Yami no Matsuei is not mine. Neither Tsuzuki nor Hisoka are mine. I don't even have a cinnamon bun.  I do have a mysterious shadowy figure who wears glasses and make me write YnM fluff. He calls himself a "fluff demon." If he is really yours, please take him back.

(not too long ago…)

dodger-chan:… but…but…

Mysterious shadowy figure with glasses: You have no choice.

dodger-chan: But what about the other stories?

MSFWG: You may return to them, temporarily, when you finish this.

dodger-chan: And my homework?

MSFWG: LATER! The Fluff Demon commands it! Now write, cursed child! Write Fluff!

(and so…)

Tsuzuki watched the cinnamon bun sitting in front of him. No, it wasn't doing anything remarkable, but it should have been. The cinnamon bun was supposed to do something, he knew, but he wasn't quite sure what. It was behaving different from every other cinnamon bun he'd ever seen before. Tsuzuki recognized the difference; it wasn't disappearing. Every other cinnamon bun that had occupied that particular space on his desk, or any other space on his desk, for that matter, had promptly disappeared. Vanished. This one just sat there, waiting.

Waiting for him to eat it. There was the problem. He wasn't eating the cinnamon bun. He didn't feel like eating the cinnamon bun. Now that was odd. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't felt like eating a pastry. Perhaps he was coming down with something. Tsuzuki tried to cover up a snigger, than gave up and just laughed out loud. He was dead, had been dead for over seventy years. The dead did not catch cold.

Across the table, Hisoka looked up from his healthier lunch. Or what would have been healthier for a living being. He was pleased his partner was laughing, but the simple joy he took in Tsuzuki's cheer was marred by his unwillingness to accept it.

"What is it?" he asked. Giggling, Tsuzuki replied:

"I'm dead."

"You're insane." Abruptly the laughter ceased.

"I am." Tsuzuki resumed his watch on the cinnamon bun. It still wasn't very active. It was, after all, inanimate. It wasn't ever going to do anything on it's own. Starting would be up to him. That's it, Tsuzuki, pick up a fork and dig in. But still he didn't move. He just didn't want to eat it.

"You're not hungry?" Tsuzuki looked up and saw that Hisoka was still watching him. Staring at him, with an expression too close to worry for Tsuzuki to tell if it was anything else. He really didn't want to worry his partner.

"What? Oh, no I'm hungry." He was. He certainly wouldn't lie about a thing like that. He'd been starving for nearly three quarters of a century and he still was.  Maybe he wasn't really in a cinnamon bun mood.

That was utterly ridiculous. One did not need to be in the mood for cinnamon buns. They were not foods of  "mood." They were tasty, sweet, warm, and happy. There was no reason on earth or in hell, he knew from experience, not to eat the cinnamon bun. He picked up his fork, cut a small piece, put it in his mouth, and…

It didn't taste right. It still tasted good. It was definitely sweet. It wasn't quite as warm as usual, but then he had let it sit. It was still fairly warm, though, and it wasn't the warmth factor that was off. Quickly he ran through his mental list of adjectives that related to cinnamon buns. Tasty… sweet… warm… happy.  Happy? The cinnamon bun didn't taste happy? He was being silly again. Happy wasn't a taste.

But it was the way cinnamon buns made him feel when he ate them. They were happy, content, safe, comfortable food.  Cinnamon buns were comfort food, but this one wasn't being very comforting.

As though cinnamon buns could comfort someone. It must be something else. Maybe Hisoka could tell.

"Ne, Hisoka," Tsuzuki tried to make eye contact, but Hisoka looked away, blushing. Tsuzuki grinned at him. Had he been starring the whole time? "Taste this cinnamon bun."

"What?"

"It doesn't taste right. You have some."

"If it's no good, why should I eat it?"

"So you can tell me what's wrong with it, of course." Tsuzuki speared a piece of the bun and offered it to Hisoka on a fork. Hisoka leaned back from it, as though he expected it to grow fangs and attack at any moment.

"I don't eat sweets."

"You're dead, it can't hurt you." Tsuzuki waved the fork in front of Hisoka's face, a parent tricking a petulant toddler into eating. Here comes the airplane…. He knew he was being mean to Hisoka, but his partner looked so cute when he became irritated and glared at him just before he would say–

"Ba-kmph!" As Hisoka opened his mouth to say 'baka,' Tsuzuki thrust the fork forward. With no way to avoid it, Hisoka ate the piece of pastry.

"So what's wrong with it?" Tsuzuki's smile tried to approximate innocent curiosity. Hisoka glared.

"It's too sweet."

"Not possible. Nothing is too sweet." Tsuzuki tasted another piece. Nothing was wrong with it. Tasty, sweet, warm, and happy. Cinnamon buns were the ultimate comfort food. He quickly finished his.

"Baka." The muttered insult didn't sound all that angry. Tsuzuki winked at Hisoka. Hisoka blushed.

Partners were good comfort, too.

This story is dedicated to the fact that my spell check recognizes Tsuzuki as a word. Er, name.