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Kaoru keeps turning the night over in his mind as he sets out what he needs on his counter: flour; how Kojiro had come over with containers of food, as if Kaoru couldn’t take care of himself while he was gone; sugar; how Kojiro had kissed him, and said he felt bad about leaving, as if Kaoru hasn’t been alone before; eggs; how Kaoru, just as sleep-deprived as Kojiro had guessed, snapped at him.
Vanilla extract, because Kojiro likes sweet things — Kaoru’s the outlier in his taste, clearly — and icing, green and pink food coloring, leftover from when Kojiro had come over, baked Kaoru a birthday cake even as Kaoru sat bundled on the kitchen counter, running a fever and complaining that he probably couldn’t eat it, anyway, because his mouth felt like sandpaper.
Kojiro had fed him a spoon of cough syrup, a bite of soft, crumbling cake, and kissed his forehead before laughing and getting him a cold pack. Not the worst birthday, honestly, just because Kojiro was there.
And now Kojiro’s leaving tomorrow afternoon. Kaoru has the night to make a cake and take it to him in the morning, apologize and kiss him sweet and soft like he hopes this cake will be, even if he isn’t, he can try.
Kojiro’s been effortlessly sweet since childhood. He can be just as much as a stubborn bastard as Kaoru, sure, and Kaoru likes that about him, likes his arrogance and edges just as much as anything else, even if he won’t admit it, but all of that is tempered with unyielding sweetness, no matter what.
It takes Kaoru’s breath away, how someone can mean so much to him. And he hates that Kojiro sees it and worries about leaving him, just for a week — surely Kaoru isn’t so weak?
He thinks maybe, now, that Kojiro was trying to say that he would miss Kaoru too, would miss being there for him because he loves him, loves him, and it hurts.
Kaoru takes a deep breath, pulls back his hair, ties an apron over an old shirt (Kojiro’s, he realizes with chagrin) and gets to work.
Carla narrates the steps and measurements as he mixes and whisks the batter, pours layer upon layer into the baking pans. Kojiro doesn’t deserve anything less than a prettily tiered cake, the kind that Kojiro always makes for him.
With the cake in the oven, he starts on clearing up, blowing out a frustrated breath as he brushes back straying strands of hair.
It’s just a cake, but he hopes it says everything that he can’t.
Once it’s ready and cooled, he breaks off a piece to taste — and feels his face completely twist.
It’s nothing like what Kojiro makes.
It’s fine, yes. Satisfactory, even. But it feels store-bought, with none of what makes Kojiro’s creations special.
Part of Kaoru is aware that his boyfriend is an award-winning chef, and comparison isn’t the most productive. But that doesn’t stop his hands from seizing the cake and tossing it in the bin, swearing profusely as he starts again.
For how often he’s tasted Kojiro’s baking, he can’t put his finger on what it needs.
More sugar? No. More milk? No. More vanilla extract? God, no.
More icing? Less icing?
No, no, no.
It’s late into the night and Kaoru’s scrapped a handful of mini-cakes, all attempts at cracking the code of Kojiro’s perfect cakes. He has flour on the sides of jaw, food coloring staining his fingers, and he’s given up on clearing up as he goes, so his kitchen looks like an absolute mess. The only breaks he’s had is cleaning the dishes, just to reuse them, and the few minutes he had to run his finger under cold water, and wrap it up because of it a stupid burn.
“Master,” Carla says, “it’s time to sleep.”
“One more try,” Kaoru says, glancing down at the notebook where he’s scribbled notes, calculations, what seems to bring him closer to his goal and what doesn’t.
He’s aware he’s getting worse at it as the night goes on, but he knows he won’t be able to sleep until this is done.
He’s running out of ingredients, too, but he can always go to the 24/7 store. It’ll be fine. He’ll do a face mask, style his hair, apply some concealer, and put on cologne before he sees Kojiro, so Kojiro won’t have to worry about him staying up.
It’ll be fine.
When Kaoru wakes up from where he’s fallen asleep on the counter, pen still in hand and ink streaked over the page — an attempt at writing an equation for balancing the sweetness by adding some tart orange peel shavings, which had not worked —, he gasps, twisting towards Carla.
“Carla, time?”
“7 AM, Master,” Carla says.
7 AM?! Kaoru jerks his head towards the window, and there’s sunlight filtering through the blinds — that must’ve been what woke him up, and dread curls in his stomach
With a shaky breath, Kaoru says, “I’m running out of time, Carla. What am I doing wrong?”
“Unknown, Master,” Carla says sympathetically. “We have been following recipes exactly right, but the results are displeasing.”
“Fuck,” Kaoru says. “Fuck!”
There’s enough for one last try. It won’t be tiered, but it’ll be something. Pushing past the burn in his eyes, Kaoru reviews his notes, trying to find the best possible combination. He has Carla verify for him, and then it’s time for the last bake of the night. The day, now.
When he tiredly breaks off a crumb, mouth numb from all the cake he’s been tasting, he finds it to be nearly the same as the first attempt.
Satisfactory, but nothing special.
Kaoru could nearly cry, but it’ll have to do. At least it isn’t worse, out of balance, but god, he’s really messed this up. But after all this, he’ll at least have something to offer. And he’ll apologize, and he’ll show Kojiro that he has nothing to worry about.
But that’ll take longer, that’ll be a process, and he can only hope that Kojiro will want to stick around to see it. Part of him always fears that he won’t, even if they’re already twenty years entangled, and almost three years into dating.
Tiredly, he decorates the cake with pink and green icing, coating it with a smooth base of pink and then adding beautiful green leaves on top.
He’s placing it into a cake box when there’s a sound from the door.
Whipping around, nearly knocking the cake over in the process — thankfully, he doesn’t, or he might just die on the spot — Kaoru turns to face the only person it could be, as familiar footsteps get closer and closer.
Kojiro appears in the entryway of his kitchen, sheepishly holding a bouquet of red roses. “Mornin’, sweetheart.”
“Kojiro?!” Kaoru says shrilly. “What are you doing here?!”
He moves to block the cake, but there’s no way he can hide the disaster behind him, or the heavy sweet scent in the air.
“I wanted to apologize for oversteppin’,” Kojiro says. “I know how you get about people worrying about you, and I —”
“No,” Kaoru says, exhales. “No, it’s fine. It’s fine if it’s you.”
“Yeah?” Kojiro says, stepping closer. “Baby, what have you been doing in here?”
“Baking,” Kaoru says miserably, stands aside so Kojiro can see the small cake nestled into the blue box. “I’m sorry, mio sole. You were trying to help, and I chased you out.”
“S’okay, you’re hot when you’re angry,” Kojiro grins, and Kaoru gives a weak laugh. “How about we call it even? We’re both sorry.”
“Sounds good,” Kaoru murmurs, shuffling forward so he can enter Kojiro’s embrace. Kojiro sets the bouquet down, wraps his arms around him, and Kaoru melts, boneless.
“Aw, baby,” Kojiro says softly, kissing the top of his head. “Cake for breakfast, and then sleep?”
“No, I want to go with you to the airport,” Kaoru says, then flushes. “If you want me there.”
“Of course I do. I always want you, Kaoru,” Kojiro says, reassuringly stroking Kaoru’s sides. “I love you, mio caro. ”
“I love you too,” Kaoru whispers, cracks a thin smile. “Will you still love me after you try the cake?”
“We’ll see,” Kojiro jokes. “You gonna feed me?”
“If you want,” Kaoru says, affects a long-suffering sigh as he extracts himself from Kojiro to get plates and forks. Kojiro sets the roses into a vase, places them on the table and then they get settled, Kaoru comfortably on Kojiro’s thigh, slices of cake in front of them.
“It looks pretty,” Kojiro says. “As expected of Sakurayashiki-sensei.”
“Let’s see how it tastes,” Kaoru murmurs, holding the fork up to Kojiro’s lips. “Here.”
Kojiro chews thoughtfully, then brightens. “Kao, this is really good!”
“Liar,” Kaoru says fondly, thumbs at the icing at the corner of Kojiro’s mouth, laughs when Kojiro licks at him. “Brute.”
“It’s good,” Kojiro insists, taking the fork out of Kaoru’s hand so he can shovel in more bites. “Really, really good.”
“If you say so,” Kaoru says, hopelessly smitten, and kisses the top of Kojiro’s head. Kojiro beams at him, and then sticks his fork into Kaoru’s slice, ready to devour it as well. Kaoru rests against him and watches quietly, unable to keep a smile off his face, even if his eyes are starting to droop again.
The night, it seems, was worth it, but if there’s one thing that Kaoru knows, it’s that nothing is as good, as sweet, as his Kojiro.