A/N: I love soft domesticity and I am not sorry at all.
“Honestly,” Toudou says, sinking down beside Fukutomi at the small kitchen table. “You shouldn’t be eating that.”
Fukutomi looks down at the plate of apple pie spread out before him, fork poised in one hand, the tines pointed down in preparation to separate another bite from the halfway-decimated dessert. The moment draws out, a concession to the possibility that Toudou might be correct. Then Fukutomi scoops up another forkful of pie and levers it decisively into his mouth.
At Toudou’s offended squawk, Fukutomi swallows, offering in his defense: “But Toudou, the pie is home-made.”
Toudou sighs, rolling his eyes at a reply that means nothing. He’d been careful at first, at the start of the weekend. It’s the first time he’s visited Fukutomi at home since they started school together; Toudou’s parents instilled in both their children the importance of being a good houseguest, leaving Toudou with no choice save to be courteous as he knows how.
But neither of Fukutomi’s parents are much in evidence, stopping in for only moments at a time before running out to some other business meeting, social call, or other personal emergency. It’s difficult for Toudou to remain in the mindset of the dutiful, polite guest when it’s most often the case that it’s only him and Fukutomi, alone in the large house and left to their own devices.
“Home-made isn’t everything,” Toudou insists. “If that’s all you care about, just… Let me cook for you.”
Fukutomi pauses, mouth still moving slowly but hand lowering to rest against the table. He lets his snack fall by the wayside as his eyes lift to appraise Toudou’s face, as if he doubts the absolute certainty that if Toudou says he’s able and willing to cook, he’s more than capable of the job.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Toudou sniffs. “I’m a very good cook.”
Fukutomi swallows, throat slowly working as it clears itself. “I never said that you weren’t.”
“You didn’t have to. I know the look of someone who is doubting me.”
Fukutomi doesn’t argue with him, something Toudou suspects is one result of their long acquaintanceship. He’s right, anyway, and Fukutomi would do best to mind his tongue when it suits him. Toudou smiles, reaching out to pat Fukutomi’s hand. “I’ll make us a really good dinner, Fuku. You have such a well-outfitted kitchen. It only seems right to make use of it, and to enjoy what we’re able to cook in someplace like this.”
“I never thought about it that way,” Fukutomi admits. Then, after further consideration: “What do you want to cook?”
“That depends,” Toudou says, pushing himself back up from the table. He’s tried very hard to be the polite, noninvasive houseguest, but the time for that performance is past. He moves over to the pantry, raking his eyes over the shelves before he moves on to the fridge. “Both on what you’re in the mood for, and what materials we have to work with.”
“I’ll eat whatever it is you’re cooking,” Fukutomi says.
“Fuku,” Toudou shoots back, despairing once again. But their relationship has always been much like this — Fukutomi is a man who focuses on the big picture, who will lead from on high because he has no need for venturing down into the muck of specifics. Toudou is the one who tends to those details, and he’s happy to do it. They work well together that way, like compliments.
“That’s hardly helpful,” Toudou says, though this time the roll of his eyes is fond. “At least give me something to work with.”
“I like things that are home-made,” Fukutomi adds. “If that’s helpful.”
Toudou’s lips part, another complaint poised on the tip of his tongue. But he bites it back, expression softening all the more. “That much,” he says, “I can most certainly promise you.”
[fic] Fukutomi/Toudou, Home-Made
“Honestly,” Toudou says, sinking down beside Fukutomi at the small kitchen table. “You shouldn’t be eating that.”
Fukutomi looks down at the plate of apple pie spread out before him, fork poised in one hand, the tines pointed down in preparation to separate another bite from the halfway-decimated dessert. The moment draws out, a concession to the possibility that Toudou might be correct. Then Fukutomi scoops up another forkful of pie and levers it decisively into his mouth.
At Toudou’s offended squawk, Fukutomi swallows, offering in his defense: “But Toudou, the pie is home-made.”
Toudou sighs, rolling his eyes at a reply that means nothing. He’d been careful at first, at the start of the weekend. It’s the first time he’s visited Fukutomi at home since they started school together; Toudou’s parents instilled in both their children the importance of being a good houseguest, leaving Toudou with no choice save to be courteous as he knows how.
But neither of Fukutomi’s parents are much in evidence, stopping in for only moments at a time before running out to some other business meeting, social call, or other personal emergency. It’s difficult for Toudou to remain in the mindset of the dutiful, polite guest when it’s most often the case that it’s only him and Fukutomi, alone in the large house and left to their own devices.
“Home-made isn’t everything,” Toudou insists. “If that’s all you care about, just… Let me cook for you.”
Fukutomi pauses, mouth still moving slowly but hand lowering to rest against the table. He lets his snack fall by the wayside as his eyes lift to appraise Toudou’s face, as if he doubts the absolute certainty that if Toudou says he’s able and willing to cook, he’s more than capable of the job.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Toudou sniffs. “I’m a very good cook.”
Fukutomi swallows, throat slowly working as it clears itself. “I never said that you weren’t.”
“You didn’t have to. I know the look of someone who is doubting me.”
Fukutomi doesn’t argue with him, something Toudou suspects is one result of their long acquaintanceship. He’s right, anyway, and Fukutomi would do best to mind his tongue when it suits him. Toudou smiles, reaching out to pat Fukutomi’s hand. “I’ll make us a really good dinner, Fuku. You have such a well-outfitted kitchen. It only seems right to make use of it, and to enjoy what we’re able to cook in someplace like this.”
“I never thought about it that way,” Fukutomi admits. Then, after further consideration: “What do you want to cook?”
“That depends,” Toudou says, pushing himself back up from the table. He’s tried very hard to be the polite, noninvasive houseguest, but the time for that performance is past. He moves over to the pantry, raking his eyes over the shelves before he moves on to the fridge. “Both on what you’re in the mood for, and what materials we have to work with.”
“I’ll eat whatever it is you’re cooking,” Fukutomi says.
“Fuku,” Toudou shoots back, despairing once again. But their relationship has always been much like this — Fukutomi is a man who focuses on the big picture, who will lead from on high because he has no need for venturing down into the muck of specifics. Toudou is the one who tends to those details, and he’s happy to do it. They work well together that way, like compliments.
“That’s hardly helpful,” Toudou says, though this time the roll of his eyes is fond. “At least give me something to work with.”
“I like things that are home-made,” Fukutomi adds. “If that’s helpful.”
Toudou’s lips part, another complaint poised on the tip of his tongue. But he bites it back, expression softening all the more. “That much,” he says, “I can most certainly promise you.”