And to Accompany, Plum Wine

Yozora remembered the first time he saw Sora eat.

There was a moment, at the start, when things could have gone differently. Sora could have summoned his Keyblade. Yozora could have stolen it. Their only conversation could have been the rush, the chase, the thrust and parry and cast, the violence, the brutality. But something had begun to change during their last few encounters. Yozora did not know what secret thoughts had slipped out between each cut and slice, each jump and dodge, but whatever they were, they had been enough to make Sora say, "Can we just stop?"

Yozora hadn't known if they could, but it had been a cold day in Quadratum, windy and raining, and when Sora turned away he had fallen into step beside him. Neither carried an umbrella, so by the time they'd found a place to stop and eat—Sora had been hungry and Yozora had been more so, though he thought Sora hadn't heard his stomach—they'd had to wring their clothes out on the udon restaurant's welcome mat, accept a toweling and a lecture from the old man at the door before he'd allow them to step inside.

To eat together was an act of trust, although, in truth, Yozora understood it as a game; one that required an immense amount of caution. It was full of risk; the threat of judgement or a sudden drop in the hierarchy, the failure to close on a deal. There was always the chance of poison in your soup or—don't think about it—drugs in your champagne. You never knew what foolish things you might say, without saying a word, as food travelled from your plate to your mouth, from your mouth to your gullet, from your gullet to your guts.

And yet, despite this, what he remembered of that day was Sora eating with an energy and openness yet unknown to humankind. He slurped down thick noodles and steaming broth, flinched when he burned his tongue, laughed, rubbed the back of his head, served a snarky rejoinder to an amused member of the staff, and dove right back in to do it all again. He appreciated every bite; teeth tearing into the aburage, crunching away at the scallion garnish, cheeks flushing at the kick of seven spice.

"We don't eat a lot of spicy food where I'm from, but I like it!" He said, without a care that there was green onion stuck in his teeth. "I've had to eat it a few times while travelling and I think I'm getting used to it. The more you eat, the easier it gets! Here, want to try some?"

He hadn't had to share that. He hadn't had to share anything. Yet he'd offered his noodles to Yozora, his broth, half his tofu. He'd even broken one of the pouches with his hands just to feel it, huffed when someone commented on his table manners, retorted, apologized, shoved both halves of the tofu in his mouth and licked his fingers clean. His mouth had been so open throughout, crooked teeth chewing, the back of his hand coming up to absentmindedly wipe a dribble of broth off his chin. Yozora had eaten his own food in silence, stared at Sora's lips, and wondered how he could be the way he was.

But when the meal had ended he'd looked up from Sora's mouth to see Sora's eyes watching him, that same intent gaze, and thought maybe he understood.

There were multiple ways to have a conversation, after all, and despite your best efforts you never really stopped talking.

Despite that, what Yozora was sure he hadn't said, but what Sora seemed to have heard, was that sharing a meal with someone was the equivalent of baring your heart to them. More than that, he assumed any potential bonding effects were replicable across all people.

A bit of a leap, all things considered, but I suppose Sora's good at those.

Yet here he was at his apartment's dining table anyway, sitting across from Riku about to engage in a bondage experiment.

Bonding. It only feels like bondage. The kind that isn't fun. You know the one. End the thought.

Neither had dressed to impress—not unless one counted the shadows under Riku's eyes—although Yozora had to acknowledge neither of them needed to. The table, however, had made an effort. It had been covered with an aesthetically pleasing cloth, simple but elegant; something he had not owned before this evening, and definitely had not bought himself. Yozora had sat at the head of the table, assumed and was proven correct that Riku would sit opposite. It wasn't a lengthy thing. They could touch hands, if they reached.

Why would we reach?

Behind Riku was a pale winter sunset. The apartment's windows were south-facing and offered a view of the city, a hint of the skyline beyond.  It was all blues and yellows and grays, slowly deepening as the sun made its descent. It would be dark soon enough.

Still a decent view. Preferable to Riku, at least. 

The thought left him wondering why he'd agreed to this. He enjoyed Sora's cooking, he supposed, and while Sora had been spending a lot of time in the kitchen experimenting lately, it was never a sure thing. Tonight, he was guaranteed a meal.

You could just ask?

I do just ask. It goes like this:

"Can you cook tonight?"

"Sure! Is there any reason?"

"..." I pause here. "Cheaper than takeout."

Then he rolls his eyes at me. Do I deserve that?

Maybe. But he was sure he deserved this dinner. He certainly deserved something for agreeing to dine with Riku. He did not think the evening would have the results Sora was hoping for, but he supposed he could get something out of it besides the meal. If Riku was going to be a permanent fixture in Sora's life here then it was in Yozora's best interests to learn more about him, seeing as Sora had become such a useful fixture in his.

Good. He was good. He is a part of my life that is good.

He put that thought away in his linen closet. He didn't use it, after all.

At Sora's request, they had not come to blows—more than once or twice or five times anyway—and had mostly agreed—silently, without talking—to ignore each other. They weren't quite ready to share an apartment so Riku lived elsewhere and paid what rent he could afford, with Sora moving between their places and Strelitzia's. She was alright. Despite their living apart, Yozora's ability to monitor Riku wasn't especially impaired, but there were advantages to engaging with someone in close quarters.

And you're curious.

He was not curious and would have preferred this meal sans Riku, but Sora had insisted on his presence, so here they were. He seemed aware of himself, at least. He wasn't like Sora. He was guarded, but his posture betrayed little more than that. Yozora doubted he had the experience he did—endless dinners with politicians, private events with military funders, droll brunches for public relations, loathsome bar runs after backdoor deals, parties where you couldn't touch the champagne—but Riku certainly hadn't come unprepared.

They stared. Yozora watched Riku. Riku watched Yozora. Sunset. Silence.

"Alright!" Sora pushed open the kitchen door, located to the left and behind Yozora. Yozora did not flinch. He did wonder what Sora had for them, however. The table was already set; chopsticks on their rests, a spoon to serve when necessary, fancy serviettes—again, he had not owned those before tonight—folded into flames, and two empty glasses. Sora walked past Yozora down the right side of the table and added a chilled jug of water and a large plate piled with something bright green and sticky red.

Ah, so that's how it is.

"I thought you guys could start with a snack while I put the finishing touches on the rest of your meal!" Sora grinned. "I've had these a couple of times around town and wanted to take a crack at them myself. They're good, I promise! You can trust me with dinner." He performed a little flourish, so ridiculous that Yozora caught Riku's first crack. His cheeks rounded; a half-smile. "And, guys, please don't eat the pods."

"Are they toxic?" Riku asked.

"No, just tough. Anyway, enjoy!" With that, Sora vanished back into the kitchen and Yozora stared at the plate of spicy edamame.

So, he starts us with something that must be eaten by hand. It was an immediate disarming. Impressive. The amount of red was almost disturbing. Did he drop a whole jar of chili paste on them? That can't be good.

And just like that, a memory; Sora sitting on a bench beside him, the crinkling of newspaper and his breath steaming as he blew hard on his sweet potato. Yozora watched him, gloved hands wrapped around his own snack, as he took a too-big bite and immediately regretted it.

"Yowch!"

"Wait for it to cool."

The air was crisp, though they'd avoided snow. Sora's magic kept him a little warm, but he'd still wrapped himself from head to toe.

"Hey, do they make spicy versions of these?"

Yozora blinked, looked down as Sora blew once, twice, then took another bite. He didn't yelp this time.

"Probably."

"They'd be really good, especially in winter." Another bite. Yozora kept watching. "I think I'm getting better at eating spicy food. I'll cook more, so you can get used to it too."

Yozora did not frown. Not externally, at least. He hadn't meant to let Sora know he wasn't partial to spice. He hadn't grown up eating it, had mostly stuck to bland foods for various reasons. It had become a weakness at formal functions, though, one he went to great lengths to avoid. The last thing he needed was for those people to see him crying. If he hadn't cried then, he wasn't going to do it for a pepper. "We don't need to talk about this."

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Sora had already eaten half his potato. Yozora managed a nibble. "Anyway, I think you'll enjoy it. Sometimes spicy's a good thing, you know?"

And sometimes it's not.

He wondered how long Sora had been planning this. He was trickier than Yozora gave him credit for. Still, he supposed he had the advantage. He'd eaten spicy edamame before and Riku hadn't, and if he came from the same place as Sora than he likely had even less tolerance for capsaicin than Yozora himself. With that thought, he reached for the plate—

"Sorry, almost forgot!" Sora burst into the room, heading first to Riku's end of the table before scurrying back up to Yozora's. He left a little cup of clear liquid sunshine beside both of them. "The water should help, but I thought you guys might like to try this as well. It's plum wine!"

Plum wine. Yozora couldn't say he was thrilled. They're also both useless for this.

But Sora didn't seem to care about that. He vanished once more, a storm dissipating as suddenly as it had arrived. In his wake, Riku reached for the plate.

There was definitely too much chili paste. It stained Riku's fingers, sticky and red. Yozora watched, waited until he'd retreated before taking a pod of his own. He was measured, careful, sure the movement looked casual. People told him he had a body that said little, a face that said nothing, and a mouth that said strange things. 

Riku paused. Yozora saw him assess the situation, turn the pod over, frown. Then, a little awkwardly, he opened his mouth and set one end of the edamame inside, before pinching it at the other and sliding his thumb and finger up. Pop, pop, pop! He licked the chili from the outside, sucked the beans past his lips, swallowed.

Stopped.

It was sort of fascinating, watching the color spread. It came fast, a hot flush over his cheeks, across his nose, up to his forehead and down to his chin. It didn't quite reach his neck. A wheeze escaped. Then, a sniffle. He reached for his water and left smears of red on the glass.

Gross. Point to me.

Granted, Yozora could be plenty gross, but only in the ways he wanted to be. So less like that, and more like—he tore into the edamame with his teeth, ripping it in two in a single, solid motion—this. It was a smooth action, revealing little of his mouth, and—

He chewed. He chewed and chewed and chewed. Why had he done this? His tongue burned, his gums burned, his cheeks burned, and there was sweat under his collar. Out of sight, out of mind, out of my mind. He sniffed. Problem. Riku can hear that.

That wouldn't do. Was Riku looking? No, he wasn't. Yozora leaned down, very subtle, and wiped his snot on that sweat-concealing collar. Glanced across the table—saw a flash of ocean—and snapped to attention. Riku was grabbing another pod from the plate. He didn't see that. He would've commented. Sora said he was rude. Sora had smiled when he said it.

"I thought you weren't supposed to eat the pods?" Riku asked. His voice pitched just a little too high at the end; warbled, confused. He sounded stupid.

Point for me. "You can if you have strong teeth." His leg spasmed under the table; please don't make me chew another pod, or maybe the hiccups, expelled via a discreet tremor.

Riku's jaw clenched, something barely restrained. Yozora wondered what had got caught on tense tendon and tooth enamel. "Okay," he said. "I think I'll just eat them the nor—my way." His breath came a little wheezy.

Then he hiccupped.

Point for me.

Of course, you still have to eat the other half of your edamame.

Hm. He thought he might watch Riku instead; how his fingers worked the pod, how his tongue peeked out to taste a fraction of the spice before retreating, how he caught the soybeans in his teeth. He watched him pause for a hiccup, then chew, then swallow. Watched until he was sure he wasn't being watched back.

Then he popped his torn pod between his lips and pinched the beans swiftly into his mouth.

It followed like that. They were both flushed, that was undeniable, but only Riku struggled with the occasional chest-jerking hiccup. Yozora ducked his head when it came time to eat; licking, sucking, and sliding the beans free with as much subtlety as anyone could manage. Riku did the same, except he tried to balance openness with restraint. It looked hard. It felt impossible. Yozora couldn't stop watching.

Then Riku caught him doing so and he snapped his eyes away. Riku's gaze remained, though, branded his skin. Fine, if that's the way you want it. Yozora sat up straight, dragged his tongue over his fingers for extra spice he neither needed nor wanted, switched from reserved to audacious. He sucked the beans, loud, all without showing his insides. It stung. He refused to drool, gulped it down. He kept his face cool, tried to wipe his snot on his glove without it being obvious. He didn't care that he was being watched.

"I thought you were going to chew them," Riku said.

"I can. I won't."

"Right."

Riku went back to eating. He'd figured out how to catch the pod on his teeth and drag the beans out that way. His lips pursed, sloppy. He looked like a—

Yozora looked down at his glass. The water didn't help much, but he drank it all anyway. Useful for hydration, if nothing else. Granted, he could live without water. Well, no, he couldn't, but he had the discipline to go without for a while, as well as the ability to forget he was thirsty for an exceptionally long period of time. Usually until the headaches set in. He saw no point in wasting water, though, and so drank his glass and half the jug. He let Riku have the rest. He didn't believe in fairness, but then, of course, he didn't really care about the water.

It just has the decency to not be plum wine.

Yozora did not like plum wine. It was better than champagne, but that was about it. He wasn't particularly taken with alcohol at all, if he were honest. When he wanted a burn, he could stick his tongue in a fire—or eat Sora's edamame, apparently—and when he wanted the world to tilt on its axis, go hazy at the borders, and expose itself as a farce, he could just take his fortnightly ninety-six hours without sleep. Or a day without water. Or Rohypnol.

Maybe one day you'll even choose to take it yourself.

But plum wine was one of the worst. Overly sweet, obnoxiously tart. It was too vibrant, too eager to pretend its purpose was something other than the dilution of this world's misery, or perhaps, more accurately, the concentration of it.

Well, that, and lubricating every suit and sergeant until they could pretend to be compatible, at least beyond their shared penchant for using Yozora's body as a weapon—for using Yozora's body—

No one saves you.

I don't need them to. I'm the one who saves.

Yozora glanced up from his glass, caught another flash of ocean, and looked away.

Sora, of course, loved the stuff. He'd tried it once and had had several of his own batches fermenting by the end of the week. He wasn't even that fond of sweet things—he did have a growing interest in alcohol, which Yozora did not like, but could at least protect him from the consequences of—but something about plum wine appealed to him.

But did you forget, Sora? You drink beer with edamame.

Still, he took a sip, kept his face composed. Tried to, anyhow. He peered over his glass, watched Riku as he took a sniff, frowned, put the cup to his lips, drank. His nose wrinkled, cheeks scrunched, eyes darting down the length of the table to catch him watching.

Don't like it either?

Not that Riku would know how he felt. Yozora set his glass back down and sat silent, staring, as Riku's gaze shifted to the last of the edamame. His hiccups had stopped, his nose had cleared, but if he ate another one...

Chili-stained fingers picked up one of the three remaining pods. He popped it in his mouth, eyes on his food and not Yozora, and dragged the beans out with his teeth. He only sniffled once.

When he looked up, Yozora took the final two pods and tore into them both at once. He chewed and chewed and chewed. It was like eating a spiced tire. He held Riku's gaze and Riku held his.

Then Riku's lip twitched, smug, and a shock ran up Yozora's spine. He turned away, snatched his serviette off the table, and tried to spit the beans out without making it obvious. His face burned.

Point to Riku.

"Oh, wow!" Yozora suppressed a flinch. He hadn't heard Sora come in. How? His ears were attuned to silenced drones and professional assassins. He could hear bored cockroaches breeding in his walls. "You ate the whole plate, and after I accidentally spilled all that extra spice on it too!"

Riku hadn't flinched. He could see the kitchen door. Of course. Of course he wouldn't flinch. He did smile, though, teased, "Hey, I thought you said we could trust you with dinner?"

The we was unnecessary. Yozora would have said I.

Yozora did not say anything.

Sora snorted a laugh. "Accidents happen, okay? Give a guy a break! I've been working hard all day for this." He placed two bowls of water on the table, each lightly scented with lemon. "Wash your hands. There's serviettes." He placed a clean one in front of Yozora, though not in front of Riku. "Thanks for getting these fancy ones for me, by the way." He grinned, and Yozora bobbed his head. Just once, but it was more than he'd intended. He should never have given Sora access to his credit card. "Hm, maybe you should wipe your faces too."

Yozora's hands flew to his cheeks, an action mirrored across the table. Thumbs scraped, fingers smeared. Blue and red met green-blue.

"Gotcha!" Sora exclaimed, then set four bowls, two plates, and two tiny dishes on the table; half before Yozora, half before Riku. Yozora wasn't sure how he'd carried them all. "The main course is almost ready, but I figured you could put these away in the meantime." Had his smile always had so many teeth? It didn't look predatory, though, but rather like he couldn't contain himself. Like he knew something he wasn't sharing. A joke, maybe.

Before he left, Sora stacked their dishes, the water glasses, the jug, and then topped up their plum wine. Riku wrinkled his nose again. Yozora observed the lines, the way they changed the shape of him. He thought he could see the boy Sora talked about; his immaturity, his inexperience.

It drew him in, and maybe that was why it didn't feel like a point for Yozora.

He put the thought from his mind and took in their meal instead. There was a deep bowl of rice—short grain, browned by the addition of caramelized sweet onion and garnished with sprigs of mitsuba—and a smaller bowl of agedashi tofu, fried and crispy, sitting in a pool of savory, warm tsuyu and sprinkled with grated daikon, scallion, shredded nori, and the red and orange of seven spice. The curved plate set to the side contained sesame-dressed mushrooms and mustard greens, arranged to appeal, its nutty scent delicious. Finally, there was the tiny dish with its yellow pickled radish, sliced and sunshine bright, a contrast to the long shadow of dusk that now hung over Riku.

It looks good.

"It looks good."

Yozora glanced up. Riku did not glance back, distracted by the food; its color and shape, its smell, the obvious effort that had gone into Sora's presentation of it. Another crack in his shield.

Thanks for pointing out the obvious.

"Are you sure you can handle it?" He asked, dipping his hands in the lemon-scented bowl. Across the table Riku did the same, pale fingers slipping through the water, running over tendons, dipping into crevasses and dragging over each mound of knuckle until the water ran sticky-red. Yozora could butcher him.

"Handle what?" Too open, too honest. He didn't know. Yozora let his head flop toward the tofu and its sprinkling of spice.

"I thought the sesame sauce might be a bit much for you."

Riku blinked one time, two, then caught the misdirection. He smiled, not quite dishonestly but more than halfway there. "Sorry, I don't remember being the one who felt the need to wipe my nose on my shirt like a child."

So he saw that. Yozora ignored the sudden hole in his gut. "Are you sure? I know you're not the crying sort, but all that sniffling—"

"Thanks for the meal, Sora!" Riku shouted, then patted his hands and face dry on his serviette, took up his chopsticks—did not struggle to hold or use them, like some of the dignitaries Yozora had seen, or Yozora himself when he was young, girlish, and struggling with fine motor skills enough to be slapped for it—and promptly ignored him.

Petulant. Point to me.

It was always interesting to see what someone ate first when given options. Yozora never could figure out why they chose what they chose, but he was entitled to his guessing games. Dinners with men in starched suits and military dress offered little else of appeal, and there was only so many times one could watch the smiling women serving sāke discreetly attempt to avoid groping hands on their unwilling bodies before it got a bit dull.

Riku chose the radish. Yozora knew he had to move, so he wiped his hands and face and grabbed his chopsticks, but all the while he watched out of the corner of his eye. He would not miss that first careful bite; lips parting just slightly, cautious, a glimpse of teeth, the wince in response to that unavoidable crunch.

Cleansing the spice or the shōchū? He thought he might say that you were supposed to eat your pickles after the meal, but it wasn't like Yozora himself cared much about that. Besides, they were well-suited to prepare the palette for the next course and Riku knew it.

Yozora had no one single dish he always chose to eat first—thought it was a mistake to be so predictable—but he was partial to rice. He continued to pretend he wasn't looking at Riku as he scooped up a little with his chopsticks, ensured he could see a curl of sweet, browned onion between them, and swept it all into his mouth. Quick, no fuss, no unnecessary displays.

Because though he might be able to pretend he wasn't watching Riku, he couldn't pretend Riku wasn't watching him. The spicy edamame had cornered them into clumsiness with its enforced pinching and sucking and dragging and blushing, mouths drooling, fingers tacky. It was a food designed for drunks at the izakaya—friends, red hair beneath a ridiculous hat, steam fogging up glasses, a woman laughing at it all because she'd never been allowed to do what she wanted, and neither had they—and no one else—dinner with Sora, handwaving his age away, buying a beer just so Sora could have a sip, enjoy the bubbles, lick the froth and snort it out his nose, act flustered, annoyed, embarrassed, then laugh, smirking when Yozora finally noticed the dangerous glint in his eyes—he was sure.

Now, though, he was in a position to defend. Yozora had eaten plenty of dinners like this—no, you haven't, you've never had food made with such affection as this—seated across from simpering, groveling, sycophantic nothings as they passed threats through gritted teeth and manipulations off tarnished tongues. Sat before such a meal, he knew he could conceal himself.

The rice is really good though. He suppressed something bright that bubbled up inside him. Sora's mastered it.

Riku didn't suppress anything. He ate one caramelized clump, then another, as a little smile quirked its way onto his lips. Why such fondness, and for rice of all things?

"You like it?" He asked.

Riku straightened, smile faltering, seriousness stepping in to take its place. "Yeah, I'm just surprised. The Sora I knew used to burn rice and then turn it into an inedible soup." Yozora ignored the reminder of their history, the tightness in his chest as he watched Riku take another bite, more reserved than the first, but still with a spark in his eyes. His tongue flicked out along his lips, a subconscious thing. "He's learned a lot."

"Rice cooker!" Sora shouted unsentimentally from the kitchen. "But thanks Riku!"

Riku flushed. Yozora felt the tendons in his neck twitch in his attempt to keep his face blank. "It's more than that and you know it!"

"Yeah, yeah!" For a moment, the sounds of Sora bustling about in the kitchen bled into their little dining room world. How odd, that they had faded so thoroughly into the background until now. There were walls and a door between them, but they shouldn't have been able to vanish like that.

Did he want us to eat at the dining table and not in the kitchen so he could do that? It would have been impossible for him to hide if they were all sitting in the same space. Why did he exclude himself?

You're being watched.

Yozora turned, saw Riku looking at him with a bemused expression on his face. He lowered his chopsticks. What?

"You like it too, huh?" Riku brought a thumb to the corner of his mouth and rubbed. Yozora frowned, then felt a surge of heat slice through him as he mimicked the gesture; a delayed mirror. He swiped his thumb and a little piece of rice came away. He hadn't even realized he'd been eating, though the pleasure had been there in the background; tasting, calling the body to action while cutting the mind free from anything other than the pursuit of sweet onion satiety and the texture of well-cooked rice.

Point to Riku, but he loses it for smiling.

"You going to eat that?" More unnecessary commentary. He should lose all his points.

"Do you want to?" Yozora asked, offered his thumb. "Since you like it so much."

Riku blinked. "No, I'll...leave it to you."

Yozora sucked his thumb into his mouth and returned to his meal.

He tried, for a time, to ignore Riku. His body knew what to do, so long as he wasn't...distracted. He could maintain just the right posture to imply effortlessness, could put forward a face that offered only demolishing disinterest, could keep his every movement as that of an impossibly perfect machine. He wasn't sure why this disposition worked so well at formal functions—yes, you do, you understand everything about that world because they've kept you in it for too long—but he could appreciate the results. His disregard dissuaded all manner of people from approaching, unwanted thoughts and feelings and hands kept at bay. That made a difference. It made surviving possible.

So he ate his meal and ignored Riku, even though he knew he wasn't smiling—why aren't you smiling—when he plucked his fried tofu from its bowl, swirled it in its sauce, and put it in his mouth. Even though he knew when he curled a sesame-dressed leaf and some enoki around his chopsticks, when he went back for a thick chunk of king oyster, a bite of shiitake, a nutty clump of shimeji. Even though he knew when he chewed, when he swallowed, when he dabbed at his mouth with his serviette, when he brushed a strand of hair behind his ear to keep it from falling in his food.

"It's good," Riku said, guarded but pretending he wasn't.

"The tofu's not too spicy?" Yozora wondered why he'd replied at all.

Riku rolled his eyes, didn't even bother to hide it. "It's fine. Clearly Sora didn't spill the shaker over this one." He paused, had a little rice, then ate his second piece of agedashi tofu. They each only had three. Despite his lack of a smile, Riku obviously savored it.

"Sora made the stock," Yozora said. Why did he say that? He didn't know. 

"It's handmade?"

"Mmh. A shiitake kombu broth. He has too much in the fridge and more in the freezer." Grotesquely domestic. He shouldn't have said that.

"Well, I might have to come over for dinner again and help you get rid of it if it's this good."

Don't, Yozora thought, but said nothing and felt less. Riku still wasn't smiling, but there was something about his face that seemed mocking now. Something in the eyebrows, or the lines by his nose.

It really was delicious though. Yozora could understand wanting to come back for seconds. There was the tofu which melted in your mouth; its deep-fried skin, its sauce rich with umami, the nori garnish adding a touch of the sea, the seven spice a burst of chili, sanshō, and all the rest. The rice was comforting; fluffy, filling, the onion sweet without being cloying, something you could eat every day and never get tired of it. Yes, he could understand. But you're not supposed to admit it, let alone do it so easily.

He fetched himself a little more of the salad, relished its nutty tang. His eyes were back on Riku, though, watching him as he fiddled and fussed with which mushrooms to eat, and when, and how many greens to pair them with. Yozora recalled a man of considerable rank who picked all the mustard greens off his plate once—something he would not have cared about nor even remembered had the man not then sent someone to the kitchen to berate the chef after doing so—and an evening spent staring into the mouth of another who had salad stuck in his teeth, a hunk of mushroom in his molars.

You could learn a lot about someone from how they ate a salad. What he learned about Riku was that he cared enough about this one to pay attention to all its parts, to see how each mushroom complimented and contrasted with the others, the sesame, the mustard greens. Yozora was not sure this was an especially interesting thing to learn, but regardless, he continued to observe him until he'd devoured it all and moved on to his last piece of tofu.

It had been so long since Riku had paid him any mind that it was almost a surprise when he brought the tofu to his mouth, caught Yozora watching, and stilled. Eyes met, widened; lips pursed, sealed. There was a little flush on his face that had nothing to do with the spice. The sight of it made something tighten in Yozora's chest again.

Are you hesitating because I'm looking at you?

Riku's gaze dropped to his tofu, hanging from the end of his chopsticks and dripping with dark sauce. Caught, suspended. Then snap! His eyes came up—not his head, still bowed, just that ocean hue peeking past silver lashes—and his mouth opened wide, displayed its pink and red flesh, off-white teeth, a chip missing here and there. He set the tofu on his tongue—the tiny, fragile curlicues of its fried starch skin dissolving, delectable—snatched that precarious drop of sauce with the tip, and then hid it all away behind perfectly chapped lips.

Are you hesitating because I'm looking at you ?

Yozora hadn't realized he was frozen until it was too late to pretend he wasn't. He rushed his chopsticks to his mouth, only to discover his rice and onion had already found a new home on his lap.

Point to Riku, a part of him sneered. Probably two.

Yozora finished the last of his rice and mushroom salad without even glancing at Riku, bit into his final piece of crispy tofu and refused to allow a drop of sauce to spill, refused to open his mouth, to offer a view, to enjoy it, and only managed to look up after he took another miserable sip of his plum wine and promptly, subtly, crunched the flavor away with a slice of daikon.

He caught Riku swallowing his own liqueur with something like curiosity. The wrinkle by his nose was not absent, but it was less pronounced.

He still reached for the daikon afterward.

That's because you're supposed to at the end of the meal. Point to Riku.

"Wow, you guys really put that away!"

Again, Sora popped into existence. How could Yozora miss him? How could his field of view be so narrow, his hearing so dull? He should have been able to smell Sora in the apartments across the street, but instead his own sweat and Riku's overwhelmed him, mingled and mated in sesame and tsuyu.

No. Different word.

"I hope you've got room for a little more," Sora continued, without a care for Yozora's disconcert, "because here's the main course!" Two thumps, and twin bowls of creamy soup pasta were set before them. "I'd hang around, but if I don't get this washing up started I'll be stuck in that kitchen for another week. Oh, hey, just let me top you up first!" Yozora barely suppressed a groan as his cup was filled with plum wine. Then Sora was gone again, returned to the kitchen with dirty dishes in hand.

The bowl in front of Yozora was pleasing at least, a welcome reprieve from his plum wine miseries. Spaghetti sat in a swirled heap atop a pool of creamy soy milk miso, green asparagus and pale gold-brown atsuage swimming in the sauce. A simple garnish of black pepper and a light dusting of seven spice accompanied it. It smelled good. 

But asparagus are a spring vegetable. Yozora had heard enough politician's wives chat about it as they planned their dinners, as if they were the ones growing the food, buying the groceries, cooking the meals. Well, maybe it needed a spring vegetable.

He liked asparagus anyway. He'd told Sora so, just once, when he was asked.

"What vegetables do you like, Yozora?"

"...Asparagus is good."

Sora had smiled. "It's long like you!"

"..."

I'm not much of a conversationalist, am I? I suppose Riku can attest to that.

He picked up his chopsticks, snatched up a spear of asparagus, added a twirl of pasta, and brought it to his mouth. It kissed his tongue; sweet and savory, comfortingly mild. And then he realized he would have to slurp the dangling spaghetti into his mouth.

He'd forgotten about Riku. No, worse. He hadn't cared if Riku saw. He'd been on his mind, he couldn't pretend otherwise, and now his mind was stuck on that fact. 

Why am I hesitating? 

Because the food was delicious, but it was also messy, the sort of pasta that had to be drawn into the mouth with your tongue and so much suction. The pale soup-sauce, creamy white, had its own bothersome inclination to splash on dark clothes and leave marks, a testimony to one's lack of control both motorically and mentally. Even the atsuage and asparagus were obstacles, demanding additional movements of the mouth as it struggled with the pasta, promising to leave you open and bare, your pink muscle and professionally whitened teeth you didn't pay—and never asked—for put out on display.

Across the table, Riku ate a piece of tofu, tilted his head, and stared.

The spaghetti's still dangling.

Quick as he could, Yozora slurped it into his mouth. He did it loud, almost obnoxiously so, held Riku's gaze and dragged it closer, closer, all just so he could pretend he didn't want to push it away.

Mistake. This is a mistake. 

He chewed, swallowed, did it slow. Riku's eyes dropped to his throat, bobbed back up. Yozora thought he'd understood the situation they were in at the beginning of the night, but he'd been wrong, because he was only just understanding it now.

They ate, each movement more measured than the last, but it felt—was—different. There was a change in Yozora's body as he slid his chopsticks through the spaghetti, lifted and tangled it with the tongue he could no longer hide, sipped sauce and tried not to adorn his chin, his shirt. He could not comprehend it, did not know if it had begun at the evening's start, at the sticky-staining-spicy edamame, at the crunch of a pickle, at the rice on his cheek, at the care in a salad's consumption, at the glance over a single piece of deep-fried tofu, or even at the accursed nose-wrinkling as they sipped their plum wine. Maybe it had only begun now, as he tried not to think about Riku watching him, wanting...wanting? No, he couldn't think about wanting anything, as a drip of white sauce stuck to the corner of Riku's lips.

His face had gone pink. Whose? Mine. No, his. No, both. Yozora had never felt so strange watching another man try to fit a length of asparagus into his mouth. That imagery isn't even applicable to us, unless we're wearing—

Us? What are we wearing? What imagery? Yozora dodged the thought, but only just.

He sucked a strand of spaghetti between his lips, briefly puckered. The barest heat from the spices—and nothing else—added a dusting of color to his cheeks. He took a moment to chew his tofu, split it and tasted the sauce it held as it spilled across his tongue. There were eyes on him, he knew, but what disconcerted him most was not the attention. It was the way his stomach reacted to it. Feeling too much of anything was uncomfortable, and this was worse, so much worse.

And yet he took another long noodle into his mouth and flushed. Do you like it? You can't like this. Think of what it means when you do this, when someone looks at you like this, when you look at someone like this.

He hesitated, but across the table Riku was moving and Yozora's eyes could not help but to follow. No control. But he enjoyed watching, enjoyed calculating all the little nuances that existed in the rounded cheeks of a smile, the quirk of a lip when a bite was too good, or when the sauce slid across the tongue and down the throat just right. At what point during the meal had these things stopped being weaknesses and become this?

What if they haven't stopped being weaknesses? What if you like them anyway, for reasons other than the power it gives you to know they exist?

Yozora stared. Riku raised his eyes and then, slowly, brought his bowl to his mouth and drank it dry. He tilted his head back, bared his neck, then set the empty dish back on the table and sighed, licked his lips clean of cream sauce. The eyes returned, compelled Yozora to mimic him. He did, even as his chest tightened, heart hammering as he presented his throat. Then he was done, and still alive and untouched, and his bowl was back on the table.

Riku picked up his glass and drank, finished his plum wine. Lips, mouth, hands, neck, oceans beneath lashes. Yozora swallowed his saliva.

"How'd you two get so red? I barely even put any spice in that one!"

This time Yozora did flinch. He knew Riku saw it, because he was looking at Riku, and Riku was looking at him. At some point he'd lost the ability to turn away. In his peripheral Sora's golden hands worked, transforming scattered dirty dishes into neat piles and then making them disappear. Yozora heard the word dessert, but didn't know what it entailed until a fancy dish was set in the table's center.

"Coffee jelly, with a little homemade soy cream to taste. I kind of prefer it black, but I figured you guys might like it this way. Besides, I had some leftover milk to get rid of." He laughed, more to himself than them, and scurried back to the kitchen with his stack of dishes and a knowing look in his eyes.

More clever than anyone gives him credit for. I'll have to thank him after this. Yozora didn't know what for, though. Well, the food, obviously.

The food did look lovely, sitting there in its crystal dessert bowl. The kanten cubes were a deep brown in the middle, gradating to a rich red at their edges. They caught the dining room lights and shone, a sharp contrast to the off-white cream that dripped over and down, forming a thick, sweet puddle underneath. Sora had garnished it with a sprig of something green. Riku can eat that, he thought, but it wasn't quite unkind.

There was a clean bowl in front of him. He could take the serving spoon, fill it, and eat. But then the meal would be over, and Riku would—go.

Ah, but you still have to finish your plum wine. Terrible; too sweet, too tart.

Yozora looked at Riku, and Riku looked back with an expression he could not decipher.

Plum wine is terrible, but it would delay the inevitable, and so Yozora reached for his cup.

Stopped.

The plum wine was gone. That wretched little glass of sunshine gold had disappeared, replaced by a simple tea cup. It had no adornment. Yozora might have actually owned this. A floral steam wafted up from inside, subtly sweet, soothing.

Chamomile. Yozora drank it when he needed to pretend he was going to sleep, when he wanted to relax even though he knew he'd spend the night standing on the roof and thinking, thinking, thinking, remembering and not remembering and wondering what he could have done and what he would have to do to make things different, to not have been who he was, to not exist as he was, to become someone who could lay his head against a pillow at night, in the day, on a humid afternoon, and sleep until he was rested.

There was a noise across the table; quiet, a little confused. Yozora looked up to see Riku's brow crease as he gazed into his own tea cup. Then he turned to Yozora. In the wake of curling steam, Yozora understood the shadows under his eyes. For a moment, he looked into a mirror. For a moment, he was a mirror.

Then Riku pulled a face, amused, and glanced down. Yozora followed, turned his attention toward their dessert...and then back to his tea, and then finally to that glistening pile of coffee jelly in its pool of cream once more.

Unbelievable.

"Chamomile tea—"

"—and coffee jelly," Riku finished. "He's making fun of us." There was a tired humor to it. All fight gone, something softer in its place. Yozora felt the same exhaustion; stomach too satisfied, brain too weary to resist the smile he offered, an echo of Riku's.

"Are you going to eat it?" He asked.

"I suppose we should, seeing as Sora went to the trouble of making it." Riku huffed. "Coffee jelly and chamomile tea for the insomniac..."

"You too?" Yozora already knew the answer, but it felt like something he needed to say aloud.

Riku hummed, an acknowledgement, then grabbed the bowl in front of him and leaned across the table. He paused, hesitated, then said, "If you give me your bowl, I can serve yours too."

It felt... Yozora didn't know how it felt, actually. At no point during the meal had any one other than Sora served either of them. At functions, he'd never had much of a choice who served him, although he always tried to serve himself if he could. He carried antidotes to common poisons, flumazenil and other competitive inhibitors, and a weapon, always.

Letting Sora serve him had been a step, a leap. Letting Riku—

Riku held out his hand. It wasn't demanding. It should have been demanding. He wished it had, because then maybe Yozora wouldn't have handed him his bowl and watched as he carefully scooped half those dark kanten cubes into it. They danced and shimmered, dripping with cream. It looked good; his bowl, cradled in Riku's hand.

If I asked, would you lick it out for me? Would you suck the jelly between your teeth, swallow the cream and leave my bowl empty, knowing you'd be forced to share your own after?

Forced? He'd do it willingly.

Doesn't that scare you more?

It did. It disturbed him almost as much as his own desire. Yet when Riku handed him his bowl, he said, "Thank you," and felt nothing other than pleased; by the food, by the sight of Riku serving himself, sitting back, popping a sweet-bitter cube of jelly in his mouth and letting it melt there. He looked so happy that Yozora had to eat one of his own, swirled in cream and swallowed eagerly.

They ate in silence. Yozora knew it couldn't last long. There weren't that many jellies; a serving for one had been made to feed two. Perhaps Sora had considered how much trouble they both had sleeping. Perhaps he considered the fact you'd bond over it too. Yozora could not find it in himself to deny it. It was a completely inappropriate dessert for winter, but it suited the moment, with his apartment well-heated and Riku looking unusually good with cream on his chin. It was full dark outside now, and Quadratum's lights framed him well.

Yozora watched Riku. Riku watched Yozora. Silver, shadows; cream, coffee, chamomile.

Yozora didn't think it was traditional to toast a cheers with tea cups, especially not ones filled with herbal-floral blends, but when Riku offered he did not deny him. The quiet chink loosed the tightness in his chest, and he took a sip. Despite the coffee, he thought maybe he could sleep tonight.

He leaned back in his chair, at ease. The lax curve of Riku's shoulders pleased him, as did the pucker of his lips as he blew on his tea. The returned gaze was not a weight this time. Yozora should have felt bloated with food and heavy under observation, although he would have concealed that, carried himself lightly and with the appropriate posture. Instead, he slumped in his chair, belly rounding under his shirt, and drank his tea. Riku watched and Yozora was...content.

I guess Sora won. He'd forgotten their scores anyway.

"Hey?" Riku asked.

"Hm?" Yozora glanced at him. He was grinning.

"Can you do me a favor?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"Don't tell Sora he won."

Yozora managed to hold his silence for a second before he laughed. Riku joined in, and they kept on laughing until Sora entered with a smug smile on his face and cleared the dishes one last time. He'd earned that smugness, Yozora supposed, but still he waited until he was gone before he said, "You can stay tonight."

"Huh?" Riku blinked. "Wait, really?"

Yozora nodded. "And...maybe tomorrow too, if we can convince Sora to keep cooking for us."

"Maybe tomorrow, huh?" Riku was grinning again. "Keep this up and I'll start thinking I can cancel my lease."

You can. But Yozora thought he could save that for them to savor with breakfast in the morning.