"I do not see why this is necessary."

"Because you're twenty four years old and have never done it."

Minamino frowned but didn't argue further, twisting his hair into a bun. Of course, not all of it would fit into the elastic band and a few strands escaped, falling against his neck and cheeks. Cream sleeves pushed up past the elbow, he stared at the ingredients skeptically, red brows raised.

"Baking bread is easy. The hardest part is making sure the consistency is right." I added sugar to the bowl of warm as I talked, stirring in yeast. "Mix these three, then let it set for about five minutes. When everything in the bowl turns to foam, we can get started."

Those minutes went by slowly. Minamino didn't say a word, simply watched the yeast grow and froth; I couldn't read his expression. Did he not like the idea of baking that much?

Or maybe it was the apron. I'd given him the girly one for fun, the only pink thing I owned. Magenta diamonds colored the fabric in a tacky pattern, white frills ruffling against his chest and shoulders. He didn't comment on the apron, or how ridiculous it was that two adults were baking this late on a work night.

Come to think of it, I'd be ticked too.

"Now we add the rest of the sugar, salt, and oil." After doing so, my hand reached for the flour container, neatly filling the measuring cup. "Add flour one cup at a time. If you add too much, we'll have dry bread. If that happens, just add a bit of water."

He did as I asked, adding and mixing until the dough no longer stuck to the sides and formed a neat ball in the bowl.

"All right, now we need to knead it for seven minutes." I dropped the dough on the floured counter and began, fists rolling against thick white goo. "Think of it as giving someone a massage." Palms rolling a few times more, I stepped back, motioning him over. "You try."

Still frowning, Minamino set to work, hands loving the soft dough. I watched the scarred fingers move, stretching the dough first up, then down, massaging the mass all the way through. He surprised me by going for the entire seven minutes, returning to his place only when the timer rang beside him.

"And now we wait." Returning the dough, I covered the bowl with plastic wrap, making sure the sheet was secure. "It'll take about an hour for it to rise, so we have time."

He nodded though did not speak, staring still at the bowl. Immediately, I knew he was somewhere other than this room, gaze distant, distracted, jaw working first one way, then the other.

"Hey, you okay?"

Nothing, not even a blink.

"Minamino?"

He started, though I wasn't sure if it was from his name or my hand on his arm. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm fine." A soft smile, sheepish; hesitant. "Apologies, it's been a long day."

Moments later, he was back at it, eyes lost in something I couldn't see. True, work had made him keep long hours but that did not explain tense shoulders, the mouth pressed in an almost angry line. He'd been like this since we went dancing the other day: brooding, withdrawn.

Cold.

Before I knew it, my hand moved, scooping flour from the counter and throwing it in his face. Minamino sputtered, staggering back and shaking his head. When he turned owlish eyes to me I couldn't help but laugh, overcome by suddenly porcelain skin, hair paled silver.

"Y-your face . . .!" I pointed, nearly bent double. "Maybe you should go gray early, Minamino – it looks good on you."

Surprise gave way to shock, sadness creeping as he lifted a floured lock, impossibly white against his hand.

Another toss, another head full of flour. "Azumi–"

I didn't apologize when the next throw landed in his mouth, coating lips and tongue instantly. A mini coughing fit, embers of amusement lighting his eyes. When the third handful came he was ready, dodging, returning fire from the freshly-filled canister. I squealed, grabbing the open bag and running while he aimed for my head, back, anything he could reach.

By the time the hour was up, we both looked like banshees who brought winter indoors.

The bread turned out awful, unable to rise properly due to too much noise and pounding feet. We ate it all anyway. He scolded me about the waste – enough flour for a dozen loaves coated the apartment – but I ignored it, enjoying the chewy bite.

I'd gotten him to smile.

That was all I cared about.

September 2020 OTP Drabbles

Prompt 8 – Cooking together (substitute prompt)