Piping hot fruit and crème fraîche.
Seiji always has apples on hand, seasonal or not. At the bakery, yes, but especially at home. As long as its bite is crisp and it is of the cooking sort. It is the only way to serve the great unifier of their household.
Is it the most healthy? For love to be served on a warm plate when words are not enough?
Seiji doesn't think he ever knew any other way.
Whittling animals out of apples, Shuuichi is always deft with a paring knife. It slows them down to a crawl but gives them room to breathe and be.
But always first, the peels. Pectin be damned.
'It'll be less pretty!'
'You want to say that again?'
'I don't mean it like that!'
But Seiji never minds. It is easy to relax in this liminal space. Of a dim kitchen and the scent of spice. Of the sound of the thin sliver of apple skin making its slow descent from Shuuichi's sure fingers.
He picks up a discarded piece. It meets his teeth with a tart snap. Brings the rest up to Shuuichi's lips.
Like a box of animal crackers: At first, it is standard fare of cats and dogs and rabbits, and then—
A giraffe with a shiny appleseed eye, a dapper top-hat (separate), and a walking stick (also separate).
He flicks the seed away before dropping the giraffe, its hat, and its cane in the measuring cup. An affronted gasp.
"Some cyanide with your dessert, Shuuichi? I am more than happy to arrange it."
Shuuichi carves a penguin next. It is on skis and it has a scarf. Naturally.
"They are going to be stewed, Shuuichi."
"I know. They are going to be delicious." With boyish anticipation.