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threadbaresweater · 7 months

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if music be the food of love, play on

Nanami Kento x reader. You're the proud owner of a new music store that just opened up beside Kento's Bakery, a beloved oasis on a busy street of a quaint small town. Nanami is cold and unwelcoming when you first meet, but as the weeks pass, he discovers that there's a world of music and happiness right at his doorstep.

Tags: bakery owner Nanami, female musician reader (main instrument is piano); lots of technical talk about music; lots of food mentions (it's a bakery au, afterall); fluff, Nanami doesn't have a sorcerer background, Nobara and Haibara as supporting characters, first kisses, little bit of pining, smidge of angst for Nanami's back story. I've been nursing this for months and finally found the time to finish it today. Before you ask about a part two, please know that it's being considered, though it will be slow based on how long it took me to write this.

See end notes for details on the music mentioned throughout the story and an explanation of the title. 6.5k words. Dividers by the lovely @/cafekitsune.

While most of the city is still fast asleep, Nanami Kento unlocks the front door of his bakery and steps inside, ready for another day of creating the neighborhood's best loved bread and pastries. He works alone until his front of house staff arrives a little before 6:00 a.m., when it's time to open to the public. Every morning is the same– by the time he flips the little sign on the door from Closed to Open, there's a case full of fresh baked pastries that have each been handcrafted with loving skill by Nanami's hands. It's meditative for him– ingredients, measurements, time, routine, a well-loved butcher’s block table, intoxicating aromas and his favorite music playing on an old record player. He has an affinity for the classics: Vivaldi, Brahms, Chopin, Tchaikovsky. But on weekend mornings, when the strict weekday regimen is more relaxed and free, it’s jazz.

The storefront is small, the floors made of old pine planks that groan underfoot, and there's room for one small table for two in front of the window that faces the street. There are a few framed prints of famous artworks on the walls, a well-loved spider plant hanging in the corner, and a small wooden shelf with the daily newspaper and a few old cookbooks. Behind the cash register is a cutaway window where Nanami's kitchen is nestled just beyond. Customers come from miles around at all different times of the day– the morning commuters who build an extra fifteen minutes into their routine to stop in for a cup of coffee to go and a savory pastry wrapped in brown paper, the afternoon crowd who call to order sandwiches ahead for themselves and their coworkers to eat in the park on their lunch break, the evening crowd that stops to grab a fresh loaf of sourdough or rye to take home for dinner. By the time the last customer has left for the day, the case is empty and the cash register is full. An overnight baker comes in around 8 p.m. to begin prepping and proofing for the next morning, and Kento departs for home.

He appreciates the routine. It's predictable and comforting, and he thrives on knowing that he's still making a difference in the world– or, at least, in his little neighborhood. Owning a bakery is not a glamorous existence, but it’s honest work. His staff is competent and efficient, and he pays them fairly. He’s never failed a health department inspection– his kitchen is pristine and organized, with fresh ingredients and well-kept equipment being of utmost priority. It took him months to jump through all the hoops; health, utility, and zoning inspectors paraded through the store, nitpicking at every small detail until it’s all up to code. Nanami had little patience for all the red tape, but he held his tongue and signed all the papers and paid all the fees. He hired and trained a handful of workers and opened for business on a sleepy Thursday morning.

By the time the little music store comes to life next door, he’s been in business for over two years. And he’s thriving. Amid the other small businesses– a florist, an artist co-op, a jeweler, a few specialty clothing boutiques, a candy shop– he’s respected and loved, though the rest of the owners agree that he’s a bit of a grump. Hard to talk to, rarely smiles or makes small talk. Perhaps none of them have ever really given him a chance to say anything. Or perhaps Kento doesn’t really want to say anything to them. For all intents and purposes, he seems happy with his lot.

You purchase the store next door to Kento’s at the end of September. It takes a few weeks for the finer details to be secured, but the day you move in, it’s sunny and unseasonably warm. Nanami watches from behind the counter as the box truck you rented pulls up and takes up two parking spaces in front of his bakery. The dough he’s kneading bears the brunt of his frustration as he continues to watch.

You and two men get out; you survey your parking job and shrug your shoulders as if to say this will have to do. The truck is large, and there isn’t a lot of room in the alley behind the store, so it's really your only option. With a worried nibble of your fingernail, you turn and look in the window of the bakery to see if anyone’s watching. The glare on the glass makes it hard for you to tell, but Nanami watches you with a deep frown as you motion for your movers to start unloading the truck. For a moment, it looks like you’re going to come inside, but you change your mind mid step and go to unlock the door to your own store instead.

Nanami finishes the dough he’s working, dusts off his hands on his apron, and decides it’s time to confront you.

“Mr. Kento, is everything okay?” the counter attendant asks, concern etched into her features. “Are you–”

“I’ll be right back,” he says, without making eye contact. Onto the sidewalk he steps and crosses his arms, looking from your giant truck and over to your store, mouth slightly open, brows arched. He’s clearly annoyed, and he’s about to make it known when you bounce over to him, extending a hand in greeting.

“Hi! You must be Kento. I’ve never been to your bakery, but I’ve heard wonderful things.” You tell him your name, even though he doesn’t ask. And when he doesn’t take your hand, you sheepishly pull yours away, feeling a little deflated.

“You’re taking up two parking spaces.” It’s all he offers.

You scratch the back of your head and huff a little laugh. “Yeah, sorry about that. The alley is so narrow, and I wasn’t sure if–”

“I receive deliveries out back twice a week, in a truck of a similar size. None of those drivers have ever had a problem fitting.”

Nodding, you stammer an apology, then call out to your movers. “We can park out back, you guys! He says there’s plenty of room!”

Nanami seems to relax, but only a little. “This is customer parking.”

You scoff, but you feel your face grow hot. This definitely isn’t the way you’d hoped to meet your next door business owner. “Look, I said I was sorry, okay? I’m not sure what else you want me to do.” As you start to say you’d like to buy something from him, the truck roars to life and you snap your lips shut with a short nod. Pleased, Nanami retreats back inside just as one of his customers pulls in to claim one of the spaces your truck left.

It takes hours to unload the truck, and days after that to sort through everything you’ve brought with you. You don’t hear another word from the baker next door, and you’re quite content with being left alone to organize your store the way you envisioned. There’s much more than you’d realized– stacks of sheet music, instruments you’d picked up at auctions and thrift stores that needed a little TLC, boxes of records and CD’s and even a few old cassette tapes, and an old upright piano that had been yours since the tender age of four. Your grandmother taught you to play on this piano, and now, it’s your turn to pass on the skill. Deep down, you know it’s a little crazy and overly-ambitious to open a music store and attempt to teach piano lessons, but you want to try. If worse comes to worst, you could always hire someone to tend to the store while you teach.

As the weeks go by and autumn settles in, word of your shop travels through town. You aren’t terribly busy yet, but you have a few regulars from the local university who like to raid your record collection from time to time, and you teach about a dozen piano students on a weekly basis. There’s generally a lull in business in the early afternoon, so on a particularly cool October day, you decide to lock up for a few minutes and head next door. You haven’t seen Nanami since the first time you met, but you’re hoping he doesn’t kick you out when he sees you at his counter.

A little bell above the door signals your arrival. Inside the bakery, it’s warm and inviting and smells like coffee and your grandmother’s kitchen. You order a drink and a croissant and make small talk with the counter staff. She’s young and smiling, seemingly happy to be at work as she goes about making your coffee order. You look around, noting the finer details of the store– the handwritten tags on the different varieties of bread, the old world feel and warm, yellow lighting. For someone whose first impression left you a little disenchanted, he certainly knows how to create a charming atmosphere.

As you go to leave, you hear your name called from the kitchen. You turn around just as you tear off a piece of the croissant to stuff in your mouth and meet Nanami's eyes, chewing in wide-eyed wonder. The flaky, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth texture of the croissant makes you want to moan in delight. But you're also gobsmacked that he remembers your name.

You swallow, then offer him a wide smile and a thumbs up from the hand that holds your coffee. "Kento! Nice to see you! I didn't know you were here today," you demure.

He is not impressed. "I'm here every day."

"Oh, right– being the owner and all."

"How do you like it?" he asks, giving a subtle incline of his head toward the pastry in your hand.

"Wha– oh, this?" You purse your lips and kiss the air. "Delectable. Delightful." You bite off another piece, and some of the flaky dough flutters across your cheek. "I should have come over weeks ago."

Something in his demeanor softens. It's so subtle that you'd probably have missed it if you weren't watching him so closely, anticipating his next move. "I wondered if you ever would, considering our first encounter."

You scoff. "That's old news. I was over it an hour after it happened."

There's a hint of a smile that lifts the corner of his mouth, and he pushes his glasses up with a floured finger. "Yes, I suppose it is."

For a brief moment, he considers asking about how business has been going for you, but ultimately decides against it. You take a sip of coffee as the cashier looks between the two of you, busying herself with wiping down the counter while trying to appear nonchalant. "Well," you begin, hooking your thumb over your shoulder, "I should probably head back over. I have a student coming soon. Nice talking to you, Kento!"

His interest is piqued. "Student?"

You nod, chewing on another mouthful. "Mm-hm! I teach piano lessons."

A golden brow raises, and his brown eyes gleam behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "I had no idea."

You laugh. "That's why you should come and visit me! I haven't had the most warm welcome in this little neighborhood, and you're partly to blame for that."

"I thought you said that was old news," he deadpans.

You throw him a wink and use your elbow to open the door. "Later, Kento."

You visit once or twice a week, then every day. It becomes part of your morning routine to visit, and you know it's no good for your wallet, but you can’t resist. Eventually, the counter staff stops charging you for coffee. “It’s on the house,” Nanami calls from his station one morning. You leave an extra tip in the little jar by the cash register, and he scowls at you. You laugh and wave, then head back to your store, pleased that you seem to know just how to get under his skin.

You bring him a record next time you come. Vivaldi– The Four Seasons. You’d been at an auction over the weekend and thought of him when you found it. You slide it across the counter and tip your head toward the grumpy baker in the back. “For your boss,” you tell the cashier, whose name you’ve learned is Nobara and that she’s in school for graphic design but she’s been shadowing Kento and learning the art of baking.

“He won’t take it,” she whispers, though her mouth betrays her when she grins with you in a conspiratorial sort of way. She slips it under the counter and leans forward, lowering her voice even further. “I’ll make sure he hears it, though.”

You sip your coffee and meander toward the window while Nobara sneaks her way toward the record player that’s playing some pretentious Bach etudes. She rolls her eyes and pretends to yawn, then winks at you and lifts the needle.

“What happened?” As soon as the music stops, Kento calls from the kitchen, though you can’t see him from where you stand. You and Nobara share a wide-eyed moment while she slides the Vivaldi record out of its sleeve.

“Record’s over!” she replies. “Just getting another one out.”

You stifle a giggle behind your palm as she drops the needle. A few revolutions of static fill the small space, then the triumphant fanfare of Spring makes your heart leap with familiar excitement.

Kento steps out from the kitchen, dusting his hands on his apron. It’s only the second time you’ve seen the entirety of him, as most of the time his lower half is obscured by the wall behind the cash register. He’s taller than you realized, with broad shoulders that strain against the cotton of his button up. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and you can’t help but notice the well-defined muscle in his forearms and the thickness of his fingers. He looks from you to Nobara, then back to you. He’s not amused, but he isn’t exactly mad, either. You wonder if this guy has ever smiled at all.

“Vivaldi,” he says. “This isn’t my record.”

“It is now,” you say. Nobara grabs a broom and sweeps under one of the tables, and Kento steps a little closer to you. The music plays on, and you can’t tell if he’s listening and doesn’t want to ruin the vibe or if he truly is at a loss for words.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks, reaching in his back pocket, presumably for his wallet.

You shake your head and smile at him. “It’s on the house. Now we’re even.”

“I didn’t realize you were in my debt.”

“Coffee. I haven’t paid for a cup in almost two weeks. I wanted to give you something in return.”

He knocks on your door just after you've locked up on a cold, rainy November afternoon.

“That’s not necessary,” he says, and if you didn’t know any better (and you really don’t) you’d think he was offended. He pulls a couple of bills from his wallet and holds them out to you. “Really. The coffee isn’t a big deal.”

You take a couple of steps backward until your shoulder butts into the door. The little bell above you jingles merrily. “Neither is the record!” And before he can say another word, you’re trotting back to your territory, leaving him with the triumphant sounds of Spring and your mischievous smile emblazoned on his psyche.

"We're closed!" you shout from the back, not bothering to see who's at the door.

"It's Kento," he calls, fitting as much of his body as he can under the awning to avoid getting any wetter than he already is.

You smile to yourself and go to let him in, sweeping your arm in a grand gesture. "Welcome to my humble shop, good sir. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

He doesn't even crack a smile, but steps over the threshold and dries his shoes on the welcome mat. For a moment, he doesn't speak, only looks around at your haphazard organization of goods. You watch him curiously, filing away a few pieces of sheet music before fully turning to face him.

“How do you like it?” you ask.

“Quaint,” he answers, not meeting your gaze. You notice for the first time that he’s carrying a brown paper bag, and he approaches you, wordlessly holding it out for you to take.

“Aw, thanks, Kento.” You accept it with a smile and stick your nose down in the bag, inhaling deeply.

“Rosemary,” he offers when he sees you lift a brow, trying to place the scent.

“It smells incredible.”

“You give piano lessons.” It’s a statement, not a question. You chuckle lightly at his abrupt change of subject. Either he’s incredibly socially awkward, or he doesn’t waste time on trivial small talk. You think it’s probably the latter.

“Right. We talked about it before. Why? Do you have a niece or something that wants to learn?”

He cocks his head at you, still expressionless. “No. I do.”

THe silence between you stretches on for just a beat too long, making the air tense and awkward. Nanami’s eyes don’t leave your face, and you find yourself stuttering out some kind of affirmative sound.

“Do you have an opening in your schedule?”

“I have a few!” you say. “What’s a good time for you?”

Nanami looks at his watch. “There’s no time like the present. Is this time of day usually free for you?”

“I–” You laugh sheepishly, but gesture for him to follow you to the back of the store where your little, slightly out of tune upright piano sits, surrounded by shelves of method books, theory worksheets, and volumes upon volumes of music through the ages. “I usually use this time to practice my own stuff, but I could make time for you.”

He slides easily onto the old wooden bench and inches it back, away from the keys, to accommodate his long legs. To say you’re surprised when he begins to play scales would be an understatement. He’s a little clumsy, using the wrong fingers on the wrong keys some of the time, but he keeps a steady tempo as his hands move up and down the octaves.

“You didn’t tell me you knew how to play,” you murmur, sitting in the chair you have placed to his right. Your teaching chair. Your newest student watches his hands, a lock of his golden hair falling over his forehead as he tilts his chin downward. You cross your legs and smile fondly.

"I took lessons as a child," he says quietly. "But I didn't keep up with it once I went to high school." He stops abruptly, then turns to you. "I'd like to refresh, though. Maybe learn a new piece or two."

"Of course!" From one of the shelves to your right, you pull out a volume of simplified classical pieces, thumbing through until you find one suitable. You lean forward and place it in front of him. "How's your sight reading?"

"Poor," he frowns, but he begins to pluck out the melody line, slow and deliberate.

"That's your assignment this week, then. I'll give you a book for home practice, and when you come back next week, be prepared to play one or two songs for me. Focus on the mechanics, the fingering, the tempo. We'll add in dynamics when you feel you've got it."

He continues to play, his left hand pressing against the pages to keep them from falling shut. "What's your fee?"

You answer without hesitation. "Bread."

He raises a brow as if to ask if you're serious. "Bread?"

You nod. "Bread. One loaf per week. Doesn't matter what kind, though I'm partial to a well-made focaccia."

"Bread is hardly sufficient for your services."

"I'm trying to be neighborly here, Kento. Indulge me."

"Fine. One loaf per week. And I'll buy my own sheet music."

"That's not necessary, I have–"

"I'll buy my own sheet music," he reiterates. You snap your mouth shut and give him a swift nod.

If his demeanor as a student is anything like his demeanor as a business owner, you're in for one hell of a ride.

The days grow short as winter settles in. With the holidays just around the corner, Nanami's bakery grows busier by the day with custom orders for parties and other social events, and you're busy preparing students for their first studio recital. Despite his busy schedule, he still visits you every Thursday afternoon and astounds you with the progress he makes. You wonder how he finds the time to practice, especially now, during his busiest season.

You've learned a few things about him during your time together. He's not much of a talker, preferring to keep his private life private. But when you do manage to get a little bit of personal information out of him, he gets a faraway, melancholy look in his eye, like maybe some part of him is stuck in those memories of a life long past. He’s divorced. It was a childless, loveless marriage, one where his ex-wife chased more after her own pleasure than their mutual enjoyment in more ways than one. He worked for years as a financial advisor, and when the divorce settlement came, she took her share of their assets and moved across the continent. He soon began to feel suffocated by the endless hours he spent at the office, so he took up baking as a hobby. What began as a way to distract himself from loneliness turned into a lucrative business opportunity; he opened the bakery with part of his retirement fund and never looked back.

His favorite composer is Beethoven. He appreciates the moodiness of the music, the complex and haunting melodies that seem to speak to a part of his soul he's buried long ago. You want to ask him why he never pursued music, but he beats you to the punch.

"There was a time as a child that I dreamed of being a concert pianist," he says quietly. He's playing the same two measures of a Beethoven piece, just the left hand, committing the sequence to muscle memory.

You hum and tilt your head. "What happened to that dream?"

He grunts, frustrated, though with the passage of music or his memory, you couldn't say. "My father. 'You won't make any money as a musician', he'd tell me. I said I didn't care about the money, so he found other ways to discourage me."

You're angry at his father on his behalf. It's true, the life of a musician isn't all glitz and glamor, but it's fulfilling work. The friendships formed and the memories of performances and late night jam sessions are worth more than any measly paycheck you might receive. It might be a romanticized way to think about it, but it's not unreasonable to find a way to make a modest living from music.

"So you studied–"

"Finance. Numbers. Spreadsheets and accounting. Math and music aren't really all that different when you break it down," he says. "Of course, you can't put emotion into algebraic equations," he scoffs. He lifts his hand from the keyboard and turns to look at you. "But you can with bread."

You nod. "It's true. I'm sorry you didn't have anyone to encourage you to follow your heart."

He pauses, lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something retaliatory; but he sighs instead. "So am I."

You're struck suddenly with an idea, and nearly knock over your chair to open one of your cabinets. Nanami watches carefully as your fingers flip through different books, your eyes alight with excitement and maybe a smidge of mischief. "Found it!" You nudge him with the book as you sit on the edge of the bench to his right. "Scoot."

"What's this?" he asks as you set the music in front of the two of you.

"Play this with me," you say. You grab the book and bend the spine so that it lays a little more flat. "Look. It's in C Major. It's not fast. And your part is simple!" When he looks at you, skeptical, you laugh. "It's sight reading practice! Come on Kento, don't be scared."

It isn't the music that he's afraid of. It's the proximity of you, sitting mere inches away from him on the same bench. It's your shoulder rubbing against his, the light floral scent of your perfume, the way the setting sun slants in from the front window and makes your eyes shine. He swallows thickly and tears his gaze away from you to study the music, ghosting his hands over the keys without actually pressing them.

"I'll take care of page turns. You control the pedal. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," he says.

"Alright. On my count. One-two-three-four–"

It isn't perfect by a long shot. You get through the first few pages without much difficulty, but Nanami's capacity for sight reading isn't quite up to par, and he grows frustrated that he can't keep up with you. He stops after an unsuccessful attempt at a set of quick sixteenth notes and shakes his head.

"What's wrong?"

"I need more practice," he murmurs, watching your hands as you continue playing.

"You were doing fine!"

"Not as good as you."

You laugh, incredulous. "Kento, I've got years of practice on you! Give yourself a break!" You swat playfully at his shoulder and start to slide away from the bench, but he takes hold of your wrist. You freeze, and the smile falls from your lips when you see the way he's looking at you.

"I'll pay you for the extra time if I can stay a little longer." I want to get this right. For you.

When you settle back in beside him, he releases his grip on your wrist. The loss of warmth and pressure takes your breath away. Your tongue feels to heavy for your mouth when you agree to let him stay. "You don't have to pay me. Let's work this through."

You spend the next hour writing in numbers on the sheet music to guide him on which fingers to use on which keys, which passages are important to the call and response with your part, where to pause, where to speed up. The piece in its entirety is long; four movements, a total performance time of over forty minutes, but you plan to concentrate only on the first. Nanami is attentive and asks plenty of relevant questions, but as the evening draws on, you find it hard to concentrate on the music. Stifling a yawn with the back of your hand, you glance at the old grandfather clock that stands near the back door.

"I think that will give you enough to do this week, don't you think?" In the beat of silence that follows your question, your stomach gurgles. Embarrassed, you rub a hand over your abdomen. "Sorry."

Nanami closes the book and checks his watch. "When did you last eat?" he asks.

"I had an early lunch. Breakfast. Brunch?" You giggle at yourself and shrug. "A while ago," you admit.

He's at war with himself, and it's written all over his face. There's guilt for keeping you so late, annoyance that you didn't stop teaching him at a reasonable time. There's a thankfulness in the way his brows knit together, though, and a tender admiration for how dedicated you are. He also wants to take you to dinner, but he doesn't want it to be a date, and he doesn't want you to think that he's asking you out because he doesn't want to overstep any sort of student-teacher relationship.

But he owns a bakery that's stocked with food, whose employees have long gone home for the evening.

"Come with me."

You begin to protest. You know what he's going to offer, but you're tired and a little frazzled, and you know you won't be good company for much longer. "Kento, I appreciate it, but–"

"Let me make you something."

You sigh, but your stomach has more to say.

Nanami lifts a brow and quirks up the corner of his mouth. "Come on," he says, "before I change my mind."

The sidewalk is dusted with a glittering swirl of snow when you step outside and lock up. The street in front of your shops is barren and dark, save for a lone, flickering street lamp and a biting cold winter wind. You wish you'd thought to grab your coat (or at least a scarf), but Nanami is quick to unlock his door and usher you inside, his hand hovering near the small of your back, barely touching. You're immediately thankful for the warmth of his bakery. Even now, with the ovens off and only the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the atmosphere warm and welcoming. You roll some of the tension out of your shoulders and look around while he goes straight to the record player and puts on an album. This one is different than his usual fare; the crackle of the needle on vinyl satisfies you in a way you can't explain, and soon you're surprised to hear the croon of Louis Armstrong.

"I didn't take you for a jazz fan," you muse, following him behind the counter. You feel like you're being let in on one of the world's best kept secrets, like you really shouldn't be here, even though you were invited– no, told– to come. Nanami pulls out a stool and instructs you to sit, and you do, though you're itching to help in some way.

"Sure you don't need me to do anything?"

He looks at you over the rim of his glasses, then uses his index finger to push them up the bridge of his nose. You take that as a no, so you settle onto the stool and listen to the music while he works.

"You know, for it to be a real exchange of services, you should teach me how to bake."

He continues to assemble two sandwiches with cold cuts of meat and fresh tomato and some kind of pesto spread that makes your mouth water. The sound of the serrated edge of a knife cutting through a loaf of crusty bread makes your stomach growl again. Nanami scoffs. "I'm not a good teacher."

"Bullshit. I bet you're amazing."

"I'm not patient. I thought you'd be able to figure that out from the way I study piano." He sets a plate in front of you, then pulls out another stool, settling in adjacent from you at the other side of the prep table. You wonder if it's not customary for him to eat here. Something tells you that he likes to keep this space pristine when he's not using it for its intended purpose, but you choose to ignore it.

"You've got to have a little patience stored in there somewhere." You point to his heart and smile. "Doesn't bread take hours from start to finish? Pastries, too? And pies, and cookies and stuff?"

"Cookies don't take hours," he says. "But you do have a point with the bread and pastries. If you really want to learn, I'll teach you. But not tonight." He nods toward the sandwich. "Eat. I know you're hungry."

You eat. The first bite is a little piece of heaven; you expected nothing less, based on the other things you've eaten from his bakery, but this is on another level. Maybe it's because you haven't eaten in hours, or maybe it's because you're exhausted. Maybe it's because the man sitting with you made it for you and you didn't have to cook or decide what kind of takeout to get, but you'd swear it to be the best sandwich you've had in your life.

You don't talk much between bites, and neither does he. He, too, seems exhausted by the work he put in, but not in a way that has him feeling defeated. It's a sense of accomplishment, a tired sort of pride that comes from concentrating hard on a project that means something to him. You let the music fill the silence, you sip a cup of fresh-brewed coffee (even though you know you'll regret drinking caffeine so late), you let your spine curve as you lean on the table, feeling full and satisfied.

You offer to help him clean up. He insists that you leave it, that it's late and you should go. You pick up your plate anyway and stick out your tongue as you dance away from him and over to the sink. He grabs your wrist for the second time tonight and you look at his hand, then up at him as he tugs you gently toward him, close enough so that he can take the plate from you with his other hand. The fluorescent lighting does little to conceal his expression; a lock of his hair falls over one eye, where you see the dark half-circles in the skin underneath. He's tired. And it's not just because he spent the evening poring over music, nor is it because of the hours he keeps. You think he's just perpetually tired from the hand that life has dealt him, and you wish in that moment that you could help him rest.

"I said I've got it," he murmurs, and you suddenly realize you're closer to him than you'd thought. So close, in fact, that you feel the warmth of his breath across your cheek when he sighs at your stubbornness. There's barely an inch between your chest and his, and you catch yourself staring at his neck, wondering idly what it might feel like to run your nails along the stubble on his jaw.

You whisper, "Okay." Your lips feel dry, so you wet them with your tongue; it's an unconscious reflex, but when you see Nanami's eyes flit to your mouth and his cheeks bloom with color, you realize that he reads it in an entirely different way.

Not that you mind.

He sets your plate in the sink, never letting go of your wrist as he pulls you in even closer. He breathes through his mouth, softly, and he uses his other hand to tilt your chin upward, honey brown eyes dancing across your face. You search his face in kind; your heart is in your throat, and you feel his energy radiating all around you. Testing the waters a bit, you lean in further until the tip of your nose nudges his cheek and he closes his eyes as his hand slips around your waist.

He can't breathe when your lips touch his. You're so tentative and soft, plush silk that presses against his mouth and makes him yearn for more of you right away. There's something otherworldly that happens in that moment; you've shared kisses with a handful of people in your life, but none have ever felt quite like this. You think about the romance books that you read as a teen, where the kiss would be described as electric, charged, all-consuming, like some kind of magic spell was cast over the characters and they knew in an instant that they were meant to be.

You knew how foolish it was to believe in those kind of stories, yet here you were, standing in the middle of Nanami's kitchen, kissing him while he kissed you back, with soft jazz floating on the air, your fingers tracing across his jaw just as you'd daydreamed about only moments ago. His kiss is slow and deliberate, his tongue gentle and languid as it passes over yours and touches the corner of your mouth as if he's savoring the taste of you.

You're first to pull back, your head light, your chest fluttering as you take in a gulp of precious air. Nanami's forehead rests against yours, fingers pressed lightly against the pulse at your neck.

"You should go now," he whispers, though it's the last thing in the world he wants you to do. It's dangerous for you to stay. He isn't sure he'll be able to control himself much longer in your presence.

You nod and give his waist a squeeze as you pull away, and the fatigue of the day begins to set in. Nanami thumbs at your bottom lip before letting you go, watching as you clumsily fumble for your keys in the pocket of your jeans.

The back door opens suddenly, bringing in a gust of cold air and shimmering snow flurries, and you both jolt as the night baker steps inside. He, too, widens his eyes as he sees the two of you standing there. Nanami cards a hand through his hair and clears his throat while you fish out your keys, laughing nervously.

"Mr. Kento! You're here late," the baker says, looking between the two of you as it dawns on him what may have just happened.

"We were– I was just leaving," Nanami says. "Let me wash up, then I'll be out of your hair."

The baker smiles. "Nah, I got it. Go on home. You look tired."

Nanami begins to protest, then stops himself. "Thank you, Haibara. I'll see you in the morning."

He guides you out through the front, stopping to turn off the record player. Outside on the sidewalk, he grabs your hand, thumb running over your knuckles as he smiles at you. A genuine smile, the first one you've seen since you've known him.

"Goodnight. And thank you," he says.

"No need for thanks," you demure, squeezing his hand. "I had fun. And the sandwich was delicious. You spoil me, you know."

He kisses your forehead, then dips down to meet your lips once more. Sweet, chaste, but lingering, as if he wants to commit the feel of it to memory.

"If you’re serious about learning to bake, we can start when you're ready." Tomorrow? Is tomorrow good for you?

"I'll let you know." How about tonight? Right now? You begin to think of ways to rearrange your schedule so you can fit in baking lessons. The thought of rising before the sun makes you scowl, but you might be able to make it work. Especially since you'll be working alongside him. "Goodnight, Kento."

"Goodnight," he repeats, and when he says your name, you can almost hear the way he relishes the feel of it on his tongue.

"Don't forget to practice!" you call to him as you flit down the sidewalk. He chuckles to himself and looks up at the street lamp, hand shoved into his pockets.

"I won't."

The title is taken from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. “If music be the food of love play on,” by itself, is interpreted as equating music to food for love. On its own, as it is commonly quoted, speakers interpret it as promoting love in one’s life as one might seek out more food to sate one’s appetite. But, in the context of the play and the entire quote, it becomes clear that the speaker is asking for more music because he hopes that it will cure him of his obsessive love for Countess Olivia. He hopes that with more music, his “appetite may sicken and so die.” In the case of Nanami and his love interest, I just wanted a clever title to tie bread and music together, so the quote is interpreted here without context, which changes the meaning entirely 😂

The record that reader bring to Nanami is Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and the song specifically that plays is Spring

The Beethoven piece that he plays is Für Elise, which is a common "beginner" classical song for pianists.

The duet they play is Franz Schubert's Sonata in C Major D.812 (for four hands). They don't get very far before Nanami gives up.

In the bakery when they go to share a meal, Nanami puts on a Louis Armstrong record.

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please consider a reblog to help spread the love.

#jjk x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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vagabond-umlaut · 1 year

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fairy cakes

two dumb classmates redefining mutual pining. one injured senpai people keep linking you with. zero baking experience in your being.

what could possibly go wrong?

▸ student! gojo satoru x student! gn! reader; wc: 1.6k; background nanami x haibara; lots and lots of fluff; pining; teasing; missions; injuries and recoveries; reader is in denial and acceptance (confusing, ik); (i repeat) soft tooth-rotting fluff (i promise)

▸ belongs to series we're the summer to our winter rain but you can read this as a stand-alone if you wanna!

▸ idk what's happening to me. (another fic, so soon!?!?) (i ain't upset tho.) anyways, gif, divider and characters aren't mine. please don't plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

"are the cupcakes readyyy?"

the decision of letting these four guys spend the afternoon at your place was a blunder. terribly, horribly, greatly - a historic blunder.

you shoot geto an exasperated look. the boy simply shrugs back, lips twitching, as he takes a water bottle from the fridge and saunters back to wherever the hell he emerged from.

beside you, meanwhile, nanami continues to mutter the ingredients under his breath - the thousandth time in the past hour - making you wonder if you can survive a jump from your fourth-storeyed flat's kitchen window or not.

maybe not, you decide, cracking three eggs open and pouring them into the bowl. and even if you do, it's not worth the risk, anyways. you might've got money to burn but you would much rather not burn it all on hospital bills, thank you.

"hey, they said two eggs, not three," your classmate's solemn voice draws you from your thoughts. glancing at the boy, then at the bowl, then back at him, you feel the corners of your lip lift in a tense grin.

"that recipe you are reading's all wrong," you state, snatching the cookbook from him with one hand and snapping it shut, "my mom always baked me and my brothers cakes in our childhood. trust me, i know. i might've never baked before but it's in my blood."

you watch nanami open his mouth, then close it, then open it again - only to close it. and the metaphorical bulb lights up in your brain.

a teasing smile now carving its way onto your lips, you return to the batter, adding, "don't get stressed, kento-kun. i'm pretty sure yu-kun will looove the cupcakes. just as much as you love him."

a sputter followed by a cough sounds next to you. "hey, that- that's not true. what're you talking about?" the blond exclaims indignantly.

the whisk dropped into the batter, a loud gasp escapes you as you twist to face him. "are you implying your love for yu-kun is fake, then? oh gosh! and here i thought you were a decent person, kento-kun!" you cry out dramatically, placing a hand over your forehead.

"hey, no, that's not it," the boy refutes your claims in an instant. you watch in glee how his otherwise-stoic features grow bashful. "my feelings for haibara-kun aren't fake. they are real. quite a lot so."

"oh, is it so?" you ask in faux-curiosity, then turn to the boy, genuinely wondering, "then why don't you confess to him? yu-kun will accept it in a heartbeat, i'm sure of that."

a couple of seconds pass before the smile falls from your face, giving way to a mighty frown, as you watch the boy next to you grow silent, desolation dimming his gaze as he returns to finding the cupcake moulds.

in your sixteen years of existence, you've always viewed love as... just that. lovely. exceedingly so.

yes, you have never experienced it yourself yet, but everyone else always described it as wonderful, leaving one happy and giddy and just splendid at the end of the day.

then why does kento-kun's face grow grave at love's very mention?

"are you scared of losing him one day, kento-kun?" you ask him quietly, the words tumbling out your mouth before you registering, while you add the other ingredients - brown sugar, cocoa powder, vanilla extract - into the bowl and start whisking them again.

a long while passes - one wherein two excited yells sound from the living room, accompanied by a dramatic whine (you know whose) - after which your question receives a reply.

except, it's your inquiry thrown back at you.

"aren't you scared of losing your loved ones?" nanami asks, just as quietly as you did. in the background, yet another dramatic cry rings through the air-conditioned air.

and your mind, as if on auto-pilot, flies back to that one night a week ago you spent in the infirmary.

the night you felt the most terrified. the most penitent. the loneliest.

the mission was worded to be an easy one, a simple in-and-out kind.

gojo and you decided to visit the ruins of a shrine in nikko, kill the special-grade curse wreaking havoc there, and finally go to the patisserie nearby, he had been singing praises for, for weeks and days at end.

that was the plan, that would have been the reality too - an awesome reality to mark the start of your much-loved summer holidays - until everything went haywire, that is.

there was no one special-grade curse, there were multitudes of them. and if that wasn't enough, to couple that woe, the walls were too, too derelict and weak to bear the brunt of either of your cursed energy blows, let alone your joint attacks.

the tragedy, however, lay not in either of the facts.

the tragedy lay in gojo's and your ignorance of both of them.

before either of you could realize what's wrong, whilst you two were relaxing for a beat, having exorcised all the curses, bodies tired and bruised, the ages-old shrine came caving in on you - the roof, the walls, the everything.

and gojo, being gojo - the absolute self-sacrificing idiot you never knew he could be - chose to turn his infinity off in favour of pulling you under his tall frame, bearing the weight of the crash all upon his back.

the entire trip back to school and everything that happened after is all a blurry mess in your brain now.

save for the metallic stench of blood, the leaden weight of guilt, the sympathetic soft voices and the ice-cold hand you kept rubbing circles on and on, and pressing kisses to, throughout the night till the morning next - when a familiar pair of clear blue eyes opened, blinking blearily, and crinkled in a grin at your sight, raspy voice asking if you would mind visiting the shop a couple of days later.

your cheeks feel awfully wet as you recount those details - and you huff a watery chuckle.

"i too am scared, i guess," you admit in a hushed tone, pouring the batter into the moulds - eight, not twelve, you remind yourself, 'cause shoko went to visit family and geto's going on that date you're forcing him to go. a beat passes in utter silence before you feel a pair of arms pull you gently into a side-embrace.

"i didn't intend to make you cry, sorry," nanami says in a kind voice. you immediately open your mouth, wanting to say it's not his fault; the boy shushes you, continuing, just as gently, "why don't you take a small break, hm? only the frosting's left, right? i'll call haibara. both of us can handle it from here."

betraying your brimming eyes, you throw him an impish grin. "are you sure this wasn't some ploy to get some alone-time with your boyfie?"

"no, it wasn't," your classmate says, rolling his eyes in annoyance, though the smile on his lips tell you otherwise. accepting the napkin from him, you let him maneuver you towards the living room, an arm slung around your shoulders, when he speaks up again, "geto senpai will be leaving for his date in another couple of minutes. he's already ready."

your brows furrow a tad as you glance at him from the corner of your eyes. nanami hates stating the obvious... then why is he now?

"of course, i know that. i was the one who set him up on that date, remember?" you say, perplexed, "so?"

"so..." the blond drawls with a rare wide grin. did the sun rise in the west today or something of the sort?

"you should've realized by now, it was a ploy to get you some alone-time with your boyfie."

an indignant gasp escaping, you twist in his grasp, ready to deny his mind-boggling claims - then stop when you catch gojo grin at you, waving not unlike a maniac, from where he is slouched on the couch.

ignoring the tight feeling in your chest (must have been a heartburn from that stale pizza), you grin back at your shades-wearing senpai, waving just as wildly.

nanami's an idiot - you decide as you sit down carefully next to the white-haired boy - he's still healing, after all - and kiss his bandaged forehead. your two classmates, meanwhile, keep rambling, like the pining fools they've been of late.

ignoring them, you focus on your ruminations instead - yeah, you're certainly not in love with your gojo senpai. it's just that-

"hey, were you crying?" musings broken in half by a gentle thumb on the apple of your cheeks, you peer up at the boy, only to find him frowning, concern clear-as-day behind his goggles.

biting your lower lip to keep it from wobbling, you shake your head 'no' and snuggle into his side, relishing in the warmth he offers, the balmy discomfort of 39°C be damned.

asking you no more questions, gojo simply pulls you even closer into himself; you close your eyes to restrain your tears.

tears of joy.

tears of relief.

tears of something new, something wonderful, you can't name yet, but have a hunch, can soon.

encased in your dear (not beloved, just dear) senpai's comforting touch, your lost train of thought revisits you, waiting to be finished.

a warm smile appears on your lips.

it's just that you'll do anything in this world - without an ounce of reluctance - if it means you always get to see that goofy, careless, adorable, genuine grin on his face, you've grown to cherish so much.

▸ masterlist

#gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk drabbles #jjk fics #jjk imagines #gojo drabbles #gojo fics #gojo imagines #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #gojo satoru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #kit posts 📝

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bakuliwrites · 10 months

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Nanami Kento x Reader- Birthday Headcanons

A little assortment of birthday headcanons for our beloved ex-salaryman❤️ Happy Birthday, sweet love ❤️ 18+, MINORS DNI. This gets just a teensy bit spicy towards the end.

Nanami's ideal birthday: a quiet day, no work. He gets to wake-up when he wants to, go about his day as leisurely as he wants to, with you by his side ❤️

A stop at his favorite bakery in the morning, picking up pastries and coffee to either take home and share in your sunlit kitchen, or to enjoy if the weather permits at a nearby park.

The two of you share lunch at a cafe he's been wanting to try, but hasn't gotten the chance to yet. It's as delicious as he's been hoping it would be. You insist on paying, but have to secretly slip your card/money to the waiter when Kento isn't looking, because he'll no doubt try to pay anyway. He thanks you profusely, and you can't help but notice the light blush blooming on his angular cheeks.

You tell him that the rest of the day is entirely up to him! With so much freedom, Kento is almost overwhelmed. There's so many options, yet his mind goes blank as soon as he tries to think of something to do.

He opts to take you to a museum he's been meaning to check-out for a while. There's a temporary exhibit on the history of gastronomy in Japan that he wants to check out before it moves on. He looks so concentrated with his furrowed brow and mouth set as he examines all the exhibits and carefully reads every plaque. But when he catches you staring at him, his smile is unmatched, bright like the early-July sun.

After the exhibit, the two of you take a leisurely stroll back home, enjoying the evening breeze and the sunset fading into hues of pink, orange, and purple. Kento presses featherlight kisses to your lips, cheeks, forehead. Anywhere he can when you both pause to admire the setting sun.

If you cook, you have a whole meal planned out for him at home and get straight to work as soon as you arrive. He insists on helping, which inevitably leads to a mid-cook make-out session against the kitchen countertops and dancing around the kitchen to some slow R&B.

If you don't cook, you've already made reservations for Nanami's favorite restaurant! Though he's got expensive taste, his favorite restaurant is actually a tiny hole-in-the-wall with the best damn beef rendang you've ever had. His dry wit makes an appearance, and your sides hurt from laughter by the time the two of you are done with dinner. It's been a long time since you've seen Kento smile and laugh like this, and it fills your being with warmth.

Afterwards, you surprise Kento with your gift to him. Good gift options for him include: cookbooks or baking recipes, a bread maker or other bread making necessities, a personalized apron, surprise tickets to Malaysia.

As the evening winds to a close and the stars begin to dot the sky, you and Kento steal away into your shared bedroom. You've bought new lingerie just for this occasion: a set you'd been eyeing that Kento seemed to be thrilled by ("I think you'd look lovely in that one," he had commented in passing, but you could see the tips of his ears turning bright red. You ordered it as soon as he was out of sight).

You push Kento back onto the bed, letting him lay back against the pillows, an impish smile on your face. Your eyes glint mischievously in the flickering candlelight as you tell him that it's time for him to relax. You'll do all the work tonight.

Your shared room is filled with Nanami's husky grunts and quiet proclamations of his love for you. You make sure to give him a good shoulder and back massage to relieve his stress, among your other stress-relieving ministrations that night ❤️

You hold him close as the two of you drift off to sleep. "Thank you for a wonderful birthday," Kento breathes, his voice crackly with exhaustion. He presses one more deep, lingering kiss to your lips, just to let you know that this was probably the best birthday he's ever had ❤️

Bonus: Kento isn't much of a surprise party person, but Yuji might insist upon throwing one. In which case, if it's Itadori that is insistent upon one, Nanami might make an exception. He'll act all crotchety and grumpy about it, but everybody knows that, deep down, he's appreciative. Gojo will try to take him out for karaoke, Nanami will refuse.

#nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #kento nanami #nanami x reader #slight spice #jjk headcanons #dani writes #my writing #happy birthday sweet love #❤️#nanami love and light of my life

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suguwu · 5 months

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nanami writing and giving you a cookbook of his family recipes as a way of asking you out...

#bee chats #he wants to share part of himself with you #and it's the easiest way #and one of the most important #because the kitchen is the heart of his home #mostly he makes them for you but he wants you to take a piece of him home with you...

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daquila · 10 months

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Satoru’s Birthday Surprise! || Gojo Satoru x Reader

synopsis: in which you and your students surprise Satoru with a painting!

part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/daquila/717999046671925248/happy-birthday-toru-gojo-x-reader

Satoru is not the person that you really know.

He is independent, cocky, and loud around anyone— especially the higher-ups! But with you? He completely melts as he steps into your shared home.

But he’s also unpredictable.

The smell of freshly-cooked pasta lures him into the kitchen, only to be greeted by an eager Y/N that’s ready to knead some dough. You were attempting to bake a loaf of garlic bread since it would go well with your tomato-basil pasta. It was a recipe from the cookbook that Nanami gave you on your 25th birthday.

Normally, you wouldn’t really cook pasta so early in the morning; however, Megumi, Nobara, and Yuji are visiting later that afternoon. It was because of your husband’s birthday.

“ The kids are about to come inside— they’re just picking up some extra ice cream at the grocery store nearby, “ Satoru said as he hugs you from behind, pressing soft kisses on your shoulders and neck.

“ ‘Toru, please change out of those pajamas, “ you scolded, staring at his spider-man suit. The sorcerer proceeded to pout as he quickly took it off and replaced it with a button up shirt and pants.

“ Why! Did you want to gatekeep spidertoru! It’s MY birthday, “ he proceeded to complain as you scoffed and placed the dough in a pan.

The sorcerer heard giggles coming from the front door, assuming it were the three, he quickly ran to greet them.

Nobara and Yuji were carrying heaps of snacks, because they didn’t want Megumi holding anything. Apparently, they lost a silly bet while training with Inumaki and Panda. Megumi sure is receiving top-tier princess treatment!

“ Ah— ‘Toru, please hand them some drinks! I made some orange juice earlier, “ quickly shoving the dough in the oven, you started to clean the messy kitchen.

The students began greeting their teacher a happy birthday, and your husband delightfully greeted the treats into his mouth. They all gathered in the living room to play board games.

Megumi, who clearly just woke up from the car ride, helped you clean up. His head was still in the clouds, clinging onto that thread of sleepiness.

“ Shoo! Shoo! I don’t need your help, Megumi. Go have fun with your friends— I’ll be right here if you need me, “ breaking the silence, he just looks at you and nods. You just smile in reply— it’s his habit of staying silent when he’s still sleepy.

You proceeded to walk into the living room, carrying assortments of different types of pastas, croissants, and treats. The oven suddenly chimes as you settle the last tray of food.

“ Y/N’s bread tastes amazing while it’s still piping hot— my wife is such a chef, “ Satoru smirks, stuffing his mouth with a croissant.

“ Stop talking while eating, Gojo-sensei, “ Nobara scoffed, disgusted as she watched her teacher choke on his food. Megumi stands up and walks to your bedroom, finding the still-life that you and the students painted last time.

Satoru’s eyes melt into a softer expression once his student (and son) hands him the painting.

“ Is this for me? “ he says, hands clutching his chest.

Nobara then proudly boasts about her contribution to the painting as Yuji urges their teacher to open it.

But then something unexpected happens…

Your husband breaks out in an uncontrollable wail.

Chest heavy, nose running with yellow snot, he dramatically says, “ T-t-th-tha-thank….. y-yew…. “

He is the literal embodiment of a tall child.

You grab a box of tissues and wipe off the drama on his face. Nobara quickly takes out her phone and steals a picture of the sobbing sorcerer. I mean— who wouldn't! Megumi takes a mental note to remind himself to post that photo of Gojo crying.

For the next few hours, you and your students spend the time by absolutely destroying their teacher in a game of Monopoly. Satoru, however, would spend these next few hours thinking about how grateful he is to have you by his side.

didnt proof read bc i never do … this is probably my longest fic yet

i have had this in my drafts for so long… i just decided to post this now bc ive got two requests for the part 2 already hehehehe

#gojo sensei #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #jjk x you #gojo satoru #gojo x y/n #jjk megumi #jjk nobara #jjk yuuji #jjk fic #jjk drabbles #fushiguro megumi #itadori yuuji #nobara fluff #gojo #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #gojo satoru fluff

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momowritings · 9 days

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Love Bites pt. 6

There's nothing you hate more than the hospital.

Baker Fem Reader x Toji Fushiguro

word ct: 15.1k, 11 Chapters

Preview: Toji’s answer was another wave of tears from you. He hates to hear you cry so hard, and he hates that he’s so far away from you...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Six: Warm Water

“I spent Thanksgiving with somebody who wasn’t Rina this time around. I’m sure you guessed it, so yes, it was with Toji and his family,” you smile. “They have such different personalities but I can tell they really care for each other. I almost started crying in the middle of it.”

You recount the last couple of weeks to Ezra while wiping him down with a warm towel. You know that the nurses do the same but you want to do something for him as well. You gently lay him back into the bed and dip the towel into the bowl of water beside you. “I guess you can say that we’re dating now. Well not that I guess, Toji said that. Actually, he asked to be together and I agreed. He wouldn’t force anything on me,” you explain to him. “Maybe it’s because I haven’t been in a relationship in so long but everything is so exciting. He still visits the shop when he can, but now I spend the weekends with him and his son.”

Your eyes widen as you realize what you admitted to your brother. “Before you get upset, Megumi’s a real sweet kid. And there’s no ex wife or girlfriend that I’m dealing with. I think the mom may have passed away, but I will wait for them to tell me when they’re ready. I think you’d like Megumi. He loves animals. I told him that you were a vet and he had so many questions that only you could answer,” you smile apologetically. “He has a little journal of different animals and their traits, then he gives those animals to different people in his life. Toji is a wolf. Yuji is a tiger. That’s Megumi’s best friend who he loves very much, even if he won’t admit it. Nobara is a fox. That’s his other best friend. Gojo’s a peacock, Nanami is a great white shark, Sukuna’s a bear, and Choso’s a jellyfish. You’ll know who I’m talking about when you wake up.”

You push a thick curl out of Ezra’s face. “I should give you a haircut,” you mutter. You clutch your hand in a fist next to his head. “It’s not that I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. You know that I’m a hopeless romantic. I fell in love too many times to count,” you chuckle to yourself. You pull your hand back into your lap and sigh. “But with him I feel… I feel safe. I realize that before I was always waiting for the ball to drop, for another horrific incident to blindside me, but I haven’t felt that impending doom hanging over my head in a while.” You release a shuddering breath and blink up at the fluorescent lights to avoid crying.

“I’m starting to clean up their house. I found mom’s cookbooks, if you can even call them that. You know she had that doctor handwriting that’s impossible to read. I also know that she never really measured anything, so all those recipes are her estimating,” you laugh softly. “I’m thinking about making those cardamon lumps she used to make for us during the holidays for Toji. I also have no idea what to get him for Christmas. Oh, speaking of getting things, I got you another book!” You dig in your bag to retrieve the new book.

You give a small smile. “It’s called Before the Coffee Gets Cold. It’s a book about time traveling, surprisingly. I won’t spoil it too much, but I would love to travel back to talk to mom and dad again, even if it won’t change anything. They even have an old cafe that they always went to that could work like the book.”

Before you could say another word a monitor above Ezra’s head started to beep rapidly. You look at it with concern, unsure of what the machine was reading. Within seconds the other monitors screech as well. You watch in horror while red flashes on all of the screens. Ezra’s expression hasn’t changed, but you rush out of the room, screaming for a nurse or anybody to come help. A few orderlies hear your distress, alerting nearby nurses that run to your location. They all swarm to Ezra’s side, checking his vitals and yelling codes at each other. You watch helplessly behind them. Another orderly tries to pull you away from the scene but you stood stock still.

“Ma’am, you need to leave the room now.”

“Will he be okay? What’s going on?”

“He’s getting the best treatment possible, but please, you can’t stay here.”

“What’s wrong with him? What are they saying?”

“Ma’am please,” the orderly gives you a pained look.

Tears swim in your eyes when you look back onto the bed. A swirl of green, blue and white mix together when the tears get heavy enough. You allow yourself to be pulled away from the room as ordered, leaving the nurses and now doctor to treat your brother. You are led to the waiting room by yourself. The orderly offers to get water but you wave her away. You pace back and forth in the small space, your mind running wild with all the worst possibilities. In haste you trip over your own feet, stumbling into a chair at the last second to avoid hurting yourself, but everything hurts. Your heart clenches, your stomach is churning, your breaths are shallow. With shaky hands you grab your phone, pressing the first contact on your call log. With two rings the line picks up, and you're greeted with Toji’s deep voice.

“Hey baby, how are you?”

You can’t speak. The grief is too much, an invisible hand that constricts your throat so that only a choked sob falls from your lips. You want to explain what’s happening but fail again. Toji starts to panic on the other line, trying to get information out from you but the only thing he can hear is you weeping.

“Send me your location. Can you hear me? Just let me know where you are, I’ll come to you.”

“I’m at the hospital,” you whisper. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Is it your brother? You won’t be alone.”

Toji’s answer was another wave of tears from you. He hates to hear you cry so hard, and he hates that he’s so far away from you. He looks at Nanami, who already saw his demeanor change and waves him away.

“I got it from here,” the blond man says. Toji gives him an appreciative nod, leaving him with the bloody men they cornered. Nanami already paid him no mind, getting down to business without him.

Toji looks down at the mess on the floor and realizes he has blood on his shoes. He couldn’t scare you any more with that. He doesn’t want to scare you at all. Your last words echo in his head before he hung up, about how you didn’t want to be alone. He leaves Nanami without saying another word.

Back at the hospital you wait in the empty waiting room. Despite you declining it the first time, a styrofoam cup of water sits beside you brought by the orderly. You flick it every so often, watching the ripples bounce, cross, and settle on the sides. You’ve calmed down from your call to Toji. Now there’s a cold, mucky feeling sitting heavy on your chest. You empty the contents within the cup in one gulp, trying to wash it down, but the room temperature water felt like slime going down your throat.

<<<Chapter One

<<<Chapter Two

<<<Chapter Three

<<<Chapter Four

<<<Chapter Five

Chapter Seven>>>

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