A/N: One of the hardest sections of Komatta Toki for me followed the car accident in Volume 13, when Kiyomine very clearly chooses his sister Ayako over Takara, and leaves their relationship visibly scarred. I wished that there had been more consequences for Kiyomine's outburst, and that Takara had been able to lean on his friends, specifically Reiichi and Yoshiya, to get comfort after this betrayal.
With some prompting from a friend, I've decided to take up a multi-chapter project for Komatta Toki set after Volume 13, sort of a "what if" where Takara's father does go back to Africa and he turns to Reiichi and Yoshiya for comfort after Kiyomine's harsh words. Not totally sure how long it will be, but nine or so chapters at least, possibly with additional interludes afterward.
Note: Mostly a friendship story focused on Takara, Reiichi, and Yoshiya, with some light Kiyomine x Takara and Yoshiya x Reiichi pre-slash hints.
Chapter Five
After four hours dedicated to a take-no-prisoners raid through the most expensive shopping in Daikanyama, Yoshiya felt he was justified insisting they stop for lunch. That said, the ritzy confectioners' shop tucked away at the back of a wintry courtyard, its butter-yellow walls decorated with china cups and ornate ladles on warm cherry shelves, was hardly what he'd had in mind.
In retrospect, he shouldn't have been surprised. He had been keeping company with Reiichi long enough to know that CocoaBella was a Kashiwagi favorite, supposedly because the master chef and Kashiwagi Senior had trained side by side at a noted patisserie in Paris at a time when the Kashiwagi patriarch was considering devoting his life to artisan baking instead of dominating business sectors on both sides of the Pacific. Or at least, that was the story as Reiichi told it. Sometimes Yoshiya wondered how much of the Kashiwagi mythos was fact and how much was fanciful embellishment with which the world had just decided to play along.
Fujishima's face was in rapture as he came in out of the January chill and took in the rows of three-bite cakes, artisan chocolates, and other designer delicacies laid out in the long glass case, staring particularly long at the lush drinking chocolate spilling into a copper boiler on the other side of the service counter. The air was so thick with sucrose it was difficult to breathe. Yoshiya arched an eyebrow at their grinning cicerone, draped around Fujishima's shoulders in a lazy embrace.
"What happened to Chinatown?" he asked mildly, more than happy to treat if there was actual food involved.
Reiichi waved the question away. "Don't be intransigent, Yoshiya. I'm sure we'll end up there eventually. We're just stopping in for a little quelque chose. Now, Fujishima—where do you want to start?"
Yoshiya's French was admittedly no match for Reiichi's, but he was certain the term quelque chose did not apply to what Reiichi brought back to the tiled café table: an utter smorgasbord of cakes and bonbons, truffles and candied flowers and sugar-glazed blackberries on plastic skewers. Reiichi had never been the type to eat very much, but he seemed to be on a mission to sample at least one bite of everything, and Fujishima was more than happy to finish what he'd started. Yoshiya had observed before that the younger boy seemed to have a separate stomach for desserts—still, he couldn't help wondering if a little of Fujishima's enthusiasm owed to the incredibly wide eyes with which he'd regarded the prices on the menu, no doubt the first time he'd eaten at a shop where individual slices of cake were all in the double digits.
Money is an ugly topic and we'll not speak of it, had been Reiichi's response the only time Fujishima tried to bring it up—but Yoshiya knew that awareness didn't go away so easily for those not raised with the Kashiwagis, and even he was a little horrified by the way Reiichi simply tossed anything he didn't like from the first bite.
The last round, at least, had been a success: Fujishima was working on a thick slice of vanilla rose pound cake, and Reiichi had seized something layered with strawberries and champagne, the only item yet he'd kept for himself. Yoshiya had ordered what he always ordered: a small square of tiramisu, a poor substitute for the black coffee he'd wound up wearing. Somehow, he was finding even that difficult to get through.
"Yoshiya, here—try this," Reiichi insisted, holding out the spongy champagne cake between his fingers.
Yoshiya sent him a flat look. On another day, he probably would have indulged Reiichi on that point—was a little horrified to acknowledge that he'd let Reiichi get away with feeding him in this very shop before—but they were attracting enough attention from the other patrons without eating out of each other's hands. It could have been Fujishima everyone was looking at—in his sailor-style top and the little panda backpack Reiichi had found…somewhere, he couldn't have looked more suited to his surroundings if he'd been posing for a brochure. But Yoshiya had the uncomfortable feeling that those sideways glances were mostly directed at him, massively overdressed for a stop at a confectioners'—even this confectioners'—and sitting as far back as possible from the table so as not to risk getting chocolate shavings and marscapone on his pristine Brioni tie. He felt a little like he'd run out of a five-star restaurant or a day trading at the exchange to go to a cake shop with his niece. Then again, there was always the chance people were just staring at Reiichi, tipped indolently back in his chair and licking the last traces of strawberry and champagne a little obscenely from his fingers.
"Mm…that's divine," Reiichi declared, his eyes fluttering closed. "You have to learn how to make that, Yoshiya. I can't have it getting away just because it's a seasonal item."
Yoshiya was making no promises. He was a fair cook when he tried—which was generally when Reiichi wanted something—but not good enough to put that expression on Reiichi's face. "I'm sure it won't be a seasonal item very long, if you mention it to them," he replied, wondering if it was a symptom of a weak character that even as he said it he was already contemplating how he might imitate the recipe, how close an approximation he could manage. Reiichi's languid smile was probably for the influence he held over professional chefs, not over Yoshiya, but it suited those thoughts equally well.
In the chair to his left, Fujishima swung his feet in his new patterned canvas shoes, chasing brown and foamy white swirls through a tall, clear glass with a cookie straw. "So this in drinking chocolate?" he asked, sounding a little awed by the whole concept.
Reiichi grinned. "Actually, that is a Kashiwagi special order, courtesy of my younger brother. Whenever Grandfather would take us here as kids, Tsukasa would get all upset because it was too hot and bitter for him to drink straight—he has a cat's tongue, like you, Fujishima." Reiichi leaned forward to rest his chin on his entwined hands. "So Grandfather got the confectioners to add whole cream to his. Apparently it's so popular it made the regular menu. Perfect for those who prefer things extra sweet."
Yoshiya doubted there was one menu in this city the Kashiwagis didn't have their fingerprints all over. But Fujishima seemed to have skipped over the casual abuse of power and money in favor of something else.
"Tsukasa has a sweet tooth?" he asked, picking up what was left of the pound cake. "He doesn't seem like the type at all."
"Oh, like you wouldn't believe," Reiichi confided with that special grin that always accompanied sharing other people's secrets. "He's so particular about his food—not too hot, not too spicy, and he's too embarrassed to order the same thing as anybody else, even if it's the only thing he likes on the menu. He used to get so red in the face when we'd go out for Russian and I'd steal the pirozhki right out from under him…"
The Tsukasa roast came to an abrupt end with the beeping of the phone in Yoshiya's pocket—not because of the message, just a text from the first-years, Asou and Kuzumi, confirming that they'd taken attendance for the dorm the night before, but because somehow that one tiny sound made Fujishima jump high enough to bash his knee into the bottom of their table. The last of the pound cake tumbled out of his hand and landed on the floor, icing side down. Yoshiya wasn't sure the younger boy had ever looked so devastated.
"Oh, Reiichi-sempai—I'm so sorry!" Fujishima cried, leaping up from the table with a fistful of napkins and nearly overturning his glass of chocolate, too. "It was so expensive…I'll—I'll eat it anyway!"
Reiichi frowned, reaching out one long arm to pinch Fujishima's cheek. "Nonsense. And as I already told you, that subject is closed—you're my guest, and I won't hear another word about it." With a last little shake, Reiichi released him and got to his feet, stretching luxuriously over his head. "Besides, we were hardly finished. You still haven't tried the ice cream truffles—they pack gelato into a chocolate shell and then refreeze them. The Amaretto is to die for." With a little smile over his shoulder, Reiichi waltzed toward the counter, twirling his fedora around the tip of one finger.
Yoshiya shook his head. It would never occur to Reiichi to get down on the floor of a shop and clean up something he'd spilled—but it occurred to Fujishima, and Yoshiya slid out of his chair to help, studying his face as he wiped up the splattered butterscotch icing. Fujishima looked preoccupied and a little pale, and Yoshiya recalled how jumpy he'd been all morning whenever his phone buzzed, like it was set to electric shock instead of vibrate. He had a fair idea who Fujishima might be avoiding—still, he couldn't help wondering if the younger boy was remembering what he'd remembered, with a jolt of uncertainty, when he slid his hand into his pocket for the phone and caught the corner of a battered square of paper with his thumb.
Fujishima had been so distraught yesterday that Yoshiya had never found the heart to bring it up—his father's brusque departure, the liability of the unsigned form in his pocket. But aside from the cake fumble, he seemed much calmer today, and he'd been having a good time, laughing and playing along with Reiichi all morning. If there was a less painful time to broach the subject, perhaps this was it. Yoshiya considered his approach as they slid back into their chairs and Fujishima returned to his drinking chocolate, lips pursed around the cookie straw.
The night before, somewhere between cajoling Fujishima out of his sopping wet jeans and giving up on getting him to eat anything but ice cream for dinner, Yoshiya had come to a realization: he was out of the habit of dealing with people one on one, without Reiichi as a buffer. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say he was badly out of practice at reading other people; it was Reiichi he had been playing emotional chess with all these years, Reiichi with whom he recognized every opening, every gambit, every tactical retreat. Trying to read Fujishima was more like trying to predict the course of play in Uno: the color and direction could change at any moment, and half the time Yoshiya felt like he'd been skipped altogether.
He was sorely tempted to wait for Reiichi to come back to the table, or perhaps discuss it with him alone first and then approach Fujishima as a united front—but much though he wished otherwise, this was a private matter, and Yoshiya wasn't the type to share other people's secrets. Unlike someone who was currently leaning over the counter, indicating exactly which Amaretto truffle he wanted. Reluctantly, Yoshiya cleared his throat.
"Fujishima," he began, as mildly as he knew how. "Can we talk for a minute?"
Fujishima winced. "I know what you're going to say, Okuno-sempai. It's like—no matter what Reiichi says, this is a nice store, and I need to be more careful about not shot-putting my pound cake…"
"No," Yoshiya broke in, and then paused. "Well—I mean, that's probably wise, but…never mind that. What I actually wanted to talk about was…"
Yoshiya almost lost his nerve when Fujishima wiped a hand across his mouth, unknowingly leaving a dollop of chocolate on his cheek. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of the previous night, and for a moment he considered just letting it go, putting this off for a few more hours—but this was a legal issue, a safety issue, and shirking responsibility was not in his nature. Yoshiya steeled himself and met Fujishima's eyes.
"It's about your living situation," he said gently. Instantly he could tell Fujishima had stiffened, every muscle in his body suddenly, unnaturally still—but he hadn't lost his composure, so Yoshiya pressed on, keeping his own expression neutral. Maybe he could keep Fujishima calm by staying calm himself, some emotional parallel to leading by example. "I spoke to your father yesterday, before he boarded the plane…"
Yoshiya stopped again, staring at Fujishima's hand slowly fisting in one of the leftover napkins. He was struck by a memory from the night before, the way Fujishima tensed just before he gave into the tears, buckled as though his legs were on the verge of giving out. All at once he realized that this wasn't calm—it was the calm before the storm, and he was a few ill-chosen words from unleashing a torrent. Yoshiya opted for a strategic retreat, backpedaling as quickly as he could.
"You don't have to make a decision yet. I just wanted to—"
But apparently those were exactly the wrong words—Fujishima blinked a few times, crumpled the napkin in his fist, and the next thing Yoshiya knew he was in tears, his face buried in the crook of his elbow, the panda backpack shaking as the sobs burst out of him. Yoshiya stared at him, entirely lost. He fumbled in desperation for the other boy's clenched hand.
"Fujishima—no, that's—I…I'm sorry. You don't have to do anything—"
If they hadn't been the center of attention before, they certainly were now—Yoshiya could feel a dozen eyes on the back of his neck, every one of the fashionable, well-bred patrons wondering what monstrous thing he'd done to set his companion bawling. Yoshiya would have liked to know that himself. His instinct was to grab Fujishima and run, horrified to be making a scene like this—but he couldn't move, petrified by the thought that anything he did might make it worse. If there was worse than this. Yoshiya had never considered himself a cruel person, but he was going to have to rethink that if he kept up this appalling streak of making Fujishima cry.
He was more relieved than he would have liked to admit to feel a hand settle on his shoulder, a familiar laugh ringing in his ear.
"Really, Yoshiya," Reiichi chided as he slid his brimming tray onto the table, his expression somewhere between sympathetic and amused. "You couldn't play nice for two minutes?"
Fujishima pulled his hand away, scrubbing at his face and trying in vain to stem the tears. But luckily it was out of Yoshiya's incompetent hands now, and Reiichi was in full Kashiwagi mode, doing five things at once: summoning an attendant to box his just-purchased haul, arranging for delivery from a confectioner that didn't deliver, somehow diffusing all the worry and curiosity directed their way with nothing but a self-assured smile. Then, in perhaps the least dignified move Yoshiya had ever seen from him, Reiichi grabbed the empty blueberry skewer and chocolate-coated cookie straw and stabbed them through the hearts of two desserts—a marzipan rose and a bonbon the size of a beanbag—and raced with Fujishima out into the courtyard beyond the enormous front window, the impaled quelque chose waving in his fist. Yoshiya sighed as he stared after them, utterly relieved to lay down his king.
Fujishima was a wild card, and he had never beaten Reiichi at Uno. Maybe, until he learned the rules of this new game a little better, having a buffer wasn't such a bad idea. More than anything, as he watched them through his reflection in the glass, Reiichi pulling a soundless protest from Fujishima as he lifted the pilfered desserts to his mouth as if to take a bite out of each, Yoshiya was just glad he hadn't broken anything Reiichi couldn't fix.
If he never made Fujishima cry again, it would be too soon.