Chapter Text
There are a number of things Kei is good at – school work, for one. Blocking, producing a sarcastic comment and/or quip for any occasion, and keeping his room tidy for a few more. He’s good at taking pictures of bugs or birds before they fly away, good at keeping track of the stars and planets, good at remembering the names of dinosaurs. He’s also good at making lists, good at following those lists, good at balling up and throwing said lists if Akiteru makes fun of him for making lists. The list goes on.
But one thing he’d never claim to be good at is baking. Several times in his life, Kei had correctly measured out ingredients and watched the seemingly promising mixture go into the oven, only for it to come out looking like something not of this earth. He’d accepted his lack of skill (eventually, after one too many burnt, lopsided strawberry shortcakes), reasoning that it wasn't really something he'd need in his life – he could leave it to Akiteru to satisfy his sweet tooth.
But then something happened that challenged this notion. Or rather, something didn’t happen.
In middle school, when Valentine’s Day rolled around, Kei was surprised to find his arms full of confections that supposedly meant something - something more than you're in my class and you're okay I guess. Suddenly, February 14th went from a day of hassle-free candy to an uncomfortable time for everyone involved.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the gifts that he’d received. It was that he was being given things by people that didn’t bother to speak to him for the rest of the year. It was that even though he didn’t accept any of the confessions he received, he still ended up carrying the stuff they’d given him home. But most of all, it was that he didn’t really feel right about eating people’s gifts that represented their feelings when he didn’t return them. So he usually ended up leaving them for his mother and brother to pick through, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling he got when he threw the unwanted ones in the trash.
Yamaguchi, however, seemed enamoured with Valentine’s Day. He offered earnest thanks for every piece of obligation chocolate, ate every one with care (even the ones that weren’t his favourites), and relished giving something in return on White Day. When Kei asked him about it, perplexed, he said something about just enjoying the atmosphere of it, the thought that’s put into even the smallest of gestures, but that just confused Kei even more. Yes, the girls smiled genuinely as they stopped off at Yamaguchi's desk, and yes, he got his fair share, but he didn’t get girls giggling and stuttering like Kei did. And Kei just didn’t understand it. If he got things, why not Yamaguchi? Yamaguchi, with his gentle hands and warm eyes, always quick to praise, to laugh at Kei’s jokes even if they weren’t his best. Yamaguchi, who would give you space when you needed it, would chatter until you felt ready to join him if you didn’t; who would always have your back without question. Yamaguchi, who should have been positively buried under a mountain of heart-shaped junk.
The more he thought about it, the injustice of what transpired, the more mad he got. They’re stupid, he wanted to say, when the following February brought more of the same. They have extremely poor taste, he wanted to insist, over more giggling, more stuttering. They have no idea what they’re missing, who they’re overlooking. You deserve so much more than this. I could give you fifty Valentine’s and it still wouldn’t be enough.
It took him until the third year of middle school to realise that those weren’t the kind of thoughts you’d typically have about a friend.
It took him until the first year of high school to decide that he was going to do something about it, even if the thought of giving something to Yamaguchi himself made him break out in a cold sweat. And if he was going to do it, he was going to do it right.
Except if he can’t handle baking, what makes him think he can handle making chocolate?
“Kei, are you all right? You’ve been sat there without moving for five minutes and it’s starting to freak me out.” Akiteru’s home for spring break, and while any other time that would make Kei pleased in a quiet sort of way, right now it’s the penultimate straw (the last one being his own stupidity for starting his research in the living room – though, since the last time he looked at recipes he’d closed the tab as soon as he saw the words stir constantly, he needs all the time he’s got left).
“Just imagine I’m not here, nii-san,” Kei says, dry even in the midst of panic.
“Like I’m going to do that. I haven’t been home in months, so quality time with my little brother is in order.”
“One,” Kei starts, hiding the quirk of his mouth behind his screen, “that’s literally not true, and two, I’m busy with something. Something important.”
“Okay, so a month and half! That’s still a long time!” Akiteru comes and – ugh – flops down beside him on the couch; Kei quickly minimises the window. “What are you doing that’s so important anyway? Can I help?”
“Something, and no, you cannot.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep.”
“Really? You’re sure that whatever was making you scowl like someone just told you evolution is a theory is something you can do by yourself?”
“Yes,” Kei says, but he’s less certain than he was before. On the one hand, Akiteru will be insufferable the entire time if he asks for help. On the other hand, if he doesn’t ask for help, he’ll either end up with a) nothing, or b) something so heinous he’ll wish he’d ended up with nothing. Neither option is acceptable.
“Well then, if you’re sure,” Akiteru says, getting up with an exaggerated shrug. Kei catches his sleeve.
“I...guess you could help.”
“You’re entirely too easy to read, Kei. All right, hit me with it.”
Kei maximises the window with a sigh.
---
“Kei, I swear– You’re hand-making chocolates, it’s not possible to overdo it. Put on your big boy pants and get the heart-shaped moulds.” Standing in front of a Valentine’s display in the (packed) shop Akiteru recommended, listening to his brother loudly contradict his every suggestion, two things are obvious. The first: he was right, Akiteru is insufferable. The second: he was also right about how fucked he’d be if Akiteru wasn’t here.
With the recipe he’d found (still with that ominous stir constantly; now with the added intimidation of raw cacao powder) loaded on his phone, he’d dragged them through the supermarket, leaving shredded coconut and candy sprinkles in his wake, then to a shop half-hidden down a side-street for the priciest cacao powder that could possibly exist (“But why did we buy that other cacao powder?” “So you can practise first, dumb dumb.”) and finally here, to the craft store near the station. He’s understood approximately six things since they started – including “So, we’ll need to catch the train home at three,” and “Kei, are you sure you’re all right? You’re sweating. A lot,” – and the thought of doing this by himself is making him extremely grateful to be yelled at. Sort of.
“If you insist,” he mutters, watching the moulds disappear into Akiteru’s Mysterious Basket. He’d argued, but the idea is compelling in its own way, not that he’d ever admit it lest Akiteru get ideas – he’s already had to steer them away from a chocolate plaque mould the size of his face.
“I do. Anyway, now that that’s settled, we need to find a box to put them in, and a tag.”
“A tag? Because nothing says anonymous like a name-tag.”
“I’m accepting that you’re a big baby who’s not giving them to him in person, but you’re writing a thoughtful message on a tag or so help me. Here, these ones are nice,” he says, putting a package of tags into The Basket; at this point, Kei can’t find it within himself to protest further. “Now, the size of the box depends on how many chocolates you’re actually going to make.”
“Fifteen.”
“Nine is plenty. Okay, there’s this one, or maybe–”
“This one,” Kei interrupts. “This is it.” This is one thing he isn’t budging on. The box isn’t too small, but it isn’t too big either – just the right size to make sure the chocolates won’t get damaged, especially since he’s going to have to carry it in his bag. It’s a tasteful navy blue, not searingly bright like most of the others. But the thing that really makes it stand out is the tiny dots of silver foil carefully placed across its surface, like a scattering of stars.
“Okay, for once I agree with you.” Akiteru ruffles his hair, smiling that smile that always makes him want to smile back, even if he’s tired or sick or a victim of hair ruffling – the Magic Big Brother smile that makes him feel ten years old and hopeful again. He lowers his voice when he continues. “I’m sure he’ll love it, Kei. He’ll be able to see all the thought that went into it.” Then he claps him on the back, and the spell is– not broken exactly, but Kei is suddenly aware of all the people crowding around him, the brightness of the fluorescent lights pressing against his eyelids. “Right, let’s go check out before you sweat through your shirt.”
---
“I’d say that I can’t believe that you aren’t letting me help you, but I really, really can.”
“You’re supervising – that counts.”
“And you’re an idiot. A big, sentimental idiot. A sweet one, I’ll grant you, but an idiot nonetheless. It’s not as if there’s any way he’d be able to tell that someone helped you make them. Other than, you know, the fact they’re edible.”
“It’s the principle of the thing.”
“So you’ve said. Listen, Kei, are you sure you’re all right?” Akiteru asks for the millionth time.
“Yep,” he says, wiping chocolate off his cheek (or just smearing it around – same difference).
“Kei, you started at five. You’re on batch number four, it’s eight o’clock, and you haven’t eaten dinner yet.”
“I ate some of the chocolates when I was testing them.”
“The most balanced of meals. C’mon Kei, take a break. Collect yourself.”
Kei looks down at the bowl in front of him. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I think batch number four is a bust anyway – it’s grainy.”
“Batch number four, we hardly knew you. All right, you sit down and I’ll heat up some left-overs.”
“What is it?”
“Hot pot.”
“Mmph.”
“I’ll take that as a sure, I am excited to put this in my mouth.”
“Mmph,” Kei repeats, sinking into the chair across from Akiteru’s. The clinking of spoon on dish as Akiteru portions out the hot pot fills the ensuing silence, swiftly followed by the comforting buzz of the microwave.
“You really like him, huh?” Akiteru says after a moment, leaning against the counter, and Kei sputters before getting a hold of himself.
“Yeah,” he says thickly. “And I have three burns and a stress headache to prove it.”
“I mean,” Akiteru continues, ignoring him. “That was obvious from the inception of this whole scheme – heck, probably a lot earlier than that if I really sat down and thought about it – but now it’s extra double obvious.” His voice is a soft, undeniable truth. “How long?”
“How long have I liked him?”
“No, how long is a piece of string.”
“Shut up,” Kei says without heat, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. “When did I realise? Last year or so. When did I actually start liking him? Who knows.”
“I’d say a year isn’t the half of it. You’re different around him, you know. You always have been.”
“How?”
“Gosh,” Akiteru says, more breath than word. The microwave beeps. “It’s little things, I guess. Your posture is looser, your face isn’t all screwed up like it is when you’re thinking. You just seem...more comfortable. Yeah, that’s what it is. Like when he’s there, you can relax.” With that, he puts a spoon in the bowl and the bowl on the table, nudging it towards him. “There, eat. That should make you feel a bit more human.”
“Thanks for the food,” he murmurs, and Akiteru nods, sitting across from him again.
There’s another partial silence, disrupted as he chews, as Akiteru types out a text. Slowly, the contents of the bowl disappear; Kei thinks it’s probably the placebo effect at work, but with each mouthful, he feels just a smidgen more awake. So there’s really no excuse, other than it’s the truth, for what slips out of his mouth. “I think maybe I’ve always liked him.”
Akiteru doesn’t respond. Kei thinks, for a precious few seconds, that he’s gotten away with it, that he said it quietly enough for Akiteru not to hear. But then Akiteru finishes his text, gives his phone a final tap, and looks up at him. On his face is Akiteru’s other smile, the smile that makes Kei want to kick him in the shin under the table (he doesn’t, but only because Akiteru got him food). “What would you say if I told you I recorded that for posterity?”
“I’d say you’re a filthy liar,” he mumbles, pushing aside his bowl and burying his head in his arms.
“I didn’t, but man do I wish I had.” Kei can’t see him, but he just knows that smile is widening. “It’d have been a nice touch to your wedding video.”
Kei’s head snaps up, his cheeks feeling suspiciously hot. He opens his mouth, closes it again. “I’m leaving the chocolates anonymously,” is what he finally comes up with.
Akiteru laughs, vivid in the low light over the table. “You’re still stuck on that part then, I see. Kei, you’re the dumbest smart person I know.”
“Well you’re–”
“–going to clean up my kitchen soon, I hope.”
“Uh…”
Their mother crosses the room in a few quick strides, taking Kei’s bowl and planting a kiss on his forehead in one fluid motion. “How long has it been now? Four days?” She puts the bowl in the sink, then gets out another to heat her own leftovers in. Fuck.
“Kei’s got a bit more work ahead of him before he’s done, mom.”
“A bit? All right, I know ‘we’re using the kitchen all evening to make chocolate’ is plenty descriptive – near novel length – but I think I’m going to need a bit more. Who,” she intones, casting her eyes over the chocolate graveyard on the counter, “is all this for?”
“T–”
“The volleyball team,” Kei interjects, and regrets it as soon as the words leave his lips. He briefly considers drowning himself in batch number four, but he’s gone too far to give up now; chocolates first, drowning later.
“The volleyball team?”
“Yep.” Might as well commit now.
“The same team you said were ‘like a bunch of five-year-olds with really strong arms’?”
“I said most of them, but yes...Those guys.”
At this, Akiteru and their mother share a look. It’s the sort of look they’d share when Kei would push the last of his vegetables onto a napkin in his lap and pretend he’d cleared his plate – a look that says just let him think you believed it, it’s easier.
“Right.” The microwave beeps.
“Sit down mom, I could use some help supervising batch number five.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Kei gets up to inspect batch number four (not to escape the combined scrutiny of his mother and brother – of course not). “Fifth time’s the charm,” Kei says through gritted teeth.
---
“They’re beautiful,” Akiteru whispers, gazing at the chocolates nestled in the box with all the affection of a newly minted uncle.
“I think my arms are going to fall off.”
“Stirring constantly can do that to a person.”
“I'm serious, I’ve got pins and needles.”
“I’m proud of you, Kei. He’s going to be so happy to get these, I know he is.” Akiteru ruffles his hair, and Kei swats at him weakly. “Now go to bed - I’ll finish cleaning up.”
“But it’s only...ten o’clock. Huh.”
“Go to bed.”
---
Despite being unbelievably tired when his head hit the pillow, Kei didn’t sleep very well – he was too nervous. Most of today has been spent running through the list of pros and cons of giving Yamaguchi batch number seven (pro: Yamaguchi getting the chocolate he deserves; con: shit shit shit it’s almost time, shit).
He knows the chocolates look (and taste) as good as he could possibly make them, and they’re dark chocolate, which Yamaguchi has professed his love for (loudly and frequently). He knows Yamaguchi will like them, will like the box they came in. But clearly he’s beyond rational thought at this stage.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Tsukki?” Yamaguchi asks softly. They’re walking to practice after their last class, and Yamaguchi’s profile is awash with the golden light of the afternoon.“You’re a little pale.” Kei’s not sure whether it’s the tiredness or that he acknowledged his feelings so openly yesterday, but the sight, the sound, has something cosy blooming within him, like leaning against a radiator and feeling warmth seep into his bones. The feeling is not a foreign one, but the intensity of it steals his breath.
“I’m okay,” he says, a few beats too late for it to seem genuine. But, he finds, as he says it, it’s true. The thought of giving Yamaguchi something he made for him with his own hands makes Kei feel brittle, makes the little box in his bag feel like a heavy weight. Though, at the same time, he can’t wait until tomorrow. He can’t wait to see the look on Yamaguchi’s face, to know he’s the cause of it even if Yamaguchi won’t. He can’t wait to make Yamaguchi happy, in this way and so many more. 'Big sentimental idiot’ probably isn’t too far off.
“Oh,” Kei says as the club room comes into view, checking his pockets as if he’s just remembered something. “I think I’ve left something in the classroom. You go ahead.”
“Aw, that’s annoying. Sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
“I’m sure, I won’t be long.”
“Okay, I’ll tell Daichi-san and Suga-san where you are.”
“Thanks.”
Yamaguchi starts walking again, still gilded, glowing, and Kei finds it hard to look away. But he does – he has to – and when he reaches the classroom, clutching the box with hands that shake just a little, he imagines that resplendent figure turning to look back at him, squinting into the light and smiling. That image is what finally pushes him to tuck the box into Yamaguchi’s desk. After all, there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for that smile.