A/N: This was written a while ago for the Weiss Kreuz Anonymous Kink Meme, for this challenge: Food, especially feeding one's partner. Would prefer Ken with either Aya or Yohji. Crawford is also acceptable. Any timeline. Unfortunately, despite all that, its really far tamer than you'd think.

Bitter Aftertaste

Ever since Ken had returned to him, things had been different. Both in Ken, who was the same old Ken and not at all--like a funhouse mirror of Ken--and in himself.

He hadn't realized how angry he'd been at Ken. Angry that Ken hadn't stopped him. Hadn't chased him. Hadn't screamed or cried or begged. Instead, Ken had driven him to the airport, and then, without saying one word, had just … let him go.

Let them go.

So Aya was angry.

And that's why, when Ken showed up in London, bearing Aya's katana and his own heart on his sleeve … Aya became even angrier.

Not angry that Ken had come back, but angry that the Ken who had come back—wasn't. The Ken who had come to England wasn't angry at Aya for leaving, wasn't upset or miserable or pining but … was seemingly at peace. Was calmer and more pensive: the rash edges muted, the sharp intensity softened. Was thoughtful as he'd explained how he'd gotten the sword from Yohji, how Omi had told him where Aya was, and why he'd come.

And when Aya rejected him, rejected Ken's confessions of love as harshly and coldly as he knew how, this Ken simply seemed to accept it, take it in stride, and move on.

No, this wasn't exactly the Ken that Aya remembered.

This new Ken scared Aya. And what scared Aya, made him mad.

And so for the first few weeks, Aya avoided Ken. Or snapped at him. Whichever was easier. Whichever worked.

Until Aya looked closer. Which was, Aya admitted, somewhat difficult to do when you were blinded, most of the time, by a crimson red rage.

And when he looked, he began to see. He saw that Ken looked older. Sadder. Tired, and a bit worn. Behind the open smile and relaxed posture the blue-green eyes were defeated, and the casually oversized clothes hung a tad too loosely on his spare frame.

Ken was thinner than he had been, Aya noted, although the soccer player had never had an ounce of fat to spare in the first place.

Too thin.

Ken had joked, once, that British food was almost worse than the slop they'd served in the prisons. Aya remembered, then, that Omi had written him, a long while ago. A few weeks after Ken had been in prison, and the letter had mentioned, in passing, that Ken had had to have a dietary review, because he hadn't been eating enough and it had worried the officials. So Ken, who had always eaten every meal in Aya's memory as if it had been his last, and who while at the Koneko had been a danger to anything at all edible, had had to be served a special diet in prison. A diet rich in calories and protein, so Ken had needed to eat less, and still Ken had had to be made to eat just enough to allow him to stay. Omi had mentioned it as a kind of joke, but Aya hadn't found it funny. Aya remembered how much the detail had bothered him, and how until Ken's remark, he'd purposely forgotten it.

Aya hadn't written Ken in prison. He'd been too angry. He wondered now, guiltily, if it would have helped. He knew Ken had needed the time to think, but he also knew Ken had been deeply unhappy.

It didn't matter anymore. Ken had, Aya was sure, been healthy enough when he'd arrived in London those few short weeks ago. But Ken's clothes visibly hung on him now. Once Aya began to pay attention, he wondered how he'd missed all the signs of Ken's misery before. That he'd not noticed that Ken—Ken!--barely ate, although most especially when Nana cooked. The rest of them managed, but now that he was watching, and once he'd begun paying attention, Aya could easily see past the façade. See that Ken was having an obviously hard time.

Not just adjusting to the food, but adjusting to England at all, although the food was almost the worst of it, and the most obvious. Ken didn't speak a lot of English, and had trouble learning the language. Ken, who'd never had a problem fitting in before, was bothered by Chloe's constant needling, and barely ventured out--even when Michel offered to play a game of pick up with him. Aya had even overheard Ken admit to Free that he was homesick; that he didn't know if he could ever get used to this country, or its food--even if it was just another island, with black-suited businessmen and fish still a dietary staple. There had been a bitter, self-mocking tone to Ken's voice that Aya hadn't heard before, and wasn't sure he liked.

But Aya had already known that Ken hadn't wanted to leave Japan. He hadn't wanted to come to London. He hadn't wanted to kill again.

Ken had only come to London because of him.

And Aya marveled that despite everything, and even in the face of rejection, Ken still stayed.

It made Aya responsible for Ken, in a weird sort of way, in a way he wasn't responsible for any of the others—except maybe Yuki, really—and it was this worry, in the end, that led Aya to make the offer. Ken might be … all different and whatever, but he was still Ken. And he could still worry about his … teammate, couldn't he, despite the rest of it?

Soon, Ken's health would become a risk to the team. Compromise the missions.

It was his duty, Aya reasoned, to ensure that Ken was ok, sound of body, and mission-worthy.

His duty, Aya reasoned, to ask Ken out for dinner. Just to make sure, of course, that Ken ate one good meal.

Because underneath it all, Aya was coming to realize something, something that made him smile and worry and ache. Something that overcame the fear, and the anger, and replace these with hope and the memory of love, of happiness, of everything he thought he'd left behind when he left his sister, his friends, and his home behind in Japan.

But Ken was terribly pedestrian in his tastes. Ken kept pining after ramen, of all things. How in the hell was Aya supposed to find decent ramen in Britain?

Aya had, of course, thought about cooking, and had even ordered a book on simple Japanese cooking, and then spent one full off-day in the kitchen. But he couldn't find half the ingredients—while he knew finding mirin in London should be very possible, for some reason it kept eluding him--and spending all the time in the heat gave him a headache. So he gave up, and decided he'd have to find some place with food acceptable to Ken instead.

And after a quick look through some possibilities, he settled on … Nobu, one of the classiest and most acclaimed restaurants in London. Great view, fine food which would hopefully satisfy even Ken, and, most importantly, a place that built itself as the sexiest restaurant in the world. A restaurant located in a hotel. A place the tabloids called "knickers-off". Nothing could be better!

Although Aya wasn't quite sure why.

All he wanted, Aya reasoned, was to make sure Ken would get something to eat. With a nice view. Even if the prices were exorbitant.

Hmm, it was Christmastime, though, and reservations might be hard to come by. Aya wondered if he'd have to kill someone to get a table.

Then Aya shrugged.

If so, he justified, it would be necessary. It was all for the good of the team.

It had been a hassle and a half getting Ken to come.

Ken had been suspicious when Aya had approached him, reluctant to get dressed in something other than a jersey and jeans, and then demanded to know where they were going, and why they were going there. Mostly because Aya, rather than just asking Ken out to dinner, had lost courage at the last minute and instead strongly implied that wherever they were going was mission-related and required fine clothes, just to get Ken to shut up. It hadn't helped. Ken wasn't an idiot, even if Chloe did keep basically implying he was a dumb jock, and Aya hadn't spoken to Ken much in the weeks since he'd arrived. The fact that he'd been singled out was enough to raise his curiosity, and the fact that Aya was being so cagey and hadn't given him any mission package to review just plain weirded him out. Ken was also not one to be coy about his feelings.

"Aya, you're weirding me out," said Ken. Aya glanced over at him, and tried not to admire, again, how good Ken looked in his suit. Chloe had pestered him into having one made, and the fine dark charcoal wool and narrow English cut suited Ken's athletic frame to a T.

"Shut up," snapped Aya, rather forgetting for the moment that he was supposed to be taking Ken out to make him happier. Or for the good of the team. Or both. Aya was starting to confuse himself, which annoyed him. He'd been looking forward to the evening for a while. He wasn't terribly fond of Nana's cooking either, and the chance to eat really, really good food was tempting.

And spending an evening with Ken would be … for Ken's own good, and the good of the team.

Right.

In the small mercies department, Ken obeyed the command, and was silent for the rest of the trip.

Aya pulled his Porsche—he'd bought a new one, in a light gun-metal grey—in front of the hotel, and let the valet park for him. He didn't use his car much—driving in London was not recommended most of the time, but this was a special occasion. He wanted to arrive in style.

"You know," said Ken conversationally, as he climbed out of the car, "if you'd just wanted to talk to me, you could have asked. You didn't need to drag me out here, just to see how confused I'd be by all the forks." Ken's words were even, and casual, but his jaw was set and his muscles tensed. Ken was definitely not happy.

"I … " Aya was momentarily at a loss for words. He hadn't thought Ken would be so blunt, and he had thought he'd have a minute to explain. After they'd sat down. Maybe after they'd gotten wine. Ken didn't like fancy places, but he was hoping that the wine and food would placate him.

"It's ok. I suppose we might as well get it over with." Ken sounded angry and defensive, as if he thought Aya had taken him somewhere deliberately to embarrass him. Which wasn't the point at all.

Aya stopped. "Ken, I thought you'd like this. I wanted … " Words were just not forming, and so he repeated his first thought. "I thought you'd like it."

"You thought I wanted this? Aya, you've barely spoken to me since I got here—aside from when you told me it was over and I should keep my feelings to myself--you basically lied to me tonight even though you never lie and are really bad at it, you told me in clear terms where you stand and I have tried, I've tried to be ok with it and lately you've been all … I'm not sure what and I'm not sure what this is about now either, and I've tried to wait for you to explain, and I bet anything that this place is exorbitantly and ridiculously expensive and I probably can't even afford it and it's wasteful which should offend you too and since when are fancy places my style?"

Ken was distinctly pissed, although he'd kept his voice low it had definitely risen by the end of the little speech, and Aya felt horror rising. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Ken was supposed to be happy, once he found out there was no mission, and only food—good, Japanese food to remind Ken of home and make him happy and comfortable—and they'd sort things out, and Ken would eat, and, his birthday was coming up and Aya would pay, and … they weren't supposed to be standing in the middle of a high-end hotel lobby, with Ken unhappy and feeling tricked, and Aya not quite sure what to say.

"We have a reservation for eight," said Aya.

"I'm leaving. Clearly this is pointless."

"Ken … " Aya didn't know what to say. "Please, Ken."

"Fine. But you're paying, and if you tell me I've used the wrong spoon, I'm leaving."

"Deal. Trust me, Ken."

And Ken looked up at him, and for a moment, Aya saw all the misery that Ken had kept hidden from him. And he knew, then, that Ken didn't trust him—in missions, sure, but as a friend, as a former lover—not anymore.

And with that look all that fragile hope that had buoyed Aya along these last few days burst like a tiny soap bubble.

Ken didn't look at him while they were seated. He didn't look out the window at the fabulous view of Hyde Park. Instead Ken opened the menu, and studied it with full concentration.

He didn't speak to Aya until the waiter came, not even to ask for suggestions or explanations. He ordered sake, Aya suspected mostly because Aya did and it was the only thing Ken understood on the drinks list--because he knew Ken preferred beer, and because when the waiter asked Ken which one, he became flustered and just asked for the first one on the list. The house wine, which is what Aya ordered as well.

It was only after they'd ordered their food—the traditional sashimi dinner with miso to start, and Aya ordering the same, only partly to make Ken more comfortable, and more because Ken ordering it made Aya remember how much he missed sashimi—and the waiter took their menus, that Aya tried to speak. Because even then, sitting at the table with no distractions, Ken didn't say anything. Instead, he looked around awkwardly at anyone but Aya while trying to appear relaxed. He failed.

Ken wasn't a large man, but he seemed somehow too big for his chair and too rough for the elegant setting, despite the clothes and the hair Chloe had insisted he help Ken with. (That was Aya's fault, actually. In a moment of weakness, Aya had privately confessed to Chloe where they were going, and more or less why. Chloe had been delighted, mocking, and most chilling of all, had promised to help). And Ken looked distinctly uneasy. Aya could only hope that the smells of the food, the beautiful dishes being carried past their table, and the hopes of getting some themselves, would distract Ken from his anxiety.

Ken shifted uncomfortably, pulling at his collar.

And what Aya said then wasn't what he'd meant to say at all.

"I wanted you to come with me," said Aya. "I begged you to come."

Ken had been looking away, out the window, but Aya got the feeling he wasn't seeing anything. His gaze swung abruptly back, and those deep blue-green eyes focused on Aya with all of Ken's former intensity. Aya nearly shivered, but Ken pulled at his collar again and looked away.

"Not everything is about you, Aya."

Aya felt like he'd been slapped. "But … "

"Aya. You know why I had to stay. Something was wrong with me. You knew that. It still is, even if I'm a little better." Ken's voice was sharp, looking back at Aya.

"I could have helped you, Ken. If you'd let me. I wanted to help you." Aya wondered why his voice sounded so pleading, and wished it would stop.

"You couldn't help me. And how could you have managed it anyway, without a word from New York? Look, this is pointless. What do you want from me, Aya? I gave you my heart on a platter, and you threw it away. I … I don't get why we're here, and I can't afford this place. I'm not even hungry."

"You're not hungry? Do you remember how Omi kept freaking about all the food you ate? And …"

Ken cut him off, shifting uncomfortably. "That was a long time ago."

"Not so long ago," said Aya. "Not so long. Ken, you're losing weight."

"I … "

Aya reached over and grabbed Ken's hand, where it had been toying with the stem of the wine glass. "Ken. Don't …"

The waiter arrived then, setting a plate of sashimi before each of them before withdrawing. And even Aya had to smile. The food was gorgeous, so beautiful it was almost indecent. Thin slices of various fish in multi-coloured folds laid out on fine bone china, decorated with ginger and daikon and dabs of wasabi at the edge of the plate. Tiny salmon roses decorated one side, and the rest was artfully arranged into the gracefully curving pattern of a dragon.

And looking at Ken, Aya had to grin. Ken was clearly in awe. "Still not hungry?" Aya teased. Ken adored sashimi.

"Aya!"

Aya hadn't let go of Ken's hand, not even when the wait staff set down their food. Taking advantage of the situation, Aya stroked his thumb across Ken's wrist, before letting go and nodding towards the food.

"Try some."

Chopsticks had been provided, much to the relief of both of them—Ken, because he really didn't like using western cutlery, and Aya, because he wanted Ken to relax. Ken picked up a piece, and put it in his mouth. His eyes closed, and his expression became blissful.

Aya tried not to smile in satisfaction, before trying his own food. Delicate and subtle and light, yellowtail and cod and tuna and salmon and mackerel and …

For a while, there was silence as each man focused on his own plate. Aya finally remembered he should make conversation, and looked up.

"Is it good?"

Ken just nodded, his expression rapturous.

Aya became hopeful again.

"Ken," he said, and Ken looked up from his food, focusing finally on Aya. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean much right now … but, I am."

Ken looked shocked, then grinned cheerfully. "You're … first, the food, and … am I dying?"

Aya smiled broadly in return. "Idiot."

Ken was still smiling, and although his smile was bright, Aya thought he might have seen a shadow in the teal eyes. But Ken waved a hand, clearly excited about the meal and not interested in introspective conversation. "It doesn't matter anymore, Aya. Don't worry about it. Have you tried the unagi?

And for the next few moments, there was no talking, as they each ate, with the appetites of healthy, active young men. As they ate, Aya watched Ken surreptitiously, and inwardly smiled. Ken's appetite certainly seemed intact, at least for tonight.

Suddenly Ken looked up, and met Aya's eyes. Ken smiled then. He picked up the last piece of sashimi, eating it slowly, savouringly, before he said slowly, "Thank you. I mean it. This was wonderful, even if I will regret it in the morning." Watching Ken's tongue briefly dart out to lick his lips, Aya wondered if Ken was torturing him on purpose.

"There's no reason to regret it—at least, not until you see their desserts. It's my treat, remember? And if you feel like it, we could … you know, we could stay here for the night, if you want--no pressure and … I thought we could talk, maybe. We haven't talked much since you've come."

"What? You really thought …" Ken's expression was stunned.

Guiltily, Aya fingered the room keycard burning a hole in his pocket. He wasn't at all sure why he'd gotten it, except that he had. He hadn't actually planned to ask Ken to stay over, even if he'd even daydreamed about ordering strawberries for breakfast. Ken liked strawberries …

What had he been thinking?

"No! I didn't think anything. I just … I miss you, Ken. I … I had hoped you …"

"Missed you too? You know I did. You heard me tell you, before telling me to basically drop dead." Ken's voice has started to rise before he cut himself off and took a deep breath, staring at the sake in his glass for a moment, before taking a sip and raising his head to look back up at Aya. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. "You've changed, Aya. You're … nicer, I guess, than you used to be. You're … I watch you with Yuki, and Michel. Even Kurumi. You're more … I don't know. You're not as cold as you used to pretend you were. But except with me. With me … it's like we never knew each other, or we did, and you can't stand me anymore. I … I thought I reminded you of things you'd rather forget. So … I've already asked Sir Richard if I could go back. To Japan. I don't think this is working. Tonight--this is nice, and everything, but it's not reality. You can't just … It's not real, and it won't last. It … it's not real." And Ken suddenly looked so upset, so haunted that Aya wanted to jump across the table and … he didn't know what. He just hated that devastated look in Ken's eyes.

When Aya spoke, his words were careful. "I know it might not seem like it could last, but … all I'm asking for is tonight. Trust me again, Ken, just for tonight. One night. Ken, I was wrong. I was scared, and maybe that doesn't make it ok, but we could try again. It all doesn't have to be over tomorrow. We were good before. Losing you the first time … I want to try again. Please, Ken, please let me try."

For a long moment, Ken didn't say anything, just stared at the empty plate in front of him.

"You didn't lose me, Aya," said Ken, his voice small. "I was the one that lost you, and I did try again. And now … " Ken took a deep breath, and a sip of sake, and looked out the window.

Aya reached over to take his hand again, but Ken pulled it away, before turning back and staring down at his empty plate. "I'm trying to get over you," whispered Ken. "You said you were over me. You left me. You left me alone. You didn't call. You didn't even write. I … I can't … "

Aya sipped at his own sake, but it left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. "Ken, I'm sorry," he said. He didn't know what else to say.

Ken chuckled, but the sound was short and bitter. "You're sorry? I was angry for a long, long time, Aya, and then I got over it. I needed you, and you left me, and even then I chased halfway across the world after you and now … now you want me to fall into bed with you, just because you've changed your mind? You know what? I'd been thinking all day that you were planning to use tonight to explain to me how I didn't fit in—which I'd already figured out on my own--and that you'd all decided I should leave. But stupid Ken—dead wrong as always. Guess the joke's on me, after all." And Ken began to laugh in earnest, but there was a hysterical edge to his laughter.

In the light, Ken's eyes were a little too shiny.

A voice interrupted, cutting through the dying notes of Ken's laughter. "How was everything this evening?" intoned the very proper, very British waiter, leaning slightly over their table.

"Excellent," said Aya.

"Very good," said Ken, gasping and choking on his own laughter.

"Will there be anything else, then?" asked their waiter, in that perfect cut-glass Mayfair accent. "Perhaps some dessert …"

Aya heard Ken take a deep breath, but he still answered before Aya could.

"No," said Ken, "we're finished." His voice was steady now, and final. "Just the bill, please."

Thanks for reading! As always, comments are very much welcomed.