Fic: Friday Night
Title: Friday Night
Author: fairymage
Rating: PG
Community: 10_passions
Theme: #8-The Space Between Us
Fandom: Card Captor Sakura
Pairing: Touya/Yukito
They’d done it so often, it’d set up its own routine for getting done. Friday was the day they both took off work early, so that they were home by five minutes after six. Yukito would usually be there first, at 5:57, and he would always leave the door unlocked for Touya, whose bus arrived at 6:04. Sometimes, if Touya rushed, he could catch the bus just before his and arrive at 5:58, so that he could catch Yukito opening the door.
His coworkers always made fun of the flurry he caused on his way out Friday afternoons.
“You work so hard during the week, Kinomoto-san. No wonder you’re always running for the elevators at its end!”
“Doesn’t your boyfriend get upset about you staying so late?”
“He’s probably hurrying to the bedroom!”
He took their jests good-naturedly, because that’s how they were given. And it was mostly true, in any case. Yukito pouted (falsely) about how late Touya stayed at work, and how they never got to make dinner together anymore, and how he waited for Touya but he never came. So Fridays became their “together” day.
Today was a 5:58 day.
The first thing Touya did when he got through the door was find Yukito and give him a kiss. Then they made tea and snacks in the kitchen and sat down at the round kitchen table, opened a cookbook or a laptop, and found a recipe they wanted to try. The tea and snacks were necessary to tide them (at least, Yukito) over until dinner.
Today, Touya caught Yukito in the foyer, taking off his shoes, and pulled him into a kiss before he even closed the front door. Then they went into the kitchen, Touya to make a pot of tea (from tea leaves, no less! Fridays were not a day for cheap, two-men-living-together tea bags) and Yukito to set out a plate of sweet cakes. Once everything was ready, they sat at the table, cakes held between fingers, pot of tea cooling slowly, twin teacups set on either side of the open, glowing laptop.
“What do you feel like?” Touya murmured, fingers clicking away at the keyboard.
“Chicken,” Yukito answered firmly.
“Okay. Pasta, rice, vegetables…?”
“Pas…ta…” Yukito responded slowly, as though he were simultaneously weighing his options.
“Mmmm.” For a few moments, there was only the click of the keys as Touya deftly typed in a search for “pasta” and “chicken” recipes. In the meantime, Yukito ate two more cakes.
“Have we tried something like this before?” Touya asked, turning the laptop so Yukito could see more clearly.
“Chicken marsala with angel hair pasta? It doesn’t sound familiar…” Yukito answered thoughtfully, though he seemed more concerned with innocently eyeing Touya’s uneaten cake. Touya knew that Yukito wasn’t entirely concerned with the cake-he just wanted Touya to feed him.
Obligingly Touya reached for one of the remaining sweets and held it out to Yukito, who ate it neatly from between Touya’s fingers.
“Okay, I think I got it,” Touya continued on the original topic of dinner. Yukito nodded and licked his lips as Touya absently licked the residual sugar off his fingertips.
After they’d decided what they were going to make for dinner, they’d take the car (which pretty much never went anywhere else, unless they were going to the Kinomoto house for Christmas or New Years) to the market and buy everything they needed. Shopping like that was admittedly expensive-they’d worried initially that they wouldn’t be able to do it-but with a little bit of effort they found ways to manage. Neither of them were willing to give up any part of their Friday nights together.
They’d walk together with great purpose down the aisles, picking out the ingredients they needed. Occasionally there would be debate over which brand or variety of a given product they should buy; whatever Touya picked usually won, because Touya was the more practical one (he was a coupon shopper; Yukito had to admire that). They would take turns paying for the groceries. It never mattered who paid, because ultimately the cost was split/
Today the car gave them problems, so Touya grumbled and got out and kicked it. Yukito, who was good with his hands but not so much with fixing an engine, sat in the passenger seat watching Touya threaten, coax, cajole, and swear at the malfunctioning vehicle. Finally, after seven minutes, three threats of being sent to the junkyard, one promise of better quality gas, and one muttered, “Dammit, it needs to go to the shop,” the car sputtered to very active, normal life and drove them contentedly to the market.
They knew the layout of the market well by now, as well as most of the staff, who always enjoyed seeing the pair on Friday evening. They were always in a good mood, always eager and excited about their chosen project, always so perfectly content with being with each other, and their good humor was infectious. Touya recited the necessary ingredients from memory; Yukito fetched them from the shelves, or if he had a question, as he did when “marsala wine” came up, he waited for Touya to catch up with him.
Neither of them knew anything about wine-except that it was supposedly an “acquired taste” and it was made from fruit-so they stood studying the shelves for several minutes before someone came to assist them.
“You’re probably best off with a Pellegrino,” the grandfatherly man advised them, taking a bottle from the shelf and putting it in Touya’s hands. “One of the biggest makers, can’t go wrong, really, especially if it’s your first time. And I’m quite partial to it, myself, so if you don’t like it after the cooking you can bring it back to me,” he laughed, a twinkle in his eye.
Touya’s expertise was also required to select chicken breasts, trying to balance an appropriate amount with price. Then he had to decide whether or not they were going to try and make alfredo sauce, or just buy the premade bottle. He checked his watch; it was getting late, nearing on 7:45, so he decided to just buy a bottle and berate himself for the decision later.
The drive home was leisurely, as they wound their way through streets busy with Friday night dates and lit by sparkling streetlights. They liked to watch other people bustling about, though they were always thankful they weren’t caught up in that crowd somewhere. It was a warm, soothing feeling, to watch people being pleasant and happy.
After their drive, they went home and cooked. Cooking was important-they always did it together; it was the only night of the week when Touya was home in time to cook dinner with Yukito. All the space that the week created, with Yukito standing alone at the stove over stir-fry or macaroni and cheese or ramen and Touya squeezed onto the late bus, needed to be made up over something they both enjoyed, something that defined their relationship.
When they got home they unpacked, and the kitchen was filled with the light clink of pans and silverware and china. The chicken in the oil popped merrily in the pan, Touya in his white apron watching it anxiously, while Yukito wiped down the dining room table and searched for their good china. Peppers, sliced mushrooms, and garlic sizzled happily as Yukito began to boil water for the pasta (after he found the chef’s hat he’d made for Touya and set it lopsidedly on Touya’s head). Sizzling fell to a low bubbling as Touya added the alfredo sauce and wine, and Yukito stirred the pasta to keep it from sticking to the bottom of the pot.
They rarely used the dining room table, except for on Friday nights or holidays when they had company. Likewise, they rarely used anything other than plastic, microwaveable plates unless Touya’s father was in the house (he was the one who’d given them the nice set of dishes and silverware).
Yukito had used the burgundy tablecloth (a Christmas present from Sakura three years ago) and the white-edged-in-gold china set. They sat across from each other, over a plate of steaming pasta and chicken smothered in a sweet, creamy whitish sauce, picked with the bright red of the peppers. An appropriate beverage had not been found, so they’d settled on tall glasses of milk (“It’s going to expire in a week, anyway”).
Most of the time, they didn’t talk much over Friday night dinners. Part of it was that the food distracted them, but mostly it was because on those nights, it felt like they had all the time in the world before them. Talk was trivial. Talk could wait.
After dinner they washed the dishes together. They didn’t dare put anything nice in their dishwasher, so anything Fujitaka had given them got washed by hand and with utmost care. Fujitaka had actually taken care to make sure anything he bought was dishwasher safe, given that it was two men living together, but neither Touya nor Yukito knew that. Yukito washed, and Touya dried.
Tonight they stood in silence at the sink, pale hands plunging rhythmically into the foaming bubbles, darker ones gingerly wiping with a soft towel, dishes clinking as they found places on the dishrack.
It was always late by the time they finished with dinner. Nevertheless, they always watched a movie together. They both preferred to be lounging, stretched out, when they watched movies. The range of movies they watched was wide. Sometimes they would watch Japanese films, but since they felt like they could see those more often, to make the night special they’d watch something foreign. Usually a drama, but occasionally a romantic comedy. It had been Sakura who started it initially, insisting that since her onii-chan was a big softie inside, he’d enjoy that kind of movie.
Touya set out two wine glasses, filled with just a little bit of the leftover marsala, on the coffeetable, then sank backwards onto the couch and lay down, stretching out his legs, propping his ankles on the opposite arm. Yukito fumbled with the DVD player and their stack of DVDs. They didn’t feel like going out again tonight, so they were going to watch something they already owned.
Once he’d decided, he slid the thin, silver disc into the machine and set the remote down next to the wine glasses. Letting his curiosity show on his face, he settled down the couch between Touya’s legs, snuggling up against him, laying against his chest.
“Marsala’s a dessert wine,” Touya explained. “I thought we might try it.” One arm reached down to wrap around Yukito’s shoulder, causing Yukito to sigh softly in contentment.
On Friday nights, they always fell asleep together on the couch.
Author: fairymage
Rating: PG
Community: 10_passions
Theme: #8-The Space Between Us
Fandom: Card Captor Sakura
Pairing: Touya/Yukito
They’d done it so often, it’d set up its own routine for getting done. Friday was the day they both took off work early, so that they were home by five minutes after six. Yukito would usually be there first, at 5:57, and he would always leave the door unlocked for Touya, whose bus arrived at 6:04. Sometimes, if Touya rushed, he could catch the bus just before his and arrive at 5:58, so that he could catch Yukito opening the door.
His coworkers always made fun of the flurry he caused on his way out Friday afternoons.
“You work so hard during the week, Kinomoto-san. No wonder you’re always running for the elevators at its end!”
“Doesn’t your boyfriend get upset about you staying so late?”
“He’s probably hurrying to the bedroom!”
He took their jests good-naturedly, because that’s how they were given. And it was mostly true, in any case. Yukito pouted (falsely) about how late Touya stayed at work, and how they never got to make dinner together anymore, and how he waited for Touya but he never came. So Fridays became their “together” day.
Today was a 5:58 day.
The first thing Touya did when he got through the door was find Yukito and give him a kiss. Then they made tea and snacks in the kitchen and sat down at the round kitchen table, opened a cookbook or a laptop, and found a recipe they wanted to try. The tea and snacks were necessary to tide them (at least, Yukito) over until dinner.
Today, Touya caught Yukito in the foyer, taking off his shoes, and pulled him into a kiss before he even closed the front door. Then they went into the kitchen, Touya to make a pot of tea (from tea leaves, no less! Fridays were not a day for cheap, two-men-living-together tea bags) and Yukito to set out a plate of sweet cakes. Once everything was ready, they sat at the table, cakes held between fingers, pot of tea cooling slowly, twin teacups set on either side of the open, glowing laptop.
“What do you feel like?” Touya murmured, fingers clicking away at the keyboard.
“Chicken,” Yukito answered firmly.
“Okay. Pasta, rice, vegetables…?”
“Pas…ta…” Yukito responded slowly, as though he were simultaneously weighing his options.
“Mmmm.” For a few moments, there was only the click of the keys as Touya deftly typed in a search for “pasta” and “chicken” recipes. In the meantime, Yukito ate two more cakes.
“Have we tried something like this before?” Touya asked, turning the laptop so Yukito could see more clearly.
“Chicken marsala with angel hair pasta? It doesn’t sound familiar…” Yukito answered thoughtfully, though he seemed more concerned with innocently eyeing Touya’s uneaten cake. Touya knew that Yukito wasn’t entirely concerned with the cake-he just wanted Touya to feed him.
Obligingly Touya reached for one of the remaining sweets and held it out to Yukito, who ate it neatly from between Touya’s fingers.
“Okay, I think I got it,” Touya continued on the original topic of dinner. Yukito nodded and licked his lips as Touya absently licked the residual sugar off his fingertips.
After they’d decided what they were going to make for dinner, they’d take the car (which pretty much never went anywhere else, unless they were going to the Kinomoto house for Christmas or New Years) to the market and buy everything they needed. Shopping like that was admittedly expensive-they’d worried initially that they wouldn’t be able to do it-but with a little bit of effort they found ways to manage. Neither of them were willing to give up any part of their Friday nights together.
They’d walk together with great purpose down the aisles, picking out the ingredients they needed. Occasionally there would be debate over which brand or variety of a given product they should buy; whatever Touya picked usually won, because Touya was the more practical one (he was a coupon shopper; Yukito had to admire that). They would take turns paying for the groceries. It never mattered who paid, because ultimately the cost was split/
Today the car gave them problems, so Touya grumbled and got out and kicked it. Yukito, who was good with his hands but not so much with fixing an engine, sat in the passenger seat watching Touya threaten, coax, cajole, and swear at the malfunctioning vehicle. Finally, after seven minutes, three threats of being sent to the junkyard, one promise of better quality gas, and one muttered, “Dammit, it needs to go to the shop,” the car sputtered to very active, normal life and drove them contentedly to the market.
They knew the layout of the market well by now, as well as most of the staff, who always enjoyed seeing the pair on Friday evening. They were always in a good mood, always eager and excited about their chosen project, always so perfectly content with being with each other, and their good humor was infectious. Touya recited the necessary ingredients from memory; Yukito fetched them from the shelves, or if he had a question, as he did when “marsala wine” came up, he waited for Touya to catch up with him.
Neither of them knew anything about wine-except that it was supposedly an “acquired taste” and it was made from fruit-so they stood studying the shelves for several minutes before someone came to assist them.
“You’re probably best off with a Pellegrino,” the grandfatherly man advised them, taking a bottle from the shelf and putting it in Touya’s hands. “One of the biggest makers, can’t go wrong, really, especially if it’s your first time. And I’m quite partial to it, myself, so if you don’t like it after the cooking you can bring it back to me,” he laughed, a twinkle in his eye.
Touya’s expertise was also required to select chicken breasts, trying to balance an appropriate amount with price. Then he had to decide whether or not they were going to try and make alfredo sauce, or just buy the premade bottle. He checked his watch; it was getting late, nearing on 7:45, so he decided to just buy a bottle and berate himself for the decision later.
The drive home was leisurely, as they wound their way through streets busy with Friday night dates and lit by sparkling streetlights. They liked to watch other people bustling about, though they were always thankful they weren’t caught up in that crowd somewhere. It was a warm, soothing feeling, to watch people being pleasant and happy.
After their drive, they went home and cooked. Cooking was important-they always did it together; it was the only night of the week when Touya was home in time to cook dinner with Yukito. All the space that the week created, with Yukito standing alone at the stove over stir-fry or macaroni and cheese or ramen and Touya squeezed onto the late bus, needed to be made up over something they both enjoyed, something that defined their relationship.
When they got home they unpacked, and the kitchen was filled with the light clink of pans and silverware and china. The chicken in the oil popped merrily in the pan, Touya in his white apron watching it anxiously, while Yukito wiped down the dining room table and searched for their good china. Peppers, sliced mushrooms, and garlic sizzled happily as Yukito began to boil water for the pasta (after he found the chef’s hat he’d made for Touya and set it lopsidedly on Touya’s head). Sizzling fell to a low bubbling as Touya added the alfredo sauce and wine, and Yukito stirred the pasta to keep it from sticking to the bottom of the pot.
They rarely used the dining room table, except for on Friday nights or holidays when they had company. Likewise, they rarely used anything other than plastic, microwaveable plates unless Touya’s father was in the house (he was the one who’d given them the nice set of dishes and silverware).
Yukito had used the burgundy tablecloth (a Christmas present from Sakura three years ago) and the white-edged-in-gold china set. They sat across from each other, over a plate of steaming pasta and chicken smothered in a sweet, creamy whitish sauce, picked with the bright red of the peppers. An appropriate beverage had not been found, so they’d settled on tall glasses of milk (“It’s going to expire in a week, anyway”).
Most of the time, they didn’t talk much over Friday night dinners. Part of it was that the food distracted them, but mostly it was because on those nights, it felt like they had all the time in the world before them. Talk was trivial. Talk could wait.
After dinner they washed the dishes together. They didn’t dare put anything nice in their dishwasher, so anything Fujitaka had given them got washed by hand and with utmost care. Fujitaka had actually taken care to make sure anything he bought was dishwasher safe, given that it was two men living together, but neither Touya nor Yukito knew that. Yukito washed, and Touya dried.
Tonight they stood in silence at the sink, pale hands plunging rhythmically into the foaming bubbles, darker ones gingerly wiping with a soft towel, dishes clinking as they found places on the dishrack.
It was always late by the time they finished with dinner. Nevertheless, they always watched a movie together. They both preferred to be lounging, stretched out, when they watched movies. The range of movies they watched was wide. Sometimes they would watch Japanese films, but since they felt like they could see those more often, to make the night special they’d watch something foreign. Usually a drama, but occasionally a romantic comedy. It had been Sakura who started it initially, insisting that since her onii-chan was a big softie inside, he’d enjoy that kind of movie.
Touya set out two wine glasses, filled with just a little bit of the leftover marsala, on the coffeetable, then sank backwards onto the couch and lay down, stretching out his legs, propping his ankles on the opposite arm. Yukito fumbled with the DVD player and their stack of DVDs. They didn’t feel like going out again tonight, so they were going to watch something they already owned.
Once he’d decided, he slid the thin, silver disc into the machine and set the remote down next to the wine glasses. Letting his curiosity show on his face, he settled down the couch between Touya’s legs, snuggling up against him, laying against his chest.
“Marsala’s a dessert wine,” Touya explained. “I thought we might try it.” One arm reached down to wrap around Yukito’s shoulder, causing Yukito to sigh softly in contentment.
On Friday nights, they always fell asleep together on the couch.