Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

From within the humbly sized café, Satoru can hear everything going on just outside its door. His heart shudders in his chest. Like clockwork, the door is unlocked and gently opened. The sound is followed by the jingle of keys—placed in a pocket Satoru knows well—as the door is pushed just wide enough for the very top of it to meet the bell inside, emitting a soft, sweet trill, then it’s followed by the soft footsteps which, to Satoru, signal the beginning of the day.

By the time this all happens, Satoru has already been in the café for nearly three hours, having missed the sunrise because he was busy fixating on a croissant recipe he tried once and has been trying to perfect for two weeks.

When brown, warm eyes, eyes like those precious moments before the sun fully sets, fall quietly on him, they widen slightly.

“Again?” Kento asks.

Satoru shrugs, letting his cracked lips form a sheepish smile, lifting his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I couldn’t sleep.”

It’s his usual excuse, but Kento accepts it.

He doesn’t really sleep that much anyway, and he would rather do something good and productive than toss and turn, eventually doom scrolling in bed for hours on end. So, he’s been in the kitchen instead, baking and baking and baking. And waiting for Kento to show up because that, to him, is the best part of co-owning this café.

When Satoru’s last business—a food delivery service—failed spectacularly, not unlike the last five businesses he started, his rather tenacious nature simply turned its attention towards another business venture: a café. Why a café, you may ask? It was simple, because Kento liked coffee.

Even though Satoru was utterly clueless on the very fundamental skills of how to bake, he was naturally stubborn (and incredibly cocky) and refused to admit defeat no matter how many times his baked goods came out charred, gross, or plain boring. He could learn. He would learn. And learn, he did. Hours and days and weeks and months, he spent watching and mimicking videos online. The new challenge had filled his nights in a comfortable way.

When he could finally take a bite of a cookie he’d made and not gag, he smiled and picked up the phone. “Hey, Nanami,” he said. “Wanna come work at my café?”

Kento’s voice was quiet; probably because it was way past his bedtime of nine o’clock. “What café?”

“You know,” Satoru’s eyes roamed around his chaotic kitchen as he thought of a name and finally settled on: “Bake My Day.”

Kento’s answer took a few seconds. And Satoru imagined all sorts of answers, chiefly no and get lost. But what Kento said hiked Satoru’s eyebrows up. “Mn.”

Hope bloomed in Satoru’s chest. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a show-me-a-business-plan.” The hope was watered.

“You got it!” he announced, only to hear the soft click of reprimand from Kento.

Just like that, a fire had been lit under Satoru’s ass. He researched and toured areas, haggled over rent prices although he didn’t need to—he had the budget from daddy dearest—and even painstakingly looked up renovation ideas on Pinterest with the kids in his neighborhood. Everything was drawn up by the time he met with Kento a week later.

“Voila!” Satoru announced, arms held out. The empty business lot he was gesticulating towards wasn’t anything worth a voila. It hardly called for a ‘yay’, even. But Kento’s eyes didn’t shutter. He didn’t say no. He looked down on the binder Satoru had given him—Megumi helped Satoru make it—and said, “Hm.”

Six months later, Satoru and Kento opened Bake My Day, under his father’s advice not to recklessly run it into the ground like he did in his every attempt at being a business owner. He’d learned his mistake all those six times before. On his seventh try, Satoru had won the lottery when he finally hired the best. Kento even came with helpers of his own: A plucky Itadori Yuji who brought his “brother” Todo. To this day, Satoru isn’t sure if Todo is really Yuji’s brother or not, but since Todo does all the heavy lifting when it’s time to stock up, he isn’t about to investigate the legitimacy of their relationship anytime soon.

It felt almost like fate, finally snagging Kento as a business partner. Satoru had cheered when Kento finally signed up for the adventure awaiting them. He’d whooped. He’d hollered. He’d been annoying, frankly. But Kento took it all in stride.

“Mn,” was all he said when Satoru specified that Kento would be holding down the job of manager.

Then he came in, and well, Kento did what he did best. He managed (i.e. bossed Satoru around). He did a remarkable job telling Satoru “No, you can’t paint every wall a different color” and “No, you can’t serve all kinds of cuisines in a café. Stick to pastries.” All while he had a crumb of croissant on the right of his mouth. Satoru had been very tempted to brush it away with his thumb, but in respect to Kento’s infamously thickly drawn personal boundaries—and a show of real restraint—he didn’t.

Now, he watches Kento get into the hang of his routine. He puts on one of the aprons hanging from several pegs behind the counter. It’s sky-blue, with Kento’s surname stitched with MANAGER right underneath. (Satoru had done that, he’d prepared all aprons as a welcome gift for his employees.) After that, Satoru gladly listens to the sound of Kento opening the cabinet to take out the cleaning solution and his favorite flat mop to turn the windows from clean to sparkling. He had a meticulous method that turned the windows so clear, Satoru swears he once saw a pigeon fly right into them.

After making sure the bird was fine, Kento had cleaned the windows again.

While Satoru sips on his nth cup of tea, Kento plops his headphones on and gets started. He watches Kento for the twenty minutes it takes to finish his task, since he’s already done preparing all the pastries and they’re cooling nicely on their racks. He rests his arms on the counter, back slightly bent. His eyes are taking in every wide arc of Kento’s arms, the way his shoulders never slouch. Long ago, he'd done the same thing. Watched Kento. Harboring feelings that nearly spewed out of his nose. Kento’s meticulous movements almost lull Satoru into sleep, standing there.

It was as blatant as the sun—Kento had been depressed. The dark circles under his eyes told Satoru as much. He hadn’t coped with adulthood as well as he pretended, and Satoru felt this incessant need to help. Whilst he recovered from the initial disappointment of not having Kento by his side during his first business, Kento had taken a job as a financial advisor. The job sucked the life out of him; at every reunion, in which Kento first began with coffee than would imbibe—heavily—and Satoru sipped his strawberry flavored virgin cocktail, he’d seen it with his own eyes. He’d needed to do something.

“Are you planning on standing there the whole day?” Kento asks, drawing Satoru out of his stupor. He blinks in quick succession.

“No,” he says, smiling wide. “Watching you clean puts me in a trance.”

To this, Kento simply lets out a puff of air—which Satoru happily accepts as Kento thinking he’s quirky. He straightens and says, “Wanna try the new croissants? They’re scrumptious.”

“New?” Kento asks. “Haven’t we already finalized the menu?” His eyebrows lift. “Months ago.”

“True,” he says, dragging out the word nervously, “but I was scrolling and—”

“Again?” Kento sighs, interrupting him.

“—and I saw this matcha croissant and thought, Ah! Kento would love this.” He says it with such confidence that the man in mention cants his head. “It can’t hurt to have a special every now and then.” Then again, he did come up with a new recipe every week or so.

“Really.” Kento’s tone is as dry as the martinis he likes to drink. “Show them to me, then.”

Satoru salutes him, his smile not one flagging, and saunters into the kitchen. He grabs the tongs and plops a croissant on a dish. Then he adds two more because if his suspicions are correct, Kento hasn’t had breakfast yet and knowing him, he’ll want to devour at least half a dozen.

He comes out and places the plate on the counter. He wiggles his fingers. “Ta-dah!”

Kento eyes the croissants, which are the perfect crispiness. The only reason he’s inspecting them is because they’re green. Then again, Satoru told him they were matcha-flavored. He’d painstakingly tasted the almond and matcha filling until he got it right. Many times he got so grossed out, he nearly spat it right out, but he never wasted food. Thus, Satoru has a belly full of rejects just so Kento can have the perfect batch.

With his slender fingers, Kento picks up a croissant, brings it to his mouth—he doesn’t have the habit of sniffing his food like Satoru does—and takes a bite. Satoru is watching him quite raptly, so he nearly passes away in happiness when Kento’s eyes light up.

“This is good,” he says, his mouth full on account of how he’s utterly devouring the croissant. There’s nothing but crumbs left on the plate in 2.5 seconds.

Satoru’s chest feels so warm and full, like he might cough up his heart next. But he doesn’t. He smiles and says, “Told you.”

The eyes giving him a side-glance are too fond to be believed.

At six thirty on the dot, Megumi shows up. It took some cajoling to sign him up, and by cajoling, it was a lot of money. And seeing as Megumi was saving up for a guitar he really wanted, it was easy to dangle an above-minimum wage in his face and watch it light up in consideration.

Since Megumi signed up, Nobara had to, too. She said so. “He’s hopeless without me.”

Satoru had shrugged. The more the merrier. He tried to get Tsumiki on the roster, but since she was busy with her studies, she gently declined.

That’s how Bake My Day got its staff of two adults (one masquerading as one), a pair of siblings who could get a hint too enthusiastic as he announced drinks, a quiet shadow of a person who was the best latte artist in the world, and Nobara.

“Just Nobara? What are your qualifications?” Kento had asked her when she said as much.

She lifted a finger and pointed at her head. “This, duh.”

The answer had baffled Kento into a snort; and hearing the sound, a sound so similar to a laugh, though some would say it wasn’t, lifted Satoru’s spirits.

“Good morning, Megumi-chan!” Satoru calls out to him.

Megumi, notorious night owl he is, grumbles, “Morning.” Then his lips curve in a smile. “Good morning, Nanami-san.”

“Good morning, Megumi-kun,” Kento replies. “Sleep alright.”

Megumi shrugs. “I have this physics test.”

“I can help with that!” Satoru pipes up, feeling left out of the conversation.

Kento nods. “He can.”

“Really?” Megumi’s tone is full of skepticism. And if Satoru hadn’t known him since he was seven, he might have been injured by it. He wasn’t. Not when Kento vouches for him.

“He can,” he repeats in as steady a voice as there ever was. Megumi nods.

Since Megumi is here, that means music. He can’t make coffee unless there’s music playing and if they want the customers to come in, Megumi has to make the coffee—he’s the best. Satoru gives him an encouraging nod. “Why don’t you put something on?”

Megumi dips quickly to the small breakroom. He comes back with his apron on and his phone in hand. He walks to the laptop and starts setting up his magic. Every day, Megumi puts on a different playlist. Not one to repeat songs. Ever. Today, the mood is mellow and relaxing. Satoru plops himself down on the couch—one of the best purchases he’s made for the café. Just as he’s about to put his feet up on the table, he feels a pointed glare at the back of his head.

He glances sheepishly in Kento’s direction, planting his feet on the floor. “I wasn’t gonna!” he lies.

Kento scoffs, like Yeah, right.

Slowly, the music gets to Satoru. Recognizing the artist, he scours his brain for the lyrics and sure enough, his memory doesn’t fail him. When he starts humming, he’s pleasantly surprised to hear he’s being joined by Megumi, whose soft voice can barely be heard over the combined lovely sound of coffee beans grinding and music.

Kento doesn’t sing along, because he only knows obscure rock bands—a secret Satoru plans to take with him to the grave. He simply starts organizing the new letters. Their café has this cute idea (totally Satoru’s) of customers writing each other letters. Be it advice or simple book recommendations, the letters serve a purpose of bringing strangers closer. The cutest thing is the enthusiastic way people bend over the paper, colored pens working furiously in either illustration or writing. Satoru doesn’t read the letters, but once or twice, an excited customer has shown him what she wrote.

He watches Kento fiddle with the letters, and wonders if he is tempted to sneak a peek. He saunters over to him; his footsteps too soft, and he goes undetected until he’s on top of Kento.

“Gotcha!” he says, his lips a hint too close to Kento’s ear, because one shoulder of his hikes up and nearly smacks into Satoru’s chin. Luckily for him and his chin, he backs away just in time. “Damn, Kento, you’re jumpy.”

“Don’t sneak up on me,” Kento mutters, harsh enough for his voice to filter through the background music. The grind of coffee stops.

“Too loud?” Megumi asks.

Satoru shrugs. “Nah. Keep going, Megumi-chan.”

“Megumi-chan” ignores that and looks at Kento for confirmation. “Maybe dial it down a bit,” Kento says. Ever obedient, Megumi does as he’s told.

Satoru shakes his head, a rueful chuckle spilling from his mouth. “You’ve got him wrapped around your finger, Kento.” Shaking his head, he adds, “You should use this superpower for evil.”

Kento ignores him, but the soft sound of a scoff doesn’t escape Satoru’s notice. He beams. He likes making Kento snort. One day, he’ll get an outright belly laugh out of him.

The rest of the morning unfurls as sweetly as it began, with the three of them working in tandem. Once the customers start rolling in, Satoru gets busy, shining his best smile and pushing his pastries on every person whose eyes he catches glancing in his direction. He stands in front of the display and waits for his next victim. A customer who hasn’t decided what he wants to order yet steps into his radar. Satoru puts on a glittering smile.

“Try the matcha croissant, it’s so good, you’ll want three. Ask Nanami-san!” he says, throwing a wink at Kento, who’s manning the cash register like a total pro. He catches a hint of a head shake as he offers the customer in line the card machine.

“Thank you for your patronage,” Kento says, the greeting warm but not too warm. The girl still has stars in her eyes as she moves to the end of the counter to wait for her order, her eyes still glued to the blond man who’s just become the star of her daydreams.

“Praline and caramel? Isn’t that a bit of an overkill?” asks a quiet voice.

Satoru peels his eyes from the girl who’s just fallen for Kento’s charm and eyes the man in front of him. The man withstands the full beam of Satoru’s attention without a twitch to his eyebrows. He’s good looking, with a distinguished nose.

“Trust me, this cookie will change your life.” He leans a bit and says in a whisper, “It’ll make you meow.”

The man’s stately eyebrows twitch now, and he shakes his head with a huff of laughter. “Really?”

“Trust me,” Satoru insists. “If I wasn’t terrified of my dentist—she’ll never convince me her degree is authentic—I’d be eating these by the handful.”

The right corner of the man’s mouth quirks. “Sure, then. No harm in a cookie at 8 am.”

“For here or to go?”

With a glance over Satoru’s shoulders, the man says, “For here.”

“You will not regret this.” Satoru grabs the tongs and gladly places the cookie onto a plate. He plops it into the microwave though it physically hurts him to reheat the cookie this way. Cookies are meant to be eaten fresh out of the oven. But alas, these have been ready since an hour ago and he’d rather use a microwave than serve it cool. “I’m Satoru, by the way. What’s your name?”

The man with the kind eyes says, “Hiromi.”

“Cute,” Satoru murmurs, not really paying attention to what he’s saying since Kento has entered his visual field and scrambled his brain. He notes the tight way Kento’s lips are pressed together. What’s wrong? he wonders.

“Shouldn’t I pay for this?” Hiromi asks when Satoru places the plate on the counter in front of him.

Satoru, still preoccupied with what might be bothering Kento, says, “It’s on the house.”

“That’s no way to run a business,” the man says, and Satoru senses the amusement in his voice but he’s far too focused on staring at Kento’s profile. He gives Hiromi a glance and shrugs.

“I know you’ll come back for more. My cookies are that good,” he says confidently.

Hiromi’s fingers tap the edge of the plate, while the rest of him seems comfortable to stand there and chat with Satoru. “You own this place?”

“Mm-hm.” He gives him a small smile. “You should enjoy this sitting down.”

Taking the hint, Hiromi nods and says, “It was nice to meet you, Satoru.”

“Likewise, Hiromi-san.”

With the handsome man on his way to a table by the window, Satoru feels comfortable abandoning his post to hound Kento.

“What’s wrong?” he asks once Kento’s done with the last customer in line. Megumi is working quietly, finishing orders and gently calling out names.

Kento’s arms cross over his chest, which distracts Satoru from the simple task of breathing. Has Kento’s arms always looked this thick? Has his chest somewhat expanded over the past ten years? “Why would anything be wrong?”

With a rather presumptuous finger, Satoru pokes the spot right where Kento’s eyebrows are gathered. “This tells me something is definitely wrong. Did you accidentally charge someone twice?”

“I would—” Kento stops and sighs. “No. I didn’t.” He’s speaking in a clipped enough manner that, on any other day, Satoru would back away. But he’s feeling mulish. He wants to get under Kento’s skin. Maybe it’s the summer heat getting under his collar. Maybe it’s the delight on Kento’s face as he devoured Satoru’s matcha croissants.

“Come on, don’t pretend you’re okay when you’re not,” Satoru says, lowering his hand. “You can tell me. I’m a great secret keeper.” Knowing Kento, it’ll take a lot more promises to unlock the door behind which Kento keeps his words.

Shocking Satoru, however, Kento says, “You were awfully chummy with that man.” His own eyes seem betrayed by his words. He presses his lips into a firm line like the gesture might take the admission back. It doesn’t.

Satoru is far too gleeful over the implication. Kento is jealous. The idea sparkles in his head like a rare gem. A gem Satoru wants to stash somewhere safe. Where only he can look at it and admire its beauty. His heart pounds in his chest. Oh.

He is opening his mouth to say something assuring, something along the lines of I was just selling him a cookie, or I can’t believe you’d think I’d ever wanna be chummy with anyone but you, but the opportunity flits out of his hold as soon as a customer walks in.

Except it isn’t a customer. It’s Nobara. She meanders in like she owns the place. She’s thirty minutes late to her shift but she merely places her arms on the counter and bats her lashes.

“Good morning, Nanami-san!”

Kento has already turned away from Satoru, and he greets her back. “Good morning, Nobara-kun. You’re late.”

“I couldn’t get my bob to behave,” she says, a hint of a whine in her voice. Her chagrin is forgotten as soon as she sees Megumi behind Kento’s shoulder. “Megumi! Make me a double shot iced vanilla latte.”

“Are you planning on paying for it?” Megumi shoots back.

Nobara turns her big brown eyes on Satoru. “Do I have to, boss?”

Satoru is about to tell her no since technically employees can have all the coffee and pastries they want, but a pinch to his side silences him. OUCH.

Kento gives him a murderous look. Then looks back at Nobara. “We had an agreement. Show up on time, get your free drink.”

Nobara is unperturbed. “Just this once.”

But the mood he’s in must be dark enough because Kento looks like he’s intent on making Nobara pay for that coffee. Satoru takes the brunt of it by brushing Kento aside and saying, “No problem. Just make sure you’re on time tomorrow.”

Blowing him a kiss, Nobara walks over to their side of the counter and—not passing on the opportunity to be adorably petty, gives Megumi a wink—enters the breakroom. The air is practically electric when Satoru looks at Kento. His thunderous expression sends shivers down Satoru’s spine. Uh-oh.

“A word.”

No ‘please’. No question mark. Satoru nods and follows Kento to the office. It’s as tiny as the breakroom and with Satoru’s huge ass desk taking up seventy percent of the space, it leaves them no room but to stand mere centimeters apart. Kento whirls on him with that same impatient expression.

“What’s really going on?”

“What was that?”

They both speak at the same time. Kento ignores Satoru’s question and says, “You undermined my authority with Nobara-kun.”

Satoru blinks. “Did I?”

“Don’t pretend otherwise, Gojo-san.”

Uh-oh, if Kento is bringing out the surname then Satoru is in deep trouble. He fumbles over his words and what comes out is, “I know how hard it is to style hair early in the morning, and the frizz can get insane, so I totally understand Nobara-chan’s perspective and really, she’s such a good worker, and last week she helped out with the social media so much though she made me do a video which only got seventy-five views.”

Kento’s expression first begins as stern, then it swiftly turns into bafflement as he listens to Satoru’s rambling.

Finally, he expels a long sigh. “Don’t do it again.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, and if it wasn’t drenched in remorse, he expects Kento might have been ticked off, but Satoru is remorseful. He’d never purposefully make Kento look bad. He adores Kento.

Except the object of his affection has never once acknowledged Satoru’s feelings. In all fairness, Satoru hasn’t voiced them that clearly yet. But now seems like a good time. The mood is just right; the light flickers overhead—he should fix that—and they’re standing close enough that if Satoru were to lean in, he could so effortlessly kiss Kento.

But he doesn’t. Because Kento’s eyes look away from him and his lips let out another sigh. “You should rest.”

Satoru mumbles, “Okay,” and watches Kento side-step him out of the office. He slumps into his chair, which is another piece of unnecessary furniture crowding the tiny room, but it’s such an excellent substitute for his bed. He leans his head back and, with his hands covering his face, lets out a wail.

“Idiot. Freaking idiot. You could’ve made a real move on him just then. You could have at least brought up the blatant jealousy. But no,” he mocks himself, “you had to chicken out.”

He’s holding a funeral for his courage. It died ages ago.

Probably the night of his twenty-seventh birthday, when he took a few sips of Kento’s whiskey and, listing sideways to plop his head on Kento’s shoulder, said, “I could see us being partners for the rest of my life, Kento.”

His confession had been perfect. Just the right amount of romance without being too saccharine to turn Kento’s soft smile into a grimace. Except that smile did turn into something else. It turned its edges down.

“You’re drunk,” Kento said and gently helped Satoru up. “Let’s get you home.”

Satoru was too dejected—too rejected—to speak another word. The silence was stifling and odd, he never went a whole minute without talking Kento’s ear off, but in the thirty minutes it took to get home, Satoru’s tongue was properly tied.

He was too stunned by his hurt feelings.

It’s been almost seven years since then and Satoru still can’t hype himself up for another round of confessing his feelings.

“What if I properly tell him I love him, and he brushes me off again?” he says into the empty space. “I might as well put my head in the oven.”

“Whoa, that’s dark,” drawls Shoko.

He almost springs out of his chair in his panic, but the bastard doesn’t eject him as easily as that. “Shoko!” he calls out desperately. “How long have you been standing there?” Since he can’t seem to free himself from the chair’s clutches, he swivels to face the door. Where Shoko’s leaning against the frame with her arms crossed over her chest, wearing the world’s smuggest smirk.

“Long enough to be subjected to your lunacy,” she replies, and starts walking in his direction.

“Don’t get started on me, Shoko, I’ve already been chastised today,” he tells her, roughly running his fingers through his hair, which probably looks like a bird’s nest since he can’t remember the last time he’s run a comb through it.

y

“And it’s not even nine! Surely that should win you some sort of award,” she says with a chuckle, plopping her ass on the desk in front of him. “You look like a mess.”

Satoru rubs his eyes until he sees stars. “Thanks,” he says, hands still on his face. He lowers them to take in her face. She’s got guts, telling him he looks like a mess when she’s sporting dark shadows under her eyes. “What’d you do, pull off a week without sleep?” he asks.

“Something of the sort,” she replies. “Your mother is a very demanding lover,” she adds with a wink just when he’s about to be concerned.

“My mother is a married woman,” he grouses with a pout, tempted to push her off the desk. “Get out of my office, Kento told me to rest.”

“Ooooh, Kento told you to rest.” He’s instantly discomfited by the way she fondly mocks him. He knows where it’s coming from and she has every right to poke fun at him, but perhaps it’s the heat getting to him and the sleeplessness and the overall heartburn of being in love with Kento for nearly a decade, but he cannot muster the lightheartedness to laugh.

When he stays quiet, Shoko’s expression moves on from smirking to genuine concern. “You’re not doing well.”

“Duh.”

“Come on. Let’s get you home.”

That freaking phrase. Satoru wants to delete it from the dictionary. Goodbye, home. No one is coming to you now!

“Damn, maybe I really should get some rest,” he mutters, realizing how unhinged he sounds in his head.

Shoko helps him out of the chair without a comment. They’re walking out to the main area of the café when she drops his hand—he doesn’t need to even wonder why. He can feel the strength of Shoko’s pining the second he hears Yuki’s voice.

“Ugh,” he grumbles. “You’re gross.”

“Shut up.” Then,” Got any lip gloss?”

“Not for hypocrites who poke fun at me, no,” he’s saying even as he’s reaching into his pocket for lip balm. “This is all I got.” She snatches it rudely, then uses his shoulders—is that really necessary?—to hide and apply it. He’s smart enough to buy the tinted kind, so at least her lips draw attention away from her bruised under-eyes and to her glossy lips.

With a few pinches to her cheeks, Shoko looks transformed. Satoru is tempted to accuse her of witchcraft, but a pair of warm eyes land on him, and it melts away his chagrin that Shoko can appear somewhat human when he’s sporting bedhead minus the bed.

He takes a sniff of his collar and thanks heavens he smells like vanilla. At least he’s not reeking of sweat. Though he really needs that shower.

“Whoa, you’re looking rough,” Yuki says as soon as she lays eyes on them. Her helmet is propped on her hip, one elbow clutching it as she lifts that same arm and takes a picture.

He probably looks like a deer caught in the headlights. “Hey! Delete that.”

“Nope,” she teases. “Though, if you give me free croissants for a year then I might reconsider,” she adds on another thought.

“No free croissants. No free anything.”

“Come on, Kento, I’m your oldest friend.”

Satoru itches to interject with, “No, you’re not. I am,” but that’d be very childish of him because although it’s true, pointing out he met Kento two days before Yuki did was so silly.

“No, you’re not,” the words come out anyway. Because who the hell is in charge of Satoru’s mouth? Not him. “I met him first.”

Yuki rolls her eyes, but the gesture is too fond to be truly biting. She turns on Kento and says, “Not even a cookie?”

Kento’s eyes are still on Satoru, and he feels the scrutiny of those brown depths like they’re pouring hot chocolate all over him. Damn, he really needs some sleep because he can’t be getting turned on by the thought of Kento drizzling chocolate syrup on him. Why not? a sinister voice asks. He could lick it off after.

Shaking his head, Satoru moves to get Yuki a cookie and recalling that gentleman he sort of forced to try his best creation, looks up at the table. It’s empty. Bummer. He’d wanted to be proven right; that would’ve brightened up his day.

“Here you go,” he says, handing her the baggie. “One pistachio cream cookie.”

She gleefully takes it—but he only releases his hold on it once she’s paid. He’s already ticked Kento off once, he’s not doing it a second time. He’s not sure he’d survive another stern look.

Just as she’s about to leave, Nobara stops her. Her polaroid camera in hand. Yuki instantly poses for a picture. Then calls out, “Shoko, come in here.”

Finally reanimating, Shoko jerks forward and—Satoru really is grateful Nobara is documenting this moment—wears the goofiest grin when Yuki puts her free arm around her shoulder, making a kissy face at Nobara.

“Have a great day!” Nobara says, holding up the two pictures like trophies.

Yuki gives Shoko a squeeze—Satoru mentally studies and memorizes the ease with which she does that so he can mimic it some other time—and heads out.

They watch her take a bite of her cookie, and with it still between her teeth, she puts on her helmet and gets on her bike. She’s gone for a solid five seconds before Shoko sighs, “I wish I was that cookie.”

Satoru’s eyes trace the rim of the coffee mug Kento has just lowered and thinks, I wish I was that mug.

Having delayed her order long enough, Shoko gets her usual black coffee and plain croissant to go, then links her arm with Satoru’s and says, “Alright, time to go.”

“But, Shoko, I’m the best cookie pusher there is.”

“You sound utterly insane. Come on. You need to sleep,” she says. “It’s my opinion as a former physician.”

Kento betrays him by agreeing. “You should go and rest.”

“I’ll push as many cookies as I can, Gojo-san!” Nobara assures him, giving him a thumbs-up.

With a heart left behind in Bake My Day, Satoru is dragged out.

(•؎ •)

Gojo Satoru thinks he’s subtle. He thinks he’s doing a good deed, calling up Kento to hire him in his café. He thinks Kento needs this kind of occupation. It’s clear as day, clear as Satoru’s blue, limpid eyes. He wants to fix him. It’s too bad that Kento doesn’t need or want fixing.

It’s rather insulting, actually, when the man barely functions as it is. He barely sleeps; Kento has not once shown up to an empty café, Satoru is always puttering around in the kitchen or fidgeting with the books in their little bookcase. He barely eats, although he makes a big show of making everyone, but especially Kento, try out his new recipes. He barely even sits. His figure is always lankily, annoyingly hovering over somebody’s shoulder, more often than not: Kento’s shoulder.

And he’s always meddling, especially when it comes to running the café. It’s like he doesn’t trust Kento. Some part of him is fuming, on the point of boiling over, actually, to just ask Satoru to relax, to trust him. But how can Kento ask that of Satoru when he’d… proven him right.

Twelve years ago, they were mere twenty-one-year-olds (In that blissful few months before Satoru turned a year older and can lord it over Kento) and had grandiose plans. They were going to open a dojo. Take in all the underprivileged kids and show them ways to protect themselves. Ways to spend their time in fruitful ways. Then Kento needed money, and his pride came in the way. So, he backed out of the plan and got a high-paying job that proceeded to suck the life out of him for over a decade. Now, thirty-three, he’d slunk back into Satoru’s graces with his tail between his legs, fooling nobody. He was burned out. If you shake him too hard, he might crumble into ashes. But that was before the café. Before he felt like there was good in the world again. Before he discovered that there was a way to live without the burden of being somebody’s cash cow. And all it took was one phone call from Gojo Satoru to unshackle him.

Now, he needed to prove himself once and for all. He’s going nowhere. Satoru can trust him.

(•؎ •)

The next day, Satoru is back at it again. Early—too early—and elbows deep in dough. He’s spurred on by energy, the source of which he knows is mostly desperation. He wants to do something about the state of his heart. If he goes another day without telling Kento how he feels, he might collapse. Eyes bleary, he prepares a cup of tea because he’s not about to encroach on Megumi’s specialty and frankly, the coffee machines scare him sometimes and waits for Kento to show up.

All of his sources tell him a grand gesture is crucial for this sort of thing, so Satoru pulls out all the stops. He cleans the café from top to bottom, borrowing most of Kento’s techniques and favorite sponges, then he gets started on crafting every pastry Kento has ever tried that made his eyes glisten. Today’s star is the cheesecake churros. A recipe Satoru has neglected because he’s always on the hunt for something new. Seeing as he wants to make Kento stop and see him, he needs a showstopper like that. By six am sharp, the café smells more divine than usual. The churros came out perfectly golden. Crisp and crunchy. He has sampled a few and has nearly fainted from how good they are.

Rather than wait for Kento behind the counter, he lights a few candles in strategic, safe areas of the café, and sits on the couch. He contemplates pulling out a book to read while he waits but the second his ass meets the cushion, his eyelids grow heavy, and his body is reminded of how little sleep he’s been getting. He’s out, like a light in a storm.

(•؎ •)

The sight that greets Kento is disconcerting. There are lit candles, and the door is unlocked. He’d panicked for the split second it took him to shove it open and see that the café hadn’t been robbed. Satoru simply left it unlocked. And fell asleep on the couch. His feet are propped up on the table in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest, a book not even open to sell the illusion he’d been trying to read. Whilst Kento blows out the candles—the windows let in enough light, why should they endanger the place with open flame?—he throws glances at the man snoring softly at the center of the café.

Was he there early again? It doesn’t take a genius to deduce as much. He stifles a sigh and walks over to Satoru’s side. He rests his hands on the back of the couch and leans in, not close enough for his exhaled breaths to disturb Satoru’s sleep, but enough that he can trace the lines webbing out of Satoru’s eyes. Every line in his face is a sign that he’s lived, and Kento’s heart feels equally full and pained at how he's missed some of this. He missed Satoru’s smiles. He missed his frowns. He only knew the bare bones of what Satoru went through while he withered away at his corporate job. His right hand lifts from the back of the couch and, with a touch as light as a feather, traces the tip of his index finger along the line in Satoru’s forehead where his hair has fallen back.

“I’m sorry I was gone for too long,” he whispers, voice barely audible.

Satoru inhales sharply and his eyes blink open. He goes from sound asleep to wide away in 0.5 seconds and Kento is too startled to begin to think of how to move. Away? Closer? He stills and waits to see how Satoru will react to his proximity. He’s propped by one hand, another hovering over Satoru’s face. Those blue eyes gather in the middle, staring at the finger Kento has just slid over his nose.

“Are you… picking my nose?” Satoru murmurs, his voice thick and sleepy. Bumps spread over Kento’s neck upon hearing it.

Then he registers the question. “No!” he denies vehemently, retreating his hand. Or he is intent on retreating his hand, but Satoru reaches out and grabs it. Then he does the oddest thing: he presses it to his cheek and nuzzles it. The gesture is so interesting in how it wrecks Kento’s heart.

“Even if you did, I wouldn’t hate it,” Satoru says in that sleepy voice that scratches an inch in Kento’s chest. His back shivers.

“I wasn’t,” he says, and pulls at his hand. His palm grows sweaty and warm where it meets Satoru’s cheek. “Let go,” he says once he realizes Satoru is intent on holding his hand hostage, pressed tightly against his face.

“No.” His voice is reckless and stubborn. His eyes flash, almost silvery in the light. “I want you to keep touching me.”

Kento’s mouth parts but nothing comes out because really, what can he say in response to that? Instead, a soft groan rumbles through his throat.

The corners of Satoru’s lips lift as he moves his cheek against Kento’s palm. “Ah, this feels nice. Your hand is so cool.”

“I have poor circulation,” he says.

Satoru keeps rubbing his face, and the image of him, reclined so casually over the café couch, holding Kento’s hand to his face, his mouth lifted in a contented smile, pulls at Kento’s heart. Until it’s in his throat.

His eyes roam over Satoru’s hand and he notices a red square right where his wrist begins. He frowns and turns his hand to grab it. “What’s this?”

“Hmm?” Satoru opens his eyes and inspects his own wrist in Kento’s hand. “Oh, I think I got singed by the oven tray while I was taking out the churros.” Then, his own words register, and he flings himself from the couch, all while Kento watches in alarm. “My churros!” he wails.

Kento stands where he is, as if his feet have been planted in the spot, and his eyes follow Satoru’s panicked sprint to the kitchen. He comes out a few seconds later, sighing in relief.

“Crisis averted,” he says, which isn’t any sort of explanation, but the plate in his hands draws Kento’s eyes. He sees the circles of crispy churros and understands.

“You made the cheesecake churros? I thought they were too…” the rest of his words disperse when those slender fingers grab a piece and place them in Kento’s mouth.

He frowns and closes his teeth around them, his ears prickling at the distinct crunch, before delicious cream cheese coats his tongue. His taste buds instantly rejoice and a deep sound of pleasure flows from his throat as he swallows greedily, already reaching for another piece.

Satoru’s eyes light up and he offers him the whole plate, head tilted as he asks, “Good?”

“So good,” Kento says, his mouth full as he shoves more churros than his mouth should be able to handle. He’s about to choke, but Satoru, anticipating this, offers him a cool glass of milk. He takes careful sips, just enough to lubricate his throat so he can eat some more. In seconds, Kento has cleared the plate and only crumbs are left.

“Are there any more?”

Satoru nods. “Of course. I made a lot.”

“Can I…” He stops himself. Those churros were probably made for the café, not for him to devour.

Sensing his hesitance, Satoru saddles up to him and whispers, “And they’re all for you.”

Kento’s eyes light up. “Really?”

“Of course,” Satoru tells him, and he bites his lower lip. “Actually, I made them because I…”

The door cuts him off, its bell ringing sweetly. He sighs despondently, but Kento is thrown off by how quickly he dons a brilliant smile and greets Megumi.

He stands in spot, absently licking his fingers and rethinking the whole morning. Satoru showed up early to bake a dessert he vowed to never repeat (“Life is too short to keep baking the same thing!”), cleaned the place precisely per Kento’s specifics, lit up candles, and waited for him.

The reason behind it all is left to Kento’s speculation.

He glances at Satoru poking fun at Megumi’s bedhead and wonders, What’s he thinking?

(•؎ •)

Saved by the part-timer. Satoru can’t thank Megumi enough, so he vows to not bother him for at least three hours. But when he sees Megumi’s hair, his own mental promise is broken.

“Did you get into a fight on your way here?”

Megumi shoots him a dirty look. “It’s naturally like this.”

Satoru chuckles. “Must be all the sass.”

The boy gives him a deadpan look, like Don’t you have a job?

Speaking of… Satoru looks up to find Kento staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. His stomach flips. Has Kento figured him out yet? He’s smart, he’s surely connected the dots. Except Kento’s eyes are shifting away and looking slightly aimless.

“Something wrong?” he asks as he steps close to Kento, drawn by that lost expression.

Kento’s eyebrows hitch up. “You stole my morning routine.”

Aghast, he gasps. “I did! I… I’m so sorry,” he says genuinely.

With a shake to his head, Kento passes him by and dons his apron. “It’s okay. I’ll just do it again.”

“But… I already cleaned the windows.”

Kento ignores him and proceeds to grab the bottle of glass cleaner and his favorite flat mop. It’s his turn to be helpless. He watches Kento uselessly clean the windows for the two minutes his heart can withstand, then dejectedly retreats to his office. Is Kento unhappy with his effort? Has he blundered somehow? Kento looked so happy, eating the churros. And sure, he blew out the candles, but Satoru already knew he would. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt his feelings. He plops down on the chair and the action is too violent, it nearly ejects him with a bounce, but he grabs onto the arms and steadies its sway.

“Chill,” he says to the chair. “You’re being so dramatic.” He has a feeling he’s not quite talking to a chair, but rather to himself.

(•؎ •)

“Is Gojo-san alright?” Yuji asks when he comes in and is greeted by the image of Megumi and Kento getting the place ready. He only comes early on Tuesdays and Satoru is almost always on the floor, pushing cookies and pastries onto everyone.

Nobara walks in just after him and before Kento can respond, she says, “He must be getting his period.”

Yuji frowns. “Gojo-san gets his period?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Kento says with a stern look at Nobara. She pokes her tongue out. “Glad you’re in on time today.”

“After Gojo-san’s lecture, hell yeah I am,” she mumbles, but not in a way that shows she’s upset. Kento frowns.

“What lecture?”

She adjusts the straps of her apron. “He sent me a three-minute-long voice note, which I had to listen to in its entirety because he kind of rambles, about the importance of upholding work ethics at my age.” She waves a hand. “I’m sorry for yesterday, Nanami-san.”

Kento’s frown slides off his face and he turns to stare at the hallway leading to Satoru’s office. He… did that? Satoru’s tendency towards leniency means that more often than not (almost always, actually), Kento is responsible for training and reminding the staff of their duties.

“Can you send it to me?” he asks Nobara, already moving into the hallway.

“Sure,” he hears her say, then ignores her not-so-quiet whisper, “He’s being weird.”

Hand lifting, Kento pauses and contemplates whether he should interrupt whatever Satoru is doing in his office. He rarely goes in there unless it’s important or if he’s trying to nap without anyone noticing—they all notice and let him do it since he pulls such long hours. He shakes off the hesitance and knocks.

“Come in.”

The office is a glorified box, with a huge desk and endless cabinets shoved against the left side with barely enough room for that big chair. In it, Satou is sitting with his legs splayed open and his hands clasped on his chest. His face is tilted to the door, the light reflecting off of one side of his face, throwing the other side into shadow. His eyes widen when they see Kento.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, already moving.

Kento shakes his head and motions for him to stay where he is. He gingerly walks all the way over and behind the desk, wedging his body in the scant space, but it’s too narrow and his leg brushes along Satoru’s while he situates himself on the edge of the desk. All while Kento awkwardly struggles to fit his body in that small space, Satoru is frozen, staring up at him with eyes like saucers.

“Everything’s okay,” he says, but even to his own ears, the words are laden with deception. He shakes his head minutely and amends, “Not everything.”

Satoru straightens and his hands shoot out to grab onto Kento’s where they were holding onto the edge of the desk. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Kento looks down to see how gently Satoru is holding his hands, while his own are covered in old and new scars. “No,” he says. “I… I have been meaning to apologize to you.”

“What? Why’d you need to apologize to me?” Satoru asks, rapidly and quite rudely breaking up Kento’s concentration.

He frees one hand and presses it to Satoru’s mouth. He watches Satoru’s eyes widen in wonder. “Will you be quiet and let me speak?”

Satoru nods and Kento shivers from feeling his lips against his palms. Satoru is warm. Only when he’s certain Satoru won’t interrupt him does Kento withdraw his hand, but within his chest, there’s palpable remorse at the act and although the sensation isn’t new, it puts Kento on alert. What else is his heart capable of feeling for the man staring at him?

“I made a promise to you,” he begins, his voice steady. “The promise to open the dojo is still fresh in my mind. Due to circumstances, details of which you still don’t know, I withdrew and left you on your own. That, to me, is a betrayal.” He sees Satoru’s eyes widen, rounding with emotions Kento cannot begin to decipher, not whilst he’s trying his best to push the words he’s kept sealed within him for years. “I broke my promise to you and for that, I apologize.” His head lowers in his sincerity.

Satoru appears as if he might say something, but Kento is intent on uttering the other half of his speech. “I also wish to thank you.” Now, Satoru’s mouth closes with a faint clicking sound, his teeth meeting in the back of his mouth, perhaps. “This café has grown to mean a lot to me. It’s a place where I can be.” He takes a breath and isn’t surprised that it’s a shudder of an inhale. “It’s a place where I feel at ease.” Whether it is the comfort of having spoken the words haunting him, or perhaps the open way Satoru stares at him, Kento lifts a hand and, gently, threads his fingers through Satoru’s hair.

Those blue eyes disappear behind fluttering eyelashes. The pale skin of Satoru’s face is flushed, a soft pink Kento admires for a minute.

“That’s entirely due to your generosity of heart.” His fingers deepen their exploration of Satoru’s hair, delving to brush their tips over his scalp. His voice lowers to a whisper. “I am grateful.” His body bends, until he and Satoru are kept apart by a few centimeters.

Satoru lifts a hand, and with a sigh—is it Kento’s or Satoru’s mouth letting it pass through its lips?—it cups Kento’s cheek. His own lashes lower now, utterly at peace from the release of words long withheld. Words of regrets. Words of appreciation.

Along with his lashes, all of Kento’s limbs relax, lending him a sensation of weightlessness. Then there’s the slightest pressure against his cheek. Warmth blooms where that pressure continues to press across his skin. He bunches his fingers into fists in Satoru’s hair, then slides them down the column of his neck and takes handfuls of his shirt, his apron straps tangling. Sightless, Kento turns his face to that warmth and—a sigh of relief. His lips meet Satoru’s mouth.

It is a fortifying kiss. The sort of which Kento has only dreamt. The sort of which Satoru gives as he’s given everything else: without cost. Without hesitation. The kiss is between tightly pressed lips, at first chaste, but it melts away into its true intention: desire. It lights up the very tips of Kento’s ears, being kissed by Satoru. He softly whimpers; the sound pulled from him by sheer delight.

His knees land on the chair, and it squeaks noisily, but the light smack of their lips urges him closer, until his arms are twined behind Satoru’s neck, holding onto him like a drowning man holding onto a raft. Satoru soothes an ache deep inside Kento’s heart, an ache to belong. An ache to be important.

“Kento,” Satoru whispers against his lips, and he responds to the call with a desperate moan. His body trembles as Satoru parts his lips with his own. As Satoru’s tongue delves, licks, sips from his mouth. His eyes are warm behind his closed lids, but he knows the second he opens them, he shall be greeted by a sight that’d soothe any ache of embarrassment.

He does that now, held within Satoru’s arms. He looks upon Satoru’s face, and his breath catches in his chest. Satoru gazes up at him with eyes filled with naked love.

This moment stretches between them. The infinite blue of Gojo Satoru’s eyes holding Kento captive.

Thumbs press against his cheeks and only when Satoru says, “You’re leaking,” does Kento understand the tenderness in that caress.

He chuckles. “I may be.”

“Why?” Satoru whispers, a tentative inquiry expressed within the sanctuary of their embrace.

Kento is tempted to place his face in the cradle of Satoru’s neck, bury it for a while longer, but he is quite finished with hiding. He hid from his feelings all those years ago. He placed aside the trembling infatuation as if it were of no consequence, until it grew roots and tugged him in a whole different direction. Now, he finds himself right where he belongs; in Gojo Satoru’s arms.

“I’m relieved,” he says.

Satoru’s lips part with a smile, so unlike his usual smirks; this smile is tender and pure. “I haven’t even said a word yet.”

Does he need to say the words when he’s built Kento a home?

“Say it, then,” he prompts, nudging his nose along Satoru’s chin. “Tell me.”

Satoru exhales noisily and in a voice Kento will remember for the rest of his life, says, “I love you.”

His eyelashes blink. Time pauses. There’s an abundance of sweetness in Satoru’s words, accompanied by need Kento can only recognize so well because he’s harbored it within himself.

He clears his throat, for he must repay Satoru’s kindness. “I love—”

“GOJO-SAN!” Interrupting Kento’s grand confession is a harried Yuji, who still has some sense to knock on the door. “NANAMI!” he adds. “There’s an emergency!”

Satoru’s eyes fly to the door, but Kento snags his chin and redirects his eyes to him. “I am in the middle of something.”

“But—”

Kento kisses him then, and within that kiss, he says, “I love you, too.” Which prompts frees Satoru from all obligation to answer Yuji’s call.

Later—much later—they emerge from the office. Yuji pays no mind to how they surreptitiously exchange glances. He says, “People smelled the churros, and they want to know why they’re not on display!”

Satoru frowns. “They aren’t—”

Kento interrupts him. “Put them out, Yuji-kun.”

Yuji sprints away, shouting, “Thanks, Nanamin!” The man in mention watches him with a small smile. Only to have a very confused Satoru tug his hand.

“I made those for you,” Satoru says, a whine in his voice.

Kento turns to him, deliberately twining their fingers together. “I know, but I think I’ve found something far more delectable.”

(•؎ •)

Kento really thinks he’s said plenty. A confession of his true feelings and an admission that Satoru is more delicious than any pastry he can put in his mouth? He’s said enough. But when he moves like he’s about to walk back to the main floor, because he is, he’s stopped by a hand twisting in the back of his shirt. Unceremoniously, he’s being wrapped up in Satoru’s octopus-like arms. He feels the jut of Satoru’s chin pressed to his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” he says, and his voice tightly vibrates through Kento’s neck. He withholds a shudder.

“Back to work,” he replies, lifting a hand to sift through the mop of head Satoru calls hair. It’s so soft.

Satoru makes a sound of complaint in his chest, which on account of him being wrapped up around Kento, means it travels straight to Kento’s chest through his back. He allows himself the gentle backward lean, relaxing in Satoru’s hold. His fingers drum the rhythm of a song Megumi is playing outside. A mere meter or so away from them. “Have you forgotten where we are?”

“No,” Satoru says. “I was just hoping to hog you for a few more minutes.”

He bites his lower lip. He finds this side of Satoru irritatingly endearing; mainly because he can’t resist it. He twists and turns in Satoru’s arms, until their eyes meet. Satoru’s glistening with glee.

“Hey,” Kento says.

“Hi.” Satoru tilts his head forward and snags Kento’s mouth in a kiss which swiftly shoves back all thoughts of work. His hands wrap around Satoru’s back, and he unconsciously brings him close. Even with their chests pressed together, it’s not close enough. He walks Satoru back into his office. There, Satoru shifts them so Kento is sitting on the desk and he’s standing between his legs.

He lifts one foot and traces the back of Satoru’s shin, surprised by his own flexibility. Satoru smirks. “Showing off?”

He honestly isn’t, but it doesn’t hurt that Satoru is looking at him like he might eat him. He leans back on his hands and, all too awfully aware of how this position makes him appear like he’s presenting himself for Satoru, lifts an eyebrow. “See anything you like?”

Satoru groans and attacks—there’s no other word for the way he bites and sucks at Kento’s lips, then slides his mouth down Kento’s neck and mouths at it like he’s trying to discover a secret ingredient. He shudders and shakes, clutching at Satoru’s back, sliding his hands up the broad expanse to his shoulders, then down to his waist. Finally, Kento’s hands settle on Satoru’s ass and squeeze.

Satoru lets out a growl at that and repays Kento’s gesture with one of his own. He lifts Kento by the thighs and drags him to the edge of the desk as if Kento isn’t already hanging on. He lets out a shocked gasp when Satoru’s hand glides over his center, down to the waistband of his pants.

“Here?” he asks, but his one-word question is devoured by Satoru’s kisses. They’re fervent and heady, sending Kento’s rational thoughts into a senseless scatter.

Satoru replies by cupping his erection tight, almost too tight, and Kento lets out a sound of which he’s not too proud seeing as they’re currently at work at their own café, fondling one another—oh yeah, Kento is definitely kneading Satoru’s ass through his pants, which are annoyingly sturdy. Why can’t he wear something soft and malleable like leggings? Then again, the sight of Satoru’s long legs in leggings might make the whole purpose of coming to work utterly useless.

He feels his control slipping, but he’s helpless to stop Satoru. Not when he wants him this bad. So bad that he’s panting into Satoru’s mouth, a broken moan exchanged between them. He licks into Satoru’s mouth, groaning at how perfectly sweet he is. Kento isn’t good with sweets, but he’s good with Gojo Satoru’s mouth. He’s excellent, even. He grabs handfuls of that ass and pulls Satoru even closer, until their bodies are rocking into one another, Satoru’s hand gripping his dick in a perfect hold that makes Kento’s back arch. His chest is full, heart racing in his ears, but he doesn’t want to stop. Doesn’t want Satoru to ever stop kissing him. Touching him. Whispering the most saccharine of words between his lips.

His dick throbs in Satoru’s hand, and the sound of the slick way Satoru jerks him off turns Kento’s cheeks hot. He should be ashamed of himself, acting so recklessly so early in the morning, but he can’t fathom why they haven’t done this sooner.

“Fuck, Kento, you’re so fucking hot,” Satoru moans against his lips, his mouth slack and his words half-slurred.

He grunts and blinks his eyes open. Only to regret it. Because the look on Satoru’s face, the want and desire nestled in his eyes, nearly sends him over the edge. This will not do. He pushes Satoru back long enough for him to get his hands on his zipper, and then he’s lowering it carelessly down.

“Oof, watch out for my cock, Kento.”

“Don’t worry,” he mutters. “I won’t hurt you.”

Satoru’s lashes flutter. “Maybe just a little?”

He chokes out a laugh and shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re awful.”

“You love it.” Then, with wonder in his voice, Satoru amends, “You love me.”

Not one to shy away once his feelings have been confessed, Kento says, “I do.” He leans in as his hand wraps around Satoru’s hard dick. “I love you so much it disrupts my whole day.”

Satoru lets out a chuckle mixed with awe. “That’s so romantic. Did you borrow that from a letter or something?”

“Or something,” he replies. “Now shut up so I can properly do this.”

“Your tenacity is admirable,” Satoru says, but he’s not fooling Kento. The way he twists his wrist and grips the base of his dick is affecting him. Sweat has broken along the column of Satoru’s neck. And because there’s no room for hiding between them, Kento leans in and licks it. Satoru moans at the sensation and he begins to jerk Kento off harder. Faster. His balls tighten with need, but he is not coming first.

“Here, let’s do it together,” Satoru says as he holds their dicks together, freeing Kento’s hands so they can do more interesting things: like undo Satoru’s apron and slide it off, then do the same with his shirt. Once exposed, Kento’s mouth is drawn to Satoru’s chest. His tongue laps at the sharp jut of his collarbones, his lips closing around that fair skin, possibly leaving marks. If he does, would Satoru mind?

His brain is far too gone, alas and he bites down on Satoru’s skin when the slide of their dicks makes his legs kick up until they’re wrapped around the back of Satoru’s thighs. The edge of the desk bites into Kento’s ass and when he complains with a short huff, Satoru picks him up and sits him on his lap.

The chair’s ability to sustain their combined weights is tested—it passes with flying colors, only squeaking when Kento begins to move his hips, rocking them so he can fuck Satoru’s fist.

“Fuck,” Satoru grunts, his mouth latching onto Kento’s neck. “It’s so unfair that you taste this good.”

He smirks, but it’s swiftly replaced by a slack jaw as Satoru takes his earlobe into his mouth and sucks. Shivers run down his spine as his balls tighten, signaling they’ve reached the point of no return. He grabs Satoru’s face by the cheeks and as their breaths intermingle, he comes in Satoru’s hand, shuddering and burrowing Satoru’s favorite curse word: fuck.

The stars haven’t entirely dissipated before he’s glancing down between them to see how his cum has painted Satoru’s palm. His dick twitches but he pays it no mind. Satoru is still hard. He ignores the protest from his lower back, knees, and Satoru, and slides until he’s on his knees between Satoru’s legs.

“Kento, you don’t—”

“Shut up,” he says, silencing Satoru’s half-hearted protests. He looks up at him while his wraps his fingers around Satoru’s dick. “Let me.”

He’s big. Not big enough to intimidate Kento—though he doubts any dick could intimidate him. But it’s also long. Like it might hit the back of his throat kind of long. There’s only one way to find out, he thinks, kissing the bead of cum at the tip. Satoru shudders, hands flying to Kento’s head, stopping him from taking his dick in his mouth.

“What now?” he asks rather impatiently, which has to spur some embarrassment—he can’t be this dick-starved—but it doesn’t.

Satoru’s eyes are so round as they look at him. “You look pretty on your knees for me.”

Of all the things, it has to be something ridiculous. Kento blinks. Which some might take as coquettish. He’s simply annoying. (Okay, and a little turned on because hm, he had no idea he had that kind of desire—to be called pretty by Gojo Satoru of all people.)

He gives Satoru a quick glare then returns to the task at hand. Or… dick at hand. It definitely requires a lot of focus, especially since Kento hasn’t done this to anything that was…real. He’s deepthroated his dildo a few times, but the taste of silicone didn’t appeal to him.

Everything about Satoru’s dick appeals to him, however. The heat. The velvety feel of his length as Kento runs his tongue over it. The jutting veins that throb against his lips as he kisses down the shaft. His mouth is filled with spit, so he spits it out into his hand and jerks Satoru off for a few strokes that turn Satoru incoherent. Talking about how pretty Kento is, again. And again, there’s that throb of need in the back of Kento’s skull. Every inch of his skin is hot under Satoru’s eyes, and it only gets better when he begins to feed Satoru’s dick into his mouth.

(•؎ •)

If the earth exploded right now, Satoru would die happy because he’s achieved enlightenment. The sight of his furiously aching dick is sliding into Kento’s mouth and that, to him, means everything. He thought hearing the words I love you coming from Kento would change everything. But no. It’s the sight of Kento sucking his dick that does him in. He’s babbling, he knows he is, he hears his whiny voice, calling Kento gorgeous and pretty and darling and every other word he has kept sealed within his heart.

There’s no holding back now. Not when he can feel Kento’s throat hug the tip of his cock. Fuck. The pleasure slams into him like a hammer, repeatedly, until his whole body is reduced to a throb in Kento’s mouth. His eyes swim with tears, turning his vision blurry. He rubs them just so he can stare at Kento in high definition. Because the sight of those lips stretching around his cock is something he needs seared into his brain.

His fingers tremble, but they eventually make their way down Kento’s neck, squeezing gently. “Kento,” he calls out to him. Those eyes lift up to his face and Satoru regrets it. Because there’s no way he can withstand the heat of Kento’s mouth and gaze.

He warns him, telling him he’s close, but Kento doesn’t relent. The furnace that is his mouth simply sucks, his head bobbing over Satoru’s dick, taking it so deep Satoru can definitely see heaven’s doors, until he’s holding onto the edge of his chair and biting back the urge to fuck into Kento’s mouth.

He comes with a startled cry that he hopes is covered up by the sound of music in the café because he cannot be discovered to be a screamer.

If he wasn’t too far gone, he’d be aghast at the way Kento licks him clean, his throat swallowing his cum. Fuck, the knowledge that Kento has just sucked him off and drank his cum makes his dick twitch pitifully.

Kento presses a kiss to Satoru’s inner thighs, then slowly stands up. He’s looming over, but there is very little strength left in Satoru. He’s been turned into a puddle.

Still, he leans forwards and presses the palm of his hands to Kento’s cheeks, pressing his skin against his paramour’s hot flesh. “You’re fucking amazing,” he whispers, his voice hot with knowledge.

He is privileged enough to see Kento’s lashes flutter, an admission of shyness. Perhaps some pleasure, too.

This is the sort of face Satoru has only dreamt of witnessing. The sort of face that pulls out words flowery and gentle from him. Words like, “I want to suck every inch of you and have you absolutely blooming under my mouth.” Words that make Kento’s eyebrows arch into his hairline.

Words that earn him a soft tap to his shoulder, a short laugh. “You’re insane.”

He is like a moth, chasing after Kento as he puts himself together—looking irritated that his clothes have ended up everywhere. The office is small, however, so the task of collecting them isn’t arduous. Satoru helps anyway. Possibly because his fingers itch to touch Kento even in the most meager ways of fixing the collar of his shirt or adjusting the way his apron straps lay on his shoulders. “There. You’re back to being perfect.”

Kento’s lips part and that’s how Satoru kisses them again, caught in awe. He shuts his eyes closed, tightly, and feels a tremor of disbelief rush through him. I can kiss him as much as I like. He can kiss Kento whenever and wherever he likes.

“Just so you know,” he says absently, peppering his words alongside Kento’s cheeks, jawline, then up to his cheekbones, “I may be halfway through to insanity, and it’s all because of you.”

The hands clutching his sides tighten. Kento’s face is washed in sweet surprise.

They stand there, in Satoru’s stuffy little office, yet the world seems endlessly, ceaselessly large. Theirs for the taking.

“Say, I know you just had a treat, but I really want to fill you up with churros,” Satoru says.

Kento’s chuckle is so dear. “Fine. But after,” he tugs Satoru closer by the waist, “I get to choose.”

The implications alone could blow Satoru’s mind, so he simply grins and nods. Words have lost all meaning now that actions such as being pulled by Kento’s hand, its warm pressure covering Satoru’s cool fingers, or the comfortable weight of his shoulder spreading delight through Satoru’s body, are now an option.