Cake.

1: Mochi.

T: In which I start a new YnM fic and *gasp* it's AU! Anyways apart from the obvious you should be on the look out for slash, angst, fluff, semi OC moments and the potential for great swaths of exposition down the line! I own nothing you see here other than the plot, mores the pity!

X

Despite the fevered wishes of his father his path in life had been destined for this outcome from his very first moments in life, for his mother's love for food, for the joys it could inspire in the lives of even the darkest of his hearts, had been so strong that not even death could mute it's ire nor it's influence.

He can recall still the happier days when they'd walk the three of them together down the long forking pathways of the Asakusa souvenir shops, the strong, unique, scent of warm aduki bean paste as a promise to his young mind of the treat that would always come when they had each of them offered their prayers to Buddha and his mother had browsed a little at the various knickknacks dotted about the stalls.

Oh so quickly the deep, yet subtle, tastes of Japan had been replaced with the more 'in your face' fair that was so beloved of the American's as his father had chased after the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, they might yet save his mother the fate scared sharp into her DNA.

There are memories attached also to these tastes, some full of the difficult uncertainly of having to adapt to a society unlike that which he had been born to, some full of the spark of excitement that seemed always just a heart beat in the busy little suburb they called now home and the rest mired in the darkness that came as hope turned into a black and certain inevitability.

He can remember still that last day; can remember how his father had woken him with a haphazard peanut butter sandwich and a cold cup of tea that'd tasted strongly of the bitterer edges of the leaf. Can remember the clean lines of the outfit he'd picked out for himself, of how he'd asked his father to turn down their neighbour's offer of sticky buns in order that he might make his mother proud of how clean he'd been able to stay and how she'd smiled just a little despite how tired she'd looked when he'd told her this news.

He'd refused to cry, to waste the light of her existence on foolish tears and, instead, had poured his grief into more practical avenues; a fresh lick of paint for his bedroom, finally putting the last working touches on the aircraft he and his father had started together in what seemed now another lifetime and by slowly working his way through the seemingly endless folders filled with handwritten recipes.

With every taste he took from each success story he would recall another memory, another instant of emotion and joy that would wrap itself about his fractured heart as a brace, until cooking became as the greatest of salves…as his reason for being.

Yet he had been so very aware of the hopes his father held for his future, of what disappointing him might mean, that'd he'd kept the interest merely as a hobby, had dedicated his every moment at school to becoming something of worth.

By the time he'd turned 16 it'd seemed that he'd achieved that end, for he was a model pupil, beloved by all that met him and then…

…then he'd collapsed, without warning, right in the middle of a busy road way.

That was the first time that he'd ever seen how lost his father could look, that he understood how much the elder had kept hidden away as his mother had slowly wasted away into nothing and that revelation had unsettled him more than even the thought of what such a collapse might mean for his future.

Once he'd been told that, beyond all reasonable doubt, he had escaped his mother's fate; that he'd fainted for nothing more than exhaustion, he'd sat his father down and they'd talked until their voices were raw for the exercise.

In the end it was his choice of bedfellow, rather than his desire to chase after a profession with little chance of any form stability financial or otherwise, that'd brought about the shouting and cleft a rift between them so deep that, even after all this time, they remained still but passing acquaintances.

Time seemed to compress after that, ten years flowing so fast that he has to pinch himself some times to make certain that he is not day dreaming.

He'd gone back to university in order to gain a practical base behind his natural cooking talent, had passed every course without breaking a sweat, had been chosen as an apprentice for one of the most talented men in the profession and, at only 20, had been offered a high ranking job in a thriving patisserie.

Six years later he'd bought up his own cake shop and stolen away the patisseries accountant both so that he might be spared the nightmare of keeping his own books and also in order that he might have a friendly face their amid the staff to offer him a small confidence boost when he needed it….

…or at least that'd been his hope, in truth the upright, cool, individual know to the world as Seishiro Tatsumi had somehow decided that he needed 'looking after' and had come to the conclusion that the best way to achieve this end was to basically deny him even the smallest of luxuries.

And that was why he was currently hunkered in one of the furthest corners of the kitchen, behind a small pile of recently acquired mixing bowls, with a small chocolate cupcake clutched in his hands.

"I mean what is the world coming to when a guy can't even sample just one cake for the sake of quality control?"

"If you are going to talk to yourself at least have the decency to do as such in a whisper, it wouldn't do for the staff to think you mad as well as idiotic, after all." He sounds, as always, bored and as he shoots, lightning fast, onto his feet, he is unsurprised to see that emotion mirrored in the grey blue of his eyes.

"Oh, Tatsumi, I didn't realise you were still about! You see the thing is that this cupcake dropped off of the tray and it seemed sort of pointless to waste it entirely…" A hand stops him before he can real off any more the entirely pointless excuse and, pushing his glasses back up his nose, Tatsumi mumbles ,

"How you weren't beaten to death with a whisk long before now will forever remain a mystery to me," before snatching back the cupcake and throwing it into the trash compactor. "You and I both know that that cupcake is exactly the same as each and every chocolate cupcake you've made since perfecting the recipe and that, therefore, it's as close to chocolate cupcake perfection as can be achieved by human hands."

"But what if it's not? What if I've suddenly lost all my talent and we're serving substandard products to the customer? Think of the damage to our reputation, the lawsuits, the substantial amounts of money we'd lose, all because you wouldn't let me have one teeny weenie cupcake."

"One cupcake, three strawberry tarts, an entire banoffee pie, 18 jam tarts and…let me see…" Pausing the other glances at the clipboard that had, almost magically, appeared in his hands, before concluding, "A four tier chocolate orange sponge cake."

He was absolutely one hundred percent certain that he'd been entirely on his own when he'd snitched the sponge cake, indeed he'd even gone to the lengths of shutting himself in the walk in fridge for the half hour it'd taken him to wolf the thing down and yet still…

"I swear you're telepathic or something." He remarks as he works his way to the sink and carefully washes his hands precisely three times.

"Indeed." Comes the expected deadpan response before the other ads, "Watari wants a moment of your time."

"I thought I told you to find something to distract him?"

"Apparently it was not so easy a task as I had believed."

Sighing he gently divests himself of his apron, hangs it up in it's usual place just next to the edge of his section of the kitchen and, with a parting shot of, "Try not to let this place burn down while I'm gone," he throws on his coat and steps out into the chill December air.

He deliberately circles his way back around to the front of the bakery and, smiling a little to himself, presses his forehead against the window. His eyes take in the simple artistry of the cakes he has created, the various colours and textures and, as always, he is swept into the last memory where his mother had been truly herself.

Papa had asked him nicely to try hard at school, had told him that mama didn't need the extra worry of him doing badly at school especially when she felt already guilty for having to move them so very far.

He knew papa was right and so he had been working very hard, so hard that he'd gotten lots of praise and they'd both agreed that he could ask for something to reward that fact.

Smiling he takes mama's hand and runs her down the street as fast as his feet can carry him until eventually they reach that shop.

"I want something from here, mama." He informs her as he presses his head hard against the glass and stares, hard, at the jewel like objects lined up just outside his reach.

She starts to laugh then and leaning down she presses a sweet little kiss to his head before she asks, "Promise me that you shall never change, Asato,"

Of course he hadn't understood what she had found so very funny then, for the opportunity to taste one of the pretty looking puddings had seemed as much a treat to him as the gadgets or playthings that his parents had expected him to request. Yet she hadn't smiled for what'd seemed like weeks and he'd been so desperate to keep her happy…to not be a burden to her…

Ah but he was allowing himself to daydream again and it wasn't really all that fair on Watari to be lingering without true need, especially when he did actually enjoy the elder man's company despite all his…unique characteristics.

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets he takes in a deep scent of the wonderful air that lurked about his bakery and is about to step back onto his original path when his eyes catch onto the figure stood tight against the adjacent window.

Hair the colour of sun bleached wheat and skin so pail it seems all but translucent against the press of the bones at his wrists, yet it is the opulent beauty of the kimono he is wearing that really catches his attention, for to see such a garment on a man was unusual enough within the limits of even this city and to see one of such quality…

Mind scrambling for the little Japanese that he recalled still from his youth he straitens his posture just a little and steps towards the other man with the intent of introducing himself and then an equally well dressed woman is there at the other's side, frown clear or her face and anger clear in her voice.

They remain for but a moment more, the woman talking to the man in hard, unhappy, Japanese and then they are gone, the woman dragging the man with such a forceful grip that bruises seem a certainty.

He stays, motionless, for a full five minutes after that and then his mobile begins to ring, the upbeat synth melody starting him back into reality,

"Hello?"

"Where the heck are you, Tsu? The stick rang to say you were on your way about twenty minutes together and that's a long time to walk two miles even for you."

"Oh….Watari."

"Yes, you should've known that from the amazing little thing known as 'caller ID'."

"Sorry, sorry…my head's not quite here."

"Yes well that much is clear enough." A pause then, "It seems as though you're not quite in the right place to hear about my ideas for CAKE REVOLUTION today, still I have to admit I'm a little curious as to what's gotten so under your skin so I'll go get cheesecake and we can turn our business meeting into a little gossip session, ok?"

The question is, of course rhetorical and as if to drive this point home the other cuts the call all of a second after posing it, leaving him to once again question his apparent lack of good taste in the matter of friends.