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Michael Kaiser has always been a light sleeper. Hard not to be, when you were never allowed to be comfortable enough to get that good, full-cycle REM sleep. That deep sleep, where you wake up with dried spit crusted on your chin and the imprint of your pillow on your cheek. He used to get five hours of rest— if you could call it that— before being awoken in the early hours of the morning, still dark outside, by his father stumbling home drunk, tripping over himself to get his ratty winter coat off so he could flex his arms all the way back, getting just enough power in his weak, fatty arms to grab Michael and throw him against the wall.
He wakes up at the same time.
He's wearing only his boxers and a white shirt when he gets out of bed. There's a clanging in the kitchen, the clashing of knives meeting. Tired, but prepared, Michael reasons out that he's going to have to wrestle a fucking knife out of the intruders hand and that he's one hundred percent ready to do so. He has a husband and a child to protect now, sleeping peacefully in the other room and dreaming of fluffy white sheep jumping over wooden gates.
He clenches his fists before barreling out of his room, and promptly faces the first challenger in the form of the stupid fucking baby gate guarding the staircase.
Then he's racing down the stairs, huffing through his nose. He should have expected a home break-in eventually. It happens to every celebrity, right? Even retired footballers with families living leisurely lives with their feet up on the sofa. Some form of karmic revenge for all those convenience stores he's robbed over the years, he figures, because why not?
Michael stops, squaring up the intruder who isn't wearing the ski mask he anticipated, but instead… a pair of gingham oven mitts, tapered at the ends from use and grayed at the tips from many confrontations with their oven.
"Yoichi," he says, dazed. "What are you doing."
Clearly not paying attention, Yoichi jolts, almost dropping the tray of cupcakes in his hands.
All around him, littered over the counters are papers and flour and sprinkles and splattered cake batter. A complete mess of their kitchen, only made better by the litany of dirty dishes piling up in their sink. There's not a chance in Hell Yoichi decided to use a box mix, like he should have.
"You shared the shit out of me," says Yoichi, placing a hand over his chest after placing the tray in the over. "What are you doing ? You should be sleeping. You need more sleep. You look like you fell out of a tree."
"…"
"Did you think there was an intruder again?" He laughs. "Ha! You totally did!"
"… You're really fucking loud."
"Stop cursing or Katsumi is going to mimic you, dummy."
He rolls his eyes, and wisely decides not to tell Yoichi he has the same bad habit. "She's in bed, she can't hear me."
Yoichi maneuvers to the sink, and starts washing dishes. "I want you to form good habits. And you can't curse around my mom tomorrow, or she'll curse you like the Witch of the Waste."
"Witch of the—?" He stops. "You've been watching too many movies. Not much of a curse though, I'd be a sexy old man."
Michael walks into the kitchen until he's right behind Yoichi, and rests his hands on his hips. He hooks his head over his shoulder.
"Well then, can this sexy old man help by drying some dishes? Or does he plan on watching me do all of the birthday prep."
"I thought we were just going to buy something from the store," he muses, not moving to help. Three bags of brightly colored frosting sit on the counter, each one oozing from the haphazardly placed piping tips. "Do we really need this many cupcakes?"
Yoichi wacks him with a towel. Michael grabs it from him.
"Yes. My parents are coming over. And I invited Rin and Bachira, since they're in town."
Michael must make a face Yoichi doesn't like, despite not facing each other, because he wacks him again with the towel, much harder.
"I already have a batch done. I wanna make them look like footballs," he says, but falters when he sees what his first completed batch looks like. "Or… The pitch, I guess. Since you're here, you can help me."
Yoichi quickly finishes up washing the dishes, then places his hands on his hips expectantly. Michael's never decorated a cake before, and to his knowledge, neither has Yoichi. They obviously purchased their wedding cake from a high-end pâtisserie in Germany, and for birthdays they only go out for dinner.
His dad never bothered with having sweets in the house, Obviously he never took him out for a nice meal on his birthday, either. But he knows the Isagi's, and it comes to him with sudden, sharp clarity that they must have childhood traditions when it comes to birthdays. He and Yoichi have formed their own unique way of celebrating, but— loathe as he is to admit— there are those tedious pre-Michael traditions, right?
It's easy to imagine baby Yoichi sitting in some high-chair, devouring a brightly frosted, disgustingly sweet cupcake. Made by his parents, who only want to see him enjoy it.
They sit next to each other at the dining room table, each with a plain vanilla cupcake in their hand. The tops are uneven, some of them taller than others, some flat, and others that resemble a pot hole more than they do a proper cupcake. They decide to use the tall ones to make footballs. Yoichi's tongue pokes out as he works, one-track minded in his dedication to making fun themed cupcakes for their baby's first birthday that she won't even remember.
"Did your parents do this for you?" He asks, nudging him with his elbow. Yoichi hums back in response, affirming.
"They didn't, like, theme them or anything," he says. "But yeah. My mom sent me the pictures a few days ago, and I thought… Well, I have to do that too, huh?"
"Ours are going to look better," Michael decides.
"Hey, don't make it a competition!"
"Why else?" He asks. "… Katsumi won't remember this."
"Probably not. So it's for us, and to torture her with when she gets older."
Yoichi hands him a football cupcake. It looks like a child's scribble. He raises an eyebrow at it.
"Wow."
"Shut up." He frowns. "That's why I made two batches."
Michael plucks the cup cake from his hands. It's crumbly, a little dry, but still soft and warm from the over. He takes a bite, and it tastes about as good as he expected it to. Nonetheless, there's that bright-eyed look that takes over Yoichi's face when he does. That little sparkle Michael can't help but forever chase. He sees it more often every day, sees it's replica when he holds Katsumi in his arms, and wonders if he's even chasing it anymore, because he always seems to catch it.
And Katsumi looks so much like Yoichi. You wouldn't guess she was a part of Michael too, but Yoichi assures him that he is. Maybe she'll grow up to be like Yoichi too.
To be like Yoichi, she has to grow up surrounded by love, right?
It doesn't feel like he's capable of contributing to something like that. It's a purpose bigger than himself, not as self-serving as he's used to being. Years ago, he thought he'd be single forever and dancing through partners until he drank himself to an early death just like his father. Sometimes he wakes up, and if he's drowsy enough he still feels like a clumsy child, struggling under the weight of his father pressing down on him. He's terrified that if he's not careful, he'll do the same thing.
Then he looks at Katsumi, and those thoughts ghost him. How anyone can look at someone so precious and want to harm it, baffles him.
All he wants is to see Katsumi smash one of these stupid cupcakes in her face tomorrow, and to take a million pictures so he can brag about it to his former teammates.
"They're good?" Yoichi asks, a tentative smile on his face. "I haven't tried one yet."
"They're good," he says around a mouthful of food. That makes Yoichi giggle, so he kisses him on the cheek. "… We're definitely winning."
"Stupid!"