesn’t feel like affection is trying to squeeze itself out of his lungs and his throat all the time. Sometimes, Taki sings just to let a little bit of it out. 

Taki doesn’t mind waking up alone, because he can tiptoe himself across the dorm and into K’s room, and crawl into his bed, and squish himself back up against his warm body, as if K never left him at all. 

But K is so busy now, and when Taki pitter-patters over to his room, eyes only half open, to find K’s bed made neatly, nobody inside it, the emptiness that sinks itself into his tummy is something he hasn’t gotten used to, not at all. Taki should leave K’s room and see about making some breakfast, but instead he lays himself down across the pristinely folded sheets, and stretches his legs and arms out as wide as he can. As much as he grows, he knows he’ll never reach as far as K does. 

When interviewers and television hosts ask him which member he’d want to swap places with, he always says K. He tells them he wants to experience K’s height, or his strength, or his slim, lean figure. And they laugh and nod because it makes sense, because K is beautiful and his body is perfect, who wouldn’t want to be him, and they move on. And it’s not that Taki is dissatisfied with himself, but sometimes it’s hard to see the way K moves through the world like he’s floating, when Taki feels like he’s walking through mud. He wants to know what it’s like to float. He wants to feel weightless. But there’s another element, the swap of it, and switching places with K means maybe seeing himself through K’s eyes, seeing the parts of himself he takes for granted being utterly adored. Because he knows K adores all of him. Every little bit. 

Taki breathes in the scent of the sheets, and finds it familiar, in a way he doesn’t expect. He inhales again, squishing his nose into K’s soft pillow, trying to place it. It smells like K, but also, not. It smells like…it smells like him. It smells like Taki. But Taki hasn’t been in K’s bed in a while, and certainly not for long enough that would let his scent linger. So why?

Taki spots the perfume bottle on the nightstand, clearly left out from use, not returned to K’s perfume corner. It’s a small and delicate glass bottle, amber, with a simple, unassuming silver pump. It’s nothing unique or extraordinary, but it’s one Taki can recognize instantly, because it’s the same as the one K bought for him on his 18th birthday, and he has used it everyday since. 

This scent is so perfectly you, Taki, K had explained, upon gifting it, brushing his fingers over Taki’s wrist as he turned it, palm-up, before spraying. The spray had felt so cool. K’s fingers had felt so warm. K had brought Taki’s wrist up to his nose, and his breath had tickled all the way down to Taki’s toes. K had nodded in approval.

It’s you. I’ve wanted to get it for you for a while now. Whenever I smell it, I think of you. 

Taki doesn’t know what to make of K spraying Taki on his pillow. Taki thinks about K pressing his lips to his pillow and breathing Taki in. Taki thinks about K choosing to wake up to the smell of Taki all around him. Taki stops thinking, and squeezes K’s pillow over his face, against his cheeks that have grown hot, and he curls his legs up to his tummy like he’s small again, when his feelings weren’t quite so complex. His stomach growls, and he’s grateful for the way it distracts him, for the simplicity of the hunger for food.

As Taki rustles together an omelette, dicing onions and green pepper and tomato and arranging them neatly onto one side of the round, full moon of egg, starting to bubble up in the pan, he thinks back to the night K arrived back from Paris. He thinks about that night a lot.  

K had been so impressed with him. He had hugged him in so tight. And Taki was used to the way K so thoroughly enveloped him, the tight squeeze on his back, the loving way K would press his lips to Taki’s shoulder. But on this evening, after 4 days and many kilometers away from each other, K had run his lips across Taki’s cheek, softly, and then more firmly, and there was a kiss pressed right at the corner of his lips, to the upturned crease there. It lasted forever and also for no time at all, and then there was space between them, because K stepped back to ruffle Taki’s hair and pick up another croissant.When Taki licked his lips, he tasted the lingering sweetness of butter that K had left him. K watched his tongue dart out as he bit into the croissant. Without taking his round, dark eyes off of Taki, he threaded his hand through Taki’s hair and stepped closer, only enough space between them for K to keep eating the croissant. K’s eyes had been filled with an affection that made Taki go red, and it had felt like K was taking bites out of him, instead. They stood staring at each other, K’s hand traveling down and tickling at the back of his neck and the space just inside the collar of his shirt, until the entire croissant was devoured, and K was smiling at him, and Taki felt the weightlessness he was always seeking. He was no longer standing in the kitchen, a separate being from K. Taki was a part of him. Taki was inside of K’s stomach, instead. 

A sizzling drop of oil leaps up onto Taki’s hand from the omelette pan, and he’s back to the reality of what he’s doing. He lowers the heat and smoothly folds the omelette in half, pressing down the fluffy, golden half-moon. 

“Good morning”, Maki greets, stepping into the kitchen, yawning, peering over Taki’s shoulder to look into the pan. 

“Dang Taki, that looks so good. It looks like an omelette from a Miyazaki film. It’s perfect. I think you’re better at cooking than K-hyung, now. The student surpassing the teacher, or whatever.” Maki laughs and opens the fridge. 

“Wha- why is there so much butter in here?” 

Taki offers a quiet morning in reply, but nothing more. Sometimes, there’s too much talking going on in Taki’s head to get any words to come out. Sometimes Taki is a storm drain, and his thoughts are wet leaves, clogging him up, preventing him from speaking. He’s turning what Maki said over in his head, throwing it in the pan with his breakfast. 

I think you’re better at cooking than K-hyung, now.

Taki doesn’t want to feel pleased at the thought of being better at something than K, but he does. Because the way K dotes on him, the way he’s sweet and soft with him, is something Taki doesn’t take for granted. It’s special. It’s just for him. But it keeps him small and coddled, a little duckling under K’s wing. K is so highly skilled at the things Taki likes to do that sometimes it’s hard to handle, the way Taki wants so badly to catch up. Sometimes Taki wants K to see him as more than his precious underling. Taki wants K to see him as an equal. Or maybe as a rival. Taki wants K to see him, and feel impressed, and awed, and just a little overwhelmed. Because that is so often how K makes Taki feel, even now. 

K was certainly impressed when Taki’s croissant melted across his tongue, Taki could see it, sense it, almost taste it in the air. His awe. His pride. It circled around them like a cloud. It pushed him closer to the heights from which K gazes down upon him, if only for a moment. Taki wants more of it. He wants to show K how capable he is. He wants K to see how far he’s come. How much he’s grown. That it’s okay if he comes out from under his wing.

Taki settles at the table to eat his omelette. Maki sits across from him, a rice ball in one hand, his phone in the other. He doesn’t try to make further conversation, knows that Taki is somewhere else in his head. It’s an unspoken understanding. Whether Taki realizes it or not, when K goes away, Taki goes too. 

~~~~

On set, K’s manager brings him a croissant, at his request. It’s warm and fresh. It should be satisfying. But none of the croissants he eats after taste as good as Taki’s. They satiate K’s hunger, they melt on his tongue just the same, but there is something about the consumption of love that fills your stomach in a different way. K is certain he could ask Taki to make them again, and he would in a heartbeat. He would make whatever K wanted. But K has trouble asking him for anything, precisely because he knows Taki will never say no. Because he’s scared of somehow overstepping the bounds of Taki’s devotion. 

Based on the sweet smell of the kitchen from last night, it seems like Taki is trying to make something else. He hasn’t mentioned anything about it to K. When Taki first started cooking, he would bounce over to him, an excited puppy, flapping his arms and shoving a recipe in his face. He would ask K for advice, for help, for attention. But something shifted after his trip to Paris. Something shifted after K wasn’t there for Taki to ask. And he’s scared of this shift, of the distance that seems to still be lingering, that widens the busier K gets. He knows Taki is able to take care of himself now. And he’s proud of Taki for growing, and coming into himself, and showing everyone what K has always known - how capable and incredible he is. 

But buried underneath that is fear. He’s scared of the thought that Taki won’t need him forever. He thinks about Taki asking to be tucked in. I know you like being needed, Taki had said. He needs the other side of it. He needs Taki to like needing him, too.

The director calls him over for the next shoot. He quickly finishes the croissant that tastes like butter, but doesn’t taste like love, and prepares himself to work for the next 18 hours.

~~~~

Taki is in a huge, swarming crowd of faceless bodies. They are recoiling away from him, and even without faces Taki can feel their fear, their terror. Taki reaches out to touch someone, and hears a scream. The bodies flee from him, and Taki frantically tries to catch up with them, not wanting to be left alone, but it’s no use. Everyone disappears. 

“You’re not a good person, Taki”, he hears someone say. He turns around to find no one. Is it his voice? Is he talking to himself? 

“Everyone is going to find out, and you’ll be left all alone.” 

Taki tries to speak, to tell the voice to stop, to leave him be, but no words will come out. Taki sees a tall figure in the distance, walking towards him. 

“K-hyung!” Taki cries out, “K-hyung!” K stops and stands still. Taki can’t see his face. Taki starts running towards him, but the faster he runs, the further the distance grows. 

“Hurry up, Taki”, K snaps, cruel and chastising. The tone of it bites into Taki’s chest like a bullet. 

“I’m trying”, Taki whines, trying to run faster, his legs growing increasingly less coordinated. He feels like a monster. He feels like he’s made of sludge. 

K sighs, long and scornful. The sound is unbearable, and Taki can’t run anymore. The distance is growing further and further, even though K is standing still. 

“Give up, Taki. We’re becoming farther and farther apart.” 

Taki's legs become useless, and he lets himself fall. K disappears. Taki is left alone. 

Taki wakes up with a shout, disoriented and afraid. His ears feel like they’re plugged with cotton, his mouth is dry, and he feels like he’s been running, chasing something. The dream comes back to him vividly, and he feels cold, shivering on top of the covers that are soaked with sweat. He feels around for his phone, checking the time. 2:43AM. His bedroom feels too quiet and too empty. He remembers the image of K disappearing and feels like he might cry. He feels incredibly alone. 

His phone buzzes in his hand and he jumps. It’s on silent, do not disturb. Only notifications from his emergency contacts should come through. 

One new message from K. It buzzes again, and another notification from K pops up. Taki feels the vibration through his hand all the way into his chest. His eyes are blurring. He opens the messages, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. Taki doesn’t cry very often. But he also doesn’t have bad dreams very often. One tear escapes and falls down to the pit between his thumb and index finger. He uses the other hand to wipe it away before wiping at his nose, sniffling, taking in a shuddering breath, trying to pull himself together. He opens the messages. K had sent him a picture of a croissant, followed by a simple statement, and a simple question. They both tie his stomach up into complex knots. 

It’s not as good as yours. 

Will you make them again for me?

Taki starts to type, but has trouble figuring out what he wants to say, and the phone screen is still looking wobbly. If K is texting him, that must mean he’s on a break, and he must see the read notification, because another text comes through. 

Why are you awake? Did I wake you? I'm sorry.

Taki hates when K says sorry. He hates any reminder that K feels a sense of guilt towards him. It makes him feel heavy, like a burden, hanging around K's neck. Another text.

Is everything okay?

They are connected enough that Taki thinks maybe K can read his mind. Sometimes the thought scares him. Sometimes it makes him feel like he’s soaring.

He clicks on K’s name and presses the call button before he can talk himself out of it. It rings just once, and K’s voice comes through, a murmured, you okay, Taki? It unfolds over Taki like a warm blanket.

“I had a bad dream”, Taki sniffles.

"Mm", K murmurs. He doesn’t comment on the weepy sound of Taki’s voice, just continues in his soothing tone, “you haven’t had a bad dream in a long time. Or, you just haven’t told me about it.”

Taki shakes his head, before remembering K can’t see him. He sniffles again, wipes his nose, then wipes his hand on the sheets.

“Did you just wipe your snot on your sheets?” K laughs.

“Shut up. I have to change them anyway, cause I woke up all sweaty and they’re gross.”

“It’s so late though, and you need your sleep. Go rest in my bed for a bit?”

“I don’t know…” Taki hesitates, as if he wasn’t lying in K’s bed earlier, as if it wasn’t everything he wanted.

“Why? What’s wrong?” K asks quietly, “Do you want to talk about your dream?”

He doesn’t really want to, but he wants to keep K on the phone, doesn’t want to lose the sound of his voice. Doesn’t want to go back to the suffocating silence of his room. Doesn’t want to go back to the feeling of K being far away, ever, ever again.   

“In my dream…I was alone. I became someone, or something, that was frightening everyone away.”

“I wish I was there”, K croons, “I wouldn’t have been scared away. Nothing could keep me away from you, Taki.” 

Taki’s stomach flips and rolls, and he forgets what he was going to say. He holds his breath to listen to the sound of K breathing. 

“What else happened?” K probes.

Taki sniffles again, remembering the K in his dream. We’re growing apart. But Taki doesn’t want to tell K, because he doesn’t want to make K sad. 

“I don’t want to tell you”, he whispers, “because it might make you sad.”  

K doesn’t push. He knows when to poke and prod Taki, and when to hold him gently. He knows everything.

“Well, it’s over, hm? It was just a dream. You’re so loved, Taki, and so deserving of it. You know that.”

Taki’s stomach squeezes so tight. He feels like a mound of dough, being kneaded by K’s loving hands. He grabs the stuffed croissant K got him, and squeezes it to let out some of the tension he feels. 

“Get out of your sweaty sheets, and go rest in my bed. Bring the stuffed croissant and pretend it’s me. Give it a kiss goodnight.” 

Taki hears chatter and clatter and the sound of a bell in the background. 

“Shoot, I have to go. Love you, Taki. Sweet dreams.” 

The phone goes silent, and Taki is left staring at the stuffed croissant in his hands. Pretend it's me, he had said, and give it a kiss goodnight. So Taki brings it up to his lips, kissing it softly. Kissing K goodnight.

~~~~

After the frantic finale of the photoshoot is over and K finally wraps, collapsing into the passenger seat of the car at 4:15AM, he finds himself staring at his hands, wringing them together, thinking about his phone call with Taki.

Pretend it’s me, and give it a kiss goodnight? 

He pictures Taki squeezing the croissant in his fingers, bringing it up to his lips. He pictures Taki kissing it, imagining it’s him, like K told him to. Why did K tell him to? He closes his eyes against the window of the car, and as he’s falling asleep he pictures Taki bringing his face in, and kissing him goodnight instead. 

When he gets back to the dorm at 4:50, deliriously exhausted, he doesn’t expect to find Taki awake in the kitchen, greasing a baking pan.

“Welcome back, K-hyung”, he whispers, trying to stay quiet. Taki licks over his lips to wet them, and K can’t look anywhere else. 

“What are you making?” he asks the center of Taki’s chin.

“I…I want it to be a surprise. And you need to sleep. Don’t you have to be up again at 8?”

“9. And I don’t want a surprise, Taki, and I don’t want to sleep. I…I want to spend time with you. I want to help you. I want us to make something together. What are you making?”

“K-hyung…”

“Taki…”

Taki looks at him, worrying his lip between his teeth. 

K tsks, reaches out to stop him, pulling his lip down, brushing the inside of Taki’s bottom lip as he does so, before pulling back. It’s smooth and wet. Neither of them comment on the way Taki almost seems to chase it. Neither of them comment on the way K doesn’t wipe his finger. 

“Don’t bite your lips. You know it makes things hard for our stylists. Please don’t make me ask again. What are we making?”

“I’m making-”

“We’re making…”

“K-hyung…”

“Taki…”

“You don’t have time, K-hyung”, Taki states in resignation. 

“I do have time”, K counters. 

Taki opens his mouth to protest, and K slots 2 fingers against Taki’s parted lips, letting them linger this time. Taki exhales, and his breath comes out warm and wet, like it’s wrapping itself around K’s fingers, like it wants to hold K’s hand. K doesn’t pull his fingers back. He fights the urge to push them inside of Taki’s mouth. 

“Shush. I have 4 hours, and I can choose how to spend them. I choose to spend them making something with you.” 

Taki huffs out another breath, color rising to the doughy centers of his cheeks, his pout twitching. K can feel it behind his fingers. He pokes at the upward lilt of Taki’s mouth before he squeezes at Taki’s cheek. 

“I want to be with you”, K whispers, and a smile worms its way onto Taki’s mouth. K can sense his elation at being chosen. The sweetness of Taki’s happiness is extraordinary. The way it spreads over his whole body. The way he’s coated in it. It covers everything, like powdered sugar. It covers K, immediately. K revels in it, never wants to wash it off. Taki’s happiness is K’s happiness. It’s been this way for years. He doesn’t know why Taki fights it, doubts it, when it only gets stronger. 

“We’re making cinnamon rolls”, Taki whispers, voice warbled with the way K is pulling at his cheeks.

K wants to stay there, squeezing at him, watching all the different ways his mouth moves, but they have a time limit.

He steps back and wrings his hands, grabbing their aprons from the top of the counter and tying his on, the same way Taki does. K taught him how, after all. When they are prepared, mirror images of each other, Taki leans across the counter, setting his phone up in the small tripod, opening up the recipe.

“So what’s first? What should I do?” K asks, suddenly so giddy, to be making something sweet with Taki, just the two of them, at 5:20 in the morning. It feels like they are the only two people in the world. 

“Uh…” Taki pauses his scrolling and takes a deep breath, glancing at K, eyes wide.

“I’m not used to telling you what to do.” 

K laughs, taken aback by the shyness in Taki’s voice. His nervous face always makes K’s chest warm, makes him want to scoop Taki up in his arms and squeeze him. Sometimes K has the urge to take a bite out of him, even though Taki’s sweetness would certainly give him a stomach ache.  

“Well, go on. Let’s get you used to it. I’m your assistant today.” 

Taki’s cheeks are rosy pink, like the first blooms of spring. 

“Uh, well, first we need to whisk together the flour, sugar, yeast, and salt. And I need to combine water and butter and heat it up. I have to heat it up just right, because if it’s too hot it’ll just leak out all over, but if it’s too cold, they’ll be lumpy”, Taki explains, cutting up the butter into small cubes and placing them in a bowl with water, before putting it in the microwave and turning it to 1 minute.

“I taught you that, didn’t I?” K muses, “When we were talking about croissants, before I went to Paris.”

“You did.” He presses start, and the microwave starts droning. The pink of Taki's cheeks is intensifying, like he’s being heated with the butter. 

“You remembered”, K praises, watching Taki’s cheeks get impossibly brighter. He can’t resist grabbing at them again.

“I did”, Taki mumbles, closing his eyes. He breathes out, pressing his cheek further into the warmth of K’s palm. K twists his hand slightly so that Taki’s lips run over it, pausing, waiting, holding his breath.

After a moment, Taki puckers his lips, and presses a kiss to the soft meat of K’s palm. He waits for K to tell him not to, like he usually does. K says nothing. Instead, K presses his palm more firmly against Taki’s lips. K sighs, and Taki inhales the sound and lets it drip down his throat like simple syrup as he kisses K’s palm. 

“K-hyung…” he whispers against K’s hand, and K hums, moving his hand down to the hot expanse of Taki’s throat, feeling the way he swallows. 

The microwave beeps. 

Taki steps back from K’s hand like he’s been sparked, and K has the urge to chase after him, to squeeze him up against the counter. He thinks Taki would let him, and he doesn’t know what to do with that thought. Taki’s mouth is slightly parted, like he’s going to say something, but no words are coming.

The microwave beeps again, and Taki clears his throat like he always does when he’s a little bit nervous, a little unsure of what to say. K steps in closer and gently places his hands on Taki’s shoulders, turning him gently to face the microwave and smoothing his hands down Taki’s arms.

“I’m going to whisk the dry ingredients together”, K whispers into the back of his neck, “and then you can tell me what to do next.” 

Taki nods slowly, clearing his throat again, and pops the door of the microwave to remove the bowl of warmed butter, placing it on the counter and grabbing a fork to press into the remaining lumps. He seeks out the egg he had placed on the counter earlier and taps it on the edge of the bowl, cracking it gracefully with one hand.

“I remember when you couldn’t do that”, K murmurs, watching Taki, as he holds the mixing bowl and whisks the dry ingredients together, “I remember the first time you tried, and you dribbled egg all over your pants.” 

“I’ve learned a lot”, Taki says softly, “and I’m capable of a lot now. A lot more than you think.”

“I think you’re very capable, Taki, I always have.” 

“But you don’t want me to…” Taki pauses to grab a small whisk to mix the butter and egg together. K waits for him to continue as he watches Taki’s wrist move, but Taki gets lost in the motion, doesn’t seem like he’s going to continue.

“Don’t want you to what?” K prompts.

“Hm?”

“What don’t I want you to do?”

Taki sighs. He pauses his whisking, then resumes. He takes another deep breath.

“I don’t think…you want me to grow up”, Taki whispers. He pauses his whisking to turn and look at K, his cheeks red and his bottom lip gripped between his teeth again. 

“Stop that”, K soothes, reaching out to squeeze Taki’s bottom lip and bring it out from between his teeth again. He lets his finger linger on Taki’s lip this time, runs it across, a penduluming caress, his thumb brushing the underside of Taki’s chin. Taki’s eyes are wide and full of an expectation that squeezes at K's chest. He lowers his hand.

“I want you to grow up, Taki. Of course I do. I love seeing you become more accomplished, more confident, and self-assured. But you’re…you needed me, before. Like a baby bird. And it's like...you’re leaving the nest now. It’s…weird, for me.”

Taki stares at him, eyes dark, cheeks puffed out a little, before he speaks.

“K-hyung, just because I’m growing up, doesn’t mean I don’t need you.”

K’s opens his mouth to say something, but Taki is still talking. 

“It’s…it’s weird for me too. It’s weird to be only two years younger than you were when we met. You were an adult, already. And now I’m the same age…and I’m still…just a kid to you." Taki sighs, and continues. "I'm gonna need you forever. So…please, K-hyung…let me grow up?”

Taki brings his hand up and places it on K’s cheek, something he hasn’t done in years. He used to put his hand on K’s cheek all the time, when he thought K was sleeping. And K would pretend to sleep, so Taki could keep it there. K sucks in a breath, lets out a nervous laugh, and leans into the feeling of Taki’s warm hand, much bigger than he remembers.

They stare at each other for a few moments, before K opens his mouth to speak.

“Then…in two years, I’ll let you. In two years, I’ll let you grow up.”

Taki huffs and pouts, stomps his foot, can’t help it. K laughs loud, bright and twinkling. 

“See? A kid!” 

Taki groans and snatches the bowl of dry ingredients K had mixed together off the counter where it was placed, momentarily forgotten, and pours the egg and butter mixture into it, starting to stir.

“Bring me 250 more grams of flour. I'm not letting all of this go to waste. Don’t make me regret letting you help me do this, when I could've done it all on my own.” 

K tries not to laugh, and brings two fingers to his forehead in a pseudo-salute. He quickly measures out 250 grams of flour, handing the measuring cup to Taki. Taki pours it in and continues to mix, hugging the bowl tight to his chest as the mixture gets sticky and tight. 

“100 more grams, please” he requests, as he mixes, and K complies. Taki adds half of the flour and mixes twice more before setting the bowl down on the counter and beginning to knead the dough with his hands. K stands behind him, watching. Taki continues to add a little bit of flour at a time, kneading, pressing the dough firmly, then gently, over and over. K loves the way he looks when he’s concentrating, when he’s trying hard to do a good job. He loves seeing Taki immersed. He loves seeing Taki happy. Taki stops kneading, and forms the dough into a large ball, then reaches for the kitchen timer, setting it to 10 minutes. He places it gently back down on the counter. Affection balls itself up in K’s stomach like the dough. It’s expanding, pushing itself up, into his mouth. It has to come out.     

“I love you, Taki.”

“I know you do”, Taki replies, turning to look at him, smiling so bright it makes K feel blinded.

There's more he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how, so he reaches out to squeeze Taki’s cheeks, holding Taki’s face in his hands. Taki melts into it, like always, and the need for words floats away. They stare at each other as the timer counts down, and the dough steadily expands on the counter, filling up new space. For 10 minutes, they remain connected.

When the timer goes off, Taki takes the puffy, expanded dough out of the bowl and pats it down into a rough rectangular shape. 

“Can you grab the rolling pin?” he asks, and K grabs it, handing it to Taki. K watches as Taki starts to roll, putting all his weight into it. K moves closer, hesitates, then slots himself behind Taki, chest pressed up against his back, chin resting on his shoulder, slotting his hands over Taki’s on the rolling pin and pressing down. K can feel the way he trembles with the effort of rolling, or with something else, and squeezes harder over Taki’s hands. Taki lets out a long breath, and they roll the dough out together. When it’s flattened, Taki reaches out for a stick of butter, perfectly soft on the countertop, spreading it over the rectangle of dough. K stays where he is, pressed up against Taki, fingers drumming lightly by his sides. Taki grabs the brown sugar and sprinkles it onto the dough with his hands, gently patting it down, before doing the same with cinnamon. 

When the dough is coated, Taki brings his hand to his mouth, licking at the cinnamon and sugar. K gently turns Taki around and grabs his hand. Eyes soft, K brings it to his mouth and licks the tip of each of Taki’s fingers. Taki sucks in a breath. His eyes are so wide. They are pressed so close together. 

“What are you doing?” Taki whispers.

K doesn’t know. He's deliriously tired. He's ravenously hungry. He wants Taki’s sweetness, however he can get it. Every way he can have it. But he doesn’t know how to explain this to Taki, is scared of what might happen if he tries. He drops Taki's hand.

Before K can say anything, Taki turns back around, facing the counter, back pressed to K’s chest again. Taki pushes his fingers along the edge of the dough, peeling it from the surface of the counter, squeezing at it. K feels his desire being squeezed into the dough log. Taki is rolling him up. Taki is going to bake him. K wants to kiss the back of his neck.

Taki cuts the log in half, and cuts those halves in half again, and again. Taki cuts the log, and Taki cuts K open, and his feelings are spilling out from his stomach into his chest, into his mouth, where K struggles to keep them from escaping.

Taki takes the fat doughy rolls and places them gently in the baking pan, covering them with a dish towel. He picks up the timer once more in his sticky, slippery fingers, struggling to set it for 60 minutes, before turning back around with a shaky breath. He slowly holds up his hands, trembling, fingers stretched wide. 

“They’re dirty again, K-hyung…” he whispers, eyes darting around anywhere but on K’s face, lingering on his throat and moving down towards his chest, where K’s heart is beating only for Taki. 

K feels like time has stopped, even though he can see the timer counting down the seconds steadily. He moves his hands from where they’re resting on the countertop and slides them up Taki’s arms to his wrists, holding them so gently. K can feel Taki’s pulse fluttering like the wings of a bird preparing to fly. He brings one of Taki’s hands up towards his mouth and kisses his palm, pressing gently, listening to the way Taki breathes heavy through his nose, and opens his mouth to taste, the butter and cinnamon and sugar sweet and warm on his lips and on his tongue.

K moves his mouth, tongue soft and flat, over Taki’s whole palm and up towards his fingers, consuming Taki’s sweetness. He sucks the very tip of Taki’s index finger and Taki whimpers before pushing his finger further into K’s mouth and surging his head forward, tucking it into the crook of K's neck, rubbing his face there. His eyes are shut tight. K finishes cleaning Taki’s right hand and lowers it down to his side, keeping a gentle, grounding hold of his wrist, before bringing the left up to his mouth, giving it the same loving ministrations. 

Taki is rising like the dough, getting lighter, expanding. He is being prepared, he will be baked, and lovingly consumed. Taki is a cinnamon roll squeezed delicately in the palms of K’s hands, filling K up with his sweetness. Taki is gooey and melting, and K is licking him up. When K sucks the middle finger of his left hand into his mouth, Taki remembers the feeling of K eating his croissant, and he feels the weightlessness he’s always seeking, tenfold.

“K-hyung” he whispers, into the crisp fold of K's collar. He feels a dampness against his lips, and realizes he’s been drooling. K drops Taki’s hand down by his side and cups his chin, tilting his head up. Taki’s holding his breath. K presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He’s looking at Taki like he’s a delicacy and runs a finger over his moist lips, before opening his mouth to speak.

“Do we need to preheat the oven?” 

Taki lets out his breath. Takes in another. Inhale, exhale. He nods, coming back into his own body. Coming back down from feeling weightless. He understands that this is as far as they go, for now. K is squeezing his cheeks again, cooing at him, telling him how incredible the cinnamon rolls look, how delicious the sugar and butter tastes, how sweet. Taki understands that K is talking about him. Taki is a cinnamon roll. He’s going to let his sweetness melt all over K’s tongue.