[One-shot] Marmalade (Prince of Tennis)
Title: Marmalade
Characters: Tezuka/Sengoku
Rating: Gen
Summary: Written as a companion to Warmth. Prompted by perfectassassin (" Warmth -- winter after that one?") in response to my timestamp fic request meme, and is therefore dedicated to her and to halcyon days.
It isn’t their usual haunt, but rather a random kissaten near a random train stop somewhere in Chiba. The glass window radiates cold from outside, but the kissaten itself is warm and cheerful. There are no teenage girls nudging each other as they eye the two handsome young men in the next booth, but the waitress still blushes as she brings two steaming cups of coffee over.
The radio beside the cash register plays a popular song, high-pitched teenaged voices that merely fade into the background for Tezuka. Sengoku is nodding away to the music, red hair bobbing and bouncing slightly in time to the beat. Tezuka hopes that Sengoku will not hum the song throughout the train ride back, because it will take about one hour on the express. Instead, he listens to the humming of the proprietor, a plain but kind-looking middle-aged woman who begins to wipe the table three spaces over for the second time, even though no one has been seated there in the hour he and Sengoku have been there so far. Her voice has that indefinable register he recognizes as the same one Tezuka Ayana occasionally displays when cooking. The woman bends and reaches over the table again, a portly woman who looks matronly rather than fat. Tezuka wonders if his mother will ever look like this, and knows Sengoku never will.
Sengoku watches Tezuka spread marmalade on his toast with a smile that seems a shade too bright for the winter weather outside. The knife makes a rasping sound, and the scrape-scrape-scrape sounds cut clearly across the table in the quiet café. The marmalade isn’t from a pre-packaged container, but actually sits in a dollop on the plate, a generous scoop placed by the proprietor out of a large unmarked glass jar. It still rests there, in front of Tezuka, next to another slice of toast and a pat of butter that looks as if it was as homemade as the jam.
The toast is crunchy, not burnt, and the marmalade not too sweet. Tezuka wonders if it is possible to buy some for his mother, whether she will welcome it, a Western addition to a traditional Japanese home. Still, they have a toaster, and his mother occasionally buys bread, white and springy and one-inch-thick, fresh from the supermarket bakery, sold in bags of six slices.
Japanese bread is different from Western bread, he supposes, but Tezuka cannot see anyone preferring anything other than what he holds in his hands now, filling his nose and palate with white bread and marmalade and the slightly burnt smell of toast. He takes another bite, savoring the fragrant creaminess as the toast and marmalade mix in his mouth. Indeed, he cannot see anyone preferring any different.
Sengoku stirs his coffee and then picks up the cup. His eyes smile at Tezuka over the rim, and then he blows lightly, disturbing the surface, which ripples unevenly and smoothes over again almost as soon as he stops. Little wisps of steam once again rise from it, and then the redhead tilts the cup, sipping. Tezuka can smell his hazelnut coffee and Sengoku’s caramel almond latte, both sweet and bitter and unmistakeably made from the coffee bean. He feels a pressure against his knee, and he knows it is merely Sengoku’s leg stretched out, just to touch.
When Sengoku raises an eyebrow and offers his own cup for Tezuka to taste, Tezuka shakes his head, but his eyes smile where his mouth does not.
Con-crit welcomed greatly on this one. I'm stlil looking for my own lyrical style. All comments loved though!
Characters: Tezuka/Sengoku
Rating: Gen
Summary: Written as a companion to Warmth. Prompted by perfectassassin (" Warmth -- winter after that one?") in response to my timestamp fic request meme, and is therefore dedicated to her and to halcyon days.
It isn’t their usual haunt, but rather a random kissaten near a random train stop somewhere in Chiba. The glass window radiates cold from outside, but the kissaten itself is warm and cheerful. There are no teenage girls nudging each other as they eye the two handsome young men in the next booth, but the waitress still blushes as she brings two steaming cups of coffee over.
The radio beside the cash register plays a popular song, high-pitched teenaged voices that merely fade into the background for Tezuka. Sengoku is nodding away to the music, red hair bobbing and bouncing slightly in time to the beat. Tezuka hopes that Sengoku will not hum the song throughout the train ride back, because it will take about one hour on the express. Instead, he listens to the humming of the proprietor, a plain but kind-looking middle-aged woman who begins to wipe the table three spaces over for the second time, even though no one has been seated there in the hour he and Sengoku have been there so far. Her voice has that indefinable register he recognizes as the same one Tezuka Ayana occasionally displays when cooking. The woman bends and reaches over the table again, a portly woman who looks matronly rather than fat. Tezuka wonders if his mother will ever look like this, and knows Sengoku never will.
Sengoku watches Tezuka spread marmalade on his toast with a smile that seems a shade too bright for the winter weather outside. The knife makes a rasping sound, and the scrape-scrape-scrape sounds cut clearly across the table in the quiet café. The marmalade isn’t from a pre-packaged container, but actually sits in a dollop on the plate, a generous scoop placed by the proprietor out of a large unmarked glass jar. It still rests there, in front of Tezuka, next to another slice of toast and a pat of butter that looks as if it was as homemade as the jam.
The toast is crunchy, not burnt, and the marmalade not too sweet. Tezuka wonders if it is possible to buy some for his mother, whether she will welcome it, a Western addition to a traditional Japanese home. Still, they have a toaster, and his mother occasionally buys bread, white and springy and one-inch-thick, fresh from the supermarket bakery, sold in bags of six slices.
Japanese bread is different from Western bread, he supposes, but Tezuka cannot see anyone preferring anything other than what he holds in his hands now, filling his nose and palate with white bread and marmalade and the slightly burnt smell of toast. He takes another bite, savoring the fragrant creaminess as the toast and marmalade mix in his mouth. Indeed, he cannot see anyone preferring any different.
Sengoku stirs his coffee and then picks up the cup. His eyes smile at Tezuka over the rim, and then he blows lightly, disturbing the surface, which ripples unevenly and smoothes over again almost as soon as he stops. Little wisps of steam once again rise from it, and then the redhead tilts the cup, sipping. Tezuka can smell his hazelnut coffee and Sengoku’s caramel almond latte, both sweet and bitter and unmistakeably made from the coffee bean. He feels a pressure against his knee, and he knows it is merely Sengoku’s leg stretched out, just to touch.
When Sengoku raises an eyebrow and offers his own cup for Tezuka to taste, Tezuka shakes his head, but his eyes smile where his mouth does not.
Con-crit welcomed greatly on this one. I'm stlil looking for my own lyrical style. All comments loved though!