Work Text:
When Haru awakes, it’s already past ten in the morning.
He turns his head, scowling at his alarm clock showing the time in obnoxiously red numbers, groaning. Shutting his eyes from the morning sunlight, Haru tugs the white bedsheets closer to his bare chest and curls into a tight ball, hoping to fall back to his beautiful slumber. It’s finally his day off after a tiring and successful investigation; the least he deserves is another five minutes of napping.
That is, until a certain sweet aroma wafts over his nose, reminding him of sweet vanilla and cooked butter, and there’s a touch of… something burnt?
Haru immediately pushes himself out of bed with an annoyed groan, rubbing the drowsiness out of his vision with a hand. “Ugh… don’t tell me,” He pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning.
What could possibly be cooking in his kitchen that there might be something on fire? There’s no way he can deal with another bill added to his budget for repair if something bad happens to his apartment. His wallet is already weeping, for crying out loud.
Haru glances around his bedroom before realizing that there was a cool and empty spot beside his bed, and it hits him.
Oh, right, Haru blinks slowly, palm brushing over the space.
Recollections of Daisuke pressing up close to his chest floods his mind. He remembers the strong arms wrapping intimately around his waist, their legs tangling around each other with muscles sore from running and catching their culprit. They had held each other like that with their heartbeats falling into tandem with one another. Eventually, he had fallen asleep to the gentle rhythm of Daisuke’s breathing filling the quiet night.
Haru’s heart squeezes fondly at the memory, still feeling the traces of heat lingering in his skin from where Daisuke hugged him tight as he slept, his expression softening.
He was with me last night. I wonder if he’s…
Haru stretches and yawns lazily before he slips off from the covers and grabs a white sweater that was thrown haphazardly on the floor to wear.
When his bare feet touch the cold tiles of the kitchen, he finds none other than Kanbe Daisuke, wearing a pink apron over a loose button-up and simple black slacks, his back facing towards Haru’s direction.
But what made Haru stop in his tracks is the baking utensils and bags of sugar and flour strewn across the counter. He stares dumbfoundedly at a carton of eggs laid open, and beside it is a box of strawberries that lay on the corner, untouched.
Daisuke turns around, probably from hearing his footsteps, and Haru sees the surprised expression etched on his face, and—is that frosting smearing at the corner of his lips?
“Haru,” Daisuke breathes out in astonishment, as if he’s been caught doing something that’s meant to be a secret.
“Daisuke, what are you doing...?” Haru squints his eyes against the bright sunlight pouring in from the window blinds and strolls over to Daisuke’s side.
Haru peeks over Daisuke’s shoulders and sees a flattened piece of bread with burnt edges. It… looks like a burnt piece of cake with the top being too crisp and dark. Haru is sure that biting into the breading would be too dry and hard for the mouth to digest, judging from its appearance and smell.
“Were… were you trying to make a cake?” Haru asks with a hint of disbelief in his voice. All of this would’ve been comical, really, after knowing the kind of person Daisuke is. But when he turns to look at the other, Haru feels his breath stop at the sight of Daisuke pursing his lips, eyes staring down at the cake petulantly.
No way, is he sulking...?
“Well, it is your birthday,” is all Daisuke says in a quieter voice, his gaze averting to the side.
Haru could only stare at Daisuke, shocked and bewildered with wide eyes, feeling his chest clench and heart turn weak at the same time.
That’s right, today’s his birthday.
Well, aside from that, and the fact that Daisuke made something for him, Haru doesn't remember the last time someone cooked for him. He only recalls the last time when his mother had made bentos back in high school before things became a blur. That’s when he had switched his routine with cooking once he had moved out, supporting himself like an independent and proper adult.
Since then, he’s only eaten store-bought or homemade cakes. But, now, seeing Daisuke put an effort into making something like this for him…
Haru thinks he might have a heart attack today, and Kanbe Daisuke will be the only reason for his demise.
A small snort escapes from Haru’s nose. Then suddenly, he couldn’t help the smile stretching across his cheeks as a hearty chuckle pours out his mouth, feeling warmth blossoming deep in his lungs and leaving in elated laughter.
“I can’t believe you,” Haru says breathlessly, laughing, “You know it’s not too hard to make a cake, right? How can you mess it up this badly?” He says, his words withholding joy and not a single bite.
(And Haru—the hopeless idiot that he is—is too unaware of himself to notice. But Daisuke finds himself caught and captivated by the spell of Haru’s image, staring in awe at Haru’s expression bathing in the yellow-orange sun’s glow, his messy bed hair and wide smile lighting up the room brighter than anything else here.)
“I, uh… wanted to try it on my own without HEUSC,” is all Daisuke manages out, almost stumbling in his words.
“That’s quite bold of you, since I bet you’ve never tried cooking in your life,” Haru smiles smugly at Daisuke. “C’mon, let’s make it together instead! Then you can make it up to me by using my kitchen and messing up my place,” Haru suggests, suddenly more excited to get started on his day off as he rolls up his sleeves.
He then glances over at Daisuke before realizing, and brings a thumb up to swipe at the frosting smudge at his cheek and licks it off his finger. “You got a bit of a mess there.”
Daisuke blinks at the action, as if he’s suddenly snapped out of an enchanted trance. He then gives a small smile, his eyes softening. “Sure,” he nods.
And without saying anything else, Daisuke reaches out to intertwine Haru's hand with his, slowly and lovingly, and leans in to press a tender kiss on his smiling lips.
At that moment, Haru’s definitely sure—with all the flours staining their clothes and buttercream frost painting their cheeks—he wouldn’t want to spend his birthday in any other way.