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Sk8 fics!!!
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2021-03-08
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believe you when you say it like that

Summary:

“Carla,” Kojiro begrudgingly fits his thumb to the scanner outside Kaoru’s apartment.

“Joe.” Is it possible for an AI to sound disdainful?

But he’s let in anyway. He knows Kaoru well enough to duck, narrowly avoiding the beaded throw pillow Kaoru lobs at him.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

A decade of putting up with Kaoru has taught Kojiro how to play this. 

He doesn’t go right away, lets him sweat it out for 72 hours. By this point Kaoru will have grown so exasperated with attempting one-armed cooking, cleaning, and grooming that he’s nearing his own pride’s breaking point. Only then does Kojiro turn up on his doorstep with an armful of food and the most expensive bottle of wine he can find in the restaurant cellar. (Kaoru has never been one to heed the warnings about mixing alcohol with painkillers.)

“Carla,” Kojiro begrudgingly fits his thumb to the scanner outside Kaoru’s apartment.

“Joe.” Is it possible for an AI to sound disdainful?

But he’s let in anyway. He knows Kaoru well enough to duck, narrowly avoiding the beaded throw pillow Kaoru lobs at him. 

"What are you doing here?" Kaoru asks, venom dripping from every word. He's draped somewhat dramatically along the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him, features distorted in an expression even more dour than usual. As Kojiro approaches, he cinches a silk robe a little tighter around his waist. Kojiro assumes it's the only article of clothing he's capable of putting on at the moment.

"I brought you dinner, Four Eyes," Kojiro says mildly. He dodges a wadded-up blanket on his way to the kitchen.

"I'm not hungry. Leave."

"I made coq au vin."

"I don't care. "

"Paired with a 2016 Albert Bichot."

"Go home."

"And," Kojiro pulls the last box from the bag, using his thumb to flick the lid off the cardboard pastry box. He angles it so Kaoru can see. "The prinzregententorte."

There is a small, interested pause.

Kojiro's mouth tips in a knowing smile. The prinzregententorte is a seven-layer cake held together with buttercream and topped with German chocolate. It takes two and a half hours to make and it's Kaoru's favorite dessert, high maintenance princess that he is. He had it for the first time that week they spent in Munich, on Kojiro's recommendation. (That detail is heavily disputed now.)

"I'll make you a plate," Kojiro suggests, and Kaoru's only response is to look moodily out the window, which is as good as a resounding yes. 

Kaoru doesn’t say much, but he eats exactly four bites of the coq au vin, and practically inhales his slice of prinzregententorte. He glares at Kojiro until he offers up the rest of his slice, too.

“This is why you’re such a wimp,” Kojiro explains, feeding Kaoru a bite of cake. “You didn’t eat any of the protein.”

“Fuck off and go bench press something.”

The wine must be starting to kick in, because Kaoru doesn’t attempt to bite Kojiro’s thumb off when he swipes away a spot of frosting at the corner of his mouth. He only wrinkles his nose in faint disgust.

“Getting late,” Kojiro pokes around the last bit of prinzregententorte left on his plate. “Should I put the rest in the freezer?”

“Don’t bother,” Kaoru dismisses. “I’ll finish it in three days anyway.”

The implied praise settles heavy under Kojiro’s skin, and it’s so, so stupid, the way it warms him up more than a Michelin star ever could. He clears his throat. “Made you some noodles for tomorrow. Don’t waste it.”

“No.” Kaoru’s expression is thunderous. “You eat it.”

“I put twice the regular portion of chili flakes in it. You are the only person disgusting enough to eat it.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Kaoru says testily. 

“Well, good. You’re a relentless dictator and you’d make my life a living hell.” He lifts the last bite of cake to Kaoru’s mouth.

Kaoru eats it off the end of Kojiro’s fork, the lines around his eyes softening from wine or fondness, Kojiro can never tell. "God. That's amazing." He sounds angry, like Kojiro’s culinary talent is a personal affront, which is a little bit bullshit, because Kaoru was his very first taste-tester.

Kojiro winks and sets the plate on the ground.

“Kojiro.”

He looks up. Something about Kaoru’s face reminds him of being sixteen, of the first time Kaoru broke his arm and the weekend they spent in Kaoru’s room, eating homemade curry puffs and watching Yuto Horigome videos on YouTube. Kaoru had fallen asleep with his head on Kojiro’s chest, and Kojiro had brushed his fingers through Kaoru’s hair, wondering if he’d ever known what a real crush felt like before that moment.

“Just stay,” Kaoru tells him now, his hand on Kojiro’s wrist. “You’ll come back tomorrow anyway. It’s a waste of gas.”

“I walked.”

“A waste of time, then. Not that yours is valuable, but still.”

Kojiro doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He reaches up to twist a lock of Kaoru’s hair around his finger. “Looks like a rat’s nest.”

Kaoru’s frown deepens. “So brush it for me, dimwit.” He draws his fingers up the inside of Kojiro’s wrist, an absent, possessive gesture. “Stay.”

Kojiro stays. 

He brushes Kaoru’s hair on the floor of his bedroom, Kaoru sitting between his legs, back ramrod straight as Kojiro works the tangles out of the ends. He draws the comb along the curve of his scalp and down to the base of his neck, watching a shiver pass down the elegant arc of Kaoru’s spine. 

“I’m,” Kaoru says, but he has nothing to follow it up with. Kojiro studies the sharp cut of his jaw, the edge of his eyebrow. 

He rubs thoughtfully at the juncture of Kaoru’s neck. “Come on. Let’s get some rest.”

 

 

A week later, when Kaoru is out of the chair and the sling, he comes by the restaurant after closing with a set of framed prints. It takes Kojiro a second to realize that they’re renderings of three of the dishes on his specials menu, paired with pretty scraps of poetry about food and home. Kaoru makes a big show about putting them up on a specific wall in a specific spot, where he says the decor is so drab that it’s just a massive eyesore, really he’s doing himself a favor because he no longer has to look at it.

But even that is not enough to totally conceal the thoughtfulness of the gift, and Kojiro, having no earthly idea of how to thank him, awkwardly insults hair and makes up an excuse about cleaning the countertops.

Kaoru, for his part, looks relieved they don’t have to talk about it. He sits at the bar and drinks nearly an entire bottle of rice wine himself, looking bitter and disdainful when Kojiro pauses closing to swipe a glass before it’s all gone.

“Remember Sydney,” Kaoru asks, fiddling with the folds of his yukata. “Bowl-a-rama, 2018?”

Kojiro smiles crookedly. “What made you think of that?”

“That was the last time I had this much namazake sake.” He snorts. “I tried to sleep with you that night.”

Kojiro nearly chokes on his wine, turning a bewildered, sidelong look at Kaoru. “What?”

The corner of Kaoru’s mouth curves in a dry smile, appraising eyes shifting just to the left of Kojiro. “Figures you didn’t notice. Gorilla.”

The inside of his brain blue screens. “You’re bullshitting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Why would I make up something that embarrassing?” Kaoru rolls his eyes, tone taking on a sharp edge. “I practically threw myself at you.”

Kojiro definitely would’ve remembered that. “No, you didn’t.” He frowns, trying to recall the details of that night, two and a half years later. “You said... you said something like -- 

Kaoru heaves an exasperated sigh. “I said ‘this bed looks big enough for me, you, and your stupid muscles.’”

Right. Kaoru had been standing in the doorway of his hotel room, which was an actual room, for once, rather than a bunk bed in a hostel. It was close to midnight and they’d both been skating for the past 8 hours. Kaoru was tired and beautiful, loose shirt tugged down past his collarbone, hair shifting over his shoulder to expose the smooth curve of his neck.

He said that to Kojiro while his fingers drummed a restless pattern on his leg. The cinch of his frown had been nervous, almost, and the way he’d been looking at Kojiro was something like expectant, but Kojiro had thought...

Well. He hadn’t thought at all, honestly.

"You were just being a dick,” Kojiro says, at a loss.

“A little. But it was also an invitation.” He takes a sip of his wine, bracing his hip against the edge of the counter. “I assumed you weren’t interested.”

And objectively this particular moment of miscommunication is Kojiro’s fault, but come the fuck on. “You’re kidding me, right?”

A little wrinkle of confusion takes shape between Kaoru’s perfect eyebrows. “No.”

“You are… really dumb, you know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like, just, hugely, massively dumb. I don’t think they’ve invented a word, for how oblivious you are.”

Kaoru swirls his wine glass threateningly. “Haven’t you had enough drinks thrown in your face to know when it’s coming?”

Yes, but that’s never really stopped him before. God, he can feel himself about to say something stupid, the impulsive moron in him rising up in him quicker than he knows how to control. 

“I loved you, idiot,” Kojiro scoffs. “I’ve loved you since we were sixteen.”

Kaoru goes very, very still, like he does when Kojiro really pisses him off, to the point where he is vaguely considering leaving the country and changing his name. After a long moment’s silence -- Kojiro does take a moment to appreciate the novelty of leaving Kaoru speechless -- he levels a truly bone-chilling look at Kojiro over the top of his glasses. “Say that again.”

Kojiro snorts. “No fucking way.” He goes back to wiping down the counter. “I can’t believe you, acting all high and mighty because you came onto me once . I hate to break it to you, Kaoru, but I have you beat, for obvious interest versus total stupidity.”

“Kojiro.”

“Not to mention the fact I had to spend a whole year watching you moon over Adam --”

“ Kojiro. ”

“What, like that isn’t true? You were obsessed with him. And then, jesus christ, you dated that penmaker for a while, he was such an incurable douchenozzle --”

“Shut up,” Kaoru hisses, and Kojiro only does because Kaoru puts a hand on his arm and ten years later, his brain still short-circuits when Kaoru touches him. “Still?”

“What?”

Kaoru looks annoyed that he has to explain. “Do you still love me, imbecile?”

Kojiro briefly considers lying but he’s never been much good at it, especially not under the amber pin of Kaoru’s eyes, so intensely focused that Kojiro briefly wonders if he’s trying to set him on fire with his mind. 

“Yeah,” Kojiro says stubbornly. “Yeah, I do.”

Kaoru stares at him for another second. Then he lifts a tentative hand, the callused pads of his fingers settling along the edge of Kojiro’s jaw.

Kojiro panics. Slightly. “What are you doing?”

Kaoru’s eyes flash. His glare seems to say ‘what do you think I’m doing, you brainless simpleton?’ Kaoru uses the hand on his jaw to angle Kojiro towards him, then leans in, close enough that Kojiro can see the tiny, faded scar on his chin from the first time he tried a frontside 50-50. Kojiro gave him a Spiderman bandaid after.

“Are you going to touch me?” Kaoru asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Kojiro places his hands on Kaoru’s hips. Kaoru’s lips tilt in a rare, perfect smile, which he presses against Kojiro’s mouth.

It takes Kojiro a solid three seconds to get over the initial dazed realization of holy shit, I’m kissing Kaoru , but he becomes a much more active participant once he does. He figures it’s a good idea to put it all on the table, because Kaoru’s probably going to give him a grade or something after. Kojiro tilts his head, pressing Kaoru against the counter, and Kaoru’s lips are stupid soft as they part around a gasp.

“I love you, too,” Kaoru says, between kisses. He winds his arms around Kojiro’s neck. “Every moment, I loved you, too.”

Kojiro pauses, then breathes a dizzy laugh against Kaoru’s mouth. He holds Kaoru tighter. Go fucking figure .

Notes:

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