Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first thing Daisuke heard after opening the townhouse door was a sharp, tinny clang and then, very distinctly, the shout of "Shit!"

That, in and of itself, was concerning.

Ken never swore.

It took Daisuke all of five seconds to drop his things, finish kicking off his shoes, and charge up the stairs to the main floor, where Ken was fanning a small tray covered in blackened circles, his face tight and flushed. Behind him, the toaster oven was still open, Ken's phone had fallen to the tile floor, and there was a hint of smoke in the air.

Daisuke breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned against the wall. "Don't scare me like that."

Ken sent him a glare over his shoulder. "I was hardly trying to scare you."

But he waved away the irritation and bent down to grab the phone on the floor. "What happened?" he asked, handing the device to its owner.

With a huff, Ken snatched the phone and nearly slapped it against the counter. "Your sister called."

Daisuke raised an eyebrow. "So everything's Jun's fault?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Hey, you've got no complaints from me," he added with a shrug. "But how exactly did she burn your…?" He bent close to the tray of dark circles. "What are these things?"

Ken frowned. "Black sesame cookies. Or at least they're supposed to be."

"Right." He pulled back and offered his boyfriend a grin. "So how'd Jun fuck up your cookies again?"

After a bit of side-eye, Ken crossed his arms and said, "She just distracted me. You know how she likes to tease me, and she can talk forever—like someone else I know."

Daisuke grinned, stepping closer to wrap an arm around his waist, but Ken stepped back.

"Anyway," he added, putting a bit of distance between them, "I must've set the timer wrong."

"Do you have any more dough?"

Ken sent him a skeptical glare. "Why? So you can fix the mess I made?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I was thinking we could fix it together, but if you're going to be a baby about it, yeah, I guess so."

But Ken only heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his normally sleek hair. "That was the last batch."

Daisuke hesitated. "And the other batches…did you have better luck with them at least?"

His eyes flashed open, then narrowed in a sharp glare.

"I'll take that as a no then." He had to stifle his laughter, but that didn't stop Ken from continuing to glare.

Daisuke had stripped to his underwear and lain down for a nap when he got home from pushing his ramen cart around Shinjuku, and Chibimon had curled up by his head, too exhausted to remain as V-mon. Ken hadn't been home yet, which was normal at that time. This was, after all, the one day Daisuke insisted on working only the lunch rush—it was very important to have at least one evening to eat dinner with your boyfriend after all.

When he woke, the sky outside was fading, an orange hue around the horizon, but Daisuke could immediately tell something was off.

Despite having just woken up, his heart was beating hard in his chest, and he didn't bother to get dressed before slipping from the room, careful not to disturb Chibimon, and padding down the stairs to the main floor.

"Ken?"

It was definitely late enough he should be home now.

At the bottom of the stairs was the dark living room, and he crossed the tan carpet to reach the kitchen—the only area lit up and definitely the only area with movement.

The scent of smoke hit his nose before he realized what he was seeing, and as he came to the doorway, he paused.

Ken stood at the stove, desperately pushing something—a very definitely smoking something—around a pan and murmured, "No, no, no," over and over. That burner wasn't on anymore, thankfully, but the back burner was—and the pot on top of it was quivering with the harsh bubbles.

He cleared his throat. "What's for dinner?"

Ken didn't bother to look at him, but his grip on the spatula tightened as he continued his frantic attempts to salvage whatever was in the pan.

Daisuke shook his head with a little laugh before moving closer, pressing himself against Ken's back so he could stretch to flip on the overhead fan. "You know," he said, tucking his chin over his boyfriend's shoulder, still on his tiptoes, "you might need adult supervision while you're working with heat." He stretched an arm around to turn off the back burner just as the pot started to boil over—only to stop and settle as the flames disappeared.

With a defeated groan, Ken dropped the spatula on the counter and stared down at the black bits of…well, something in the pan. "I just wanted to make you dinner."

He chuckled even as he twisted to press a kiss to his neck, and his fingers slid across his waist, slipping beneath his loose shirt and teasing the skin at his hip. "You have no idea how cute you are." Another kiss, then his tongue darted out to trace up to his pulse point. "What was it supposed to be?" he whispered, then sucked the tender skin into his mouth.

Ken gasped and reached for the counter for support. "Pasta with bacon and mushroom," he said, voice ragged. "With a cream sauce."

"Hmm." His teeth grazed the skin upon release, and he admired the bright pink mark of his boyfriend's normally pale skin. "That sounds delicious."

Breath short, Ken nodded.

"But I can think of something else I want to eat right now." His fingers tugged at the fastenings of the pants very much in his way.

Ken let out a sharp laugh. "Dear god, if you make a joke about cream sauce right now, I'm going to throw you out the window."

But when Daisuke slid his hand down his pants, he had no complaints.

"Are you sure you don't need help?" Daisuke called from the living room, a Pocky stick between his teeth. He hunched closer to the screen, pressing buttons with finesse but still on alert for signs of danger from the kitchen.

"I told you," Ken snapped, his voice sharp, "I'm perfectly capable of making buns."

There were a few clangs from the kitchen as he moved stuff around, and Daisuke sincerely hoped he was right. Steamed buns shouldn't be difficult to make—Daisuke could practically make them in his sleep—but Ken was determined not to force him to do all the cooking when he already cooked for a living. The ramen cart was really taking off too.

"Savory or sweet?" he tossed toward the kitchen.

It took a moment for Ken to respond, but Daisuke could be patient, especially when Ken was in one of his moods. "I made both," he finally answered.

Daisuke pummeled his opponent, beating down his hit points until a big KO flashed across the screen—then he chanced a look toward the kitchen.

Ken was hunched over the stove, lips pursed in concentration, bits of flour on his face and his hair. His loose, lavender nightshirt hung off one shoulder, revealing a shoulder of smooth skin and a nice bit of his collarbone.

Daisuke took a minute between fights just to admire him.

He was absolutely beautiful, especially when he got in the zone, fully engrossed in the task at hand. And Daisuke was certain Ken deserved a lot more than he could ever offer, but he'd love him and cherish him for as long as he was allowed.

He couldn't stare forever, though.

With a small smile, Daisuke turned back to the video game and decided to switch his character. Might as well mix it up a little bit.

But not long into the fight, his hit points barely damaged, there was a sharp gasp in the kitchen followed by the sound of shattering pottery.

Daisuke dropped the controller and shot up from his position on the floor.

It took less than thirty seconds to reach the kitchen, where Ken was clutching one arm close to his chest, shards of frying pan lid scattered on the floor around him, along with a hot pad and a hand towel, steam billowing from the pan.

Cautiously, Daisuke stepped around the dangerous pieces of pottery and led Ken to the sink. "You need to be more careful," he said, keeping his voice soothing. He turned the faucet on and nudged it as cold as it could go before shoving Ken's bright pink wrist under the water.

Ken winced.

"Steam burns are serious." He turned to look at him, but Ken had a tight grimace on his face. "Is it starting to numb a bit?"

He nodded despite the unshed tears in the corners of his eyes.

"I'll take a look at it in a minute. Hopefully, it's not that bad." He leaned close and pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's bare shoulder. "You pulled back right away, right?"

"Yeah." His voice trembled.

Daisuke placed another kiss on his shoulder. "Don't worry. I got you." And another. "I'll take care of you."

Ken released a shaky sigh. "You always take care of me. I'm trying to take care of you for once."

"Yeah, well, you're doing a shit job of it," he said with a laugh. But his chest constricted with pleasure and he couldn't stop beaming.

Ken smiled back—his adrenaline must've kicked in—and despite the steam burn and the awkward angle from having his forearm held under the cold water, he leaned down and captured Daisuke's lips in a kiss.

Daisuke had wanted to supervise, of course, but Ken had insisted he stay out of the way—which, of course, meant out of the kitchen.

He settled for taking a seat at the dining table, which provided the best view into the kitchen workspace, and playing around on his phone while Chibimon and Minomon napped on the couch together. He was, of course, fully alert.

Frankly, Ken had never had much luck in the kitchen—for being one of the smartest people Daisuke had ever met, he struggled to follow recipes precisely, and no matter how many times Daisuke tried to share the things he had learned from experience, Ken didn't seem to retain any of that knowledge. But really, this was starting to get out of hand.

Ken wouldn't give up, though.

It was admirable and sweet and carved a deep affection through Daisuke's body, but there had to be a point where things went too far.

The minute Ken shrieked and there were actual flames coming from the grill had to be that point, Daisuke decided.

He nearly knocked over a chair to reach the kitchen—and just in time. He yanked Ken away from the sink before he could make a real mess of things by dumping a liter of water on the small fire.

"Grease fire, Ken," he snapped. He pushed past him to slam the pull-out grill shut, then twisted the knob to turn off the heat, and grabbed a hand towel to cover the vent. The flames flickered for a little, then died.

Finally breathing normally, he turned to Ken, who stood white-faced on the opposite side of the sink. "You can't pour water on a grease fire, baka. That's how you get third-degree burns."

Ken only nodded.

In the distance, Chibimon and Minomon were awake and pushing up to get a good view of what was happening. Minomon's little green face was creased with concern, though Chibimon looked ready to conk out again now that the danger had passed.

"If anything like this ever happens again, you smother it." Daisuke held up the hand towel as an example. "Understand?"

"Yeah," his boyfriend said in a small voice.

Daisuke ran a hand through his hair and crossed the distance between them. "Ken, I love you"—he pushed up and planted a firm kiss on his lips—"but you've lost your kitchen privileges for the rest of the night. Tomorrow too."

Ken clenched his jaw, but he was still shaken. "All right," he whispered and retreated upstairs without a backwards look. Minomon scurried to follow after him.

"I don't want to talk about it," was the first thing Ken said when Daisuke climbed to the main level.

Daisuke took one glance at the kitchen and winced at the state it was in. "I was gone for an hour," he said, a bag of groceries tucked under one arm. "How did you manage to do this to my kitchen in an hour?"

Ken scowled. "Oh, it's your kitchen now?"

He cocked his head. "I am the only one who can use it without trying to burn the whole house down." He left the groceries on the table, moved past his boyfriend, ignoring the scoff, and examined the remnants of what looked like lumpy chocolate spread all over the stovetop.

But that wasn't the concerning part.

Some of the chocolate near the closest burner was black, and there were remnants of soot on the parts of the stovetop that lacked lumpy chocolate. Several hand towels had been dropped on the floor, some of them singed, all of them with some amount of thick brown smeared on them. The pot that had been used for boiling water sat in the sink, along with the metal bowl containing the rest of the chocolate, lumpy, a seal on top.

Daisuke bit his lip as an image formed in his mind's eye. "What happened?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Ken wet his lips. "Honestly, I don't know. I was following the recipe, but then it got really thick and clumped together, and everything I did just made it worse—and in my panic I may have knocked over the bowl."

"And the cocoa butter spilled onto the burner?"

He hesitated before nodding.

Daisuke studied the mass of dirty, burnt towels on the floor. "You smothered it with those?"

"Yeah."

"And you're okay?"

Ken sighed, eyes fluttering shut. "Daisuke, I'm fine. Nothing hurt me."

But Daisuke marched back to the doorway and yanked Ken into his arms. "I think I may need to give you lessons," he murmured against his collarbone, face buried in his chest. "Otherwise, you'll burn the whole house down while trying to do something sweet." His fingers rubbed a shaky line up and down Ken's back, tracing the far-too-obvious spine.

"I don't think you can manage to instruct me without letting it go to your head." Ken nudged his head, and when Daisuke pulled back to meet his gaze, he dropped down and covered his boyfriend's mouth with his.

They kissed for a long time, ignoring the enormous mess behind them in favor of each other's arms and lips.

When they broke apart, Daisuke smothered a bout of laughter with Ken's shoulder. "You know, we have a candy thermometer for a reason."

Ken frowned. "Huh?"

"The chocolate," he clarified. "It separated because you overheated it."

"Oh."

Daisuke pulled him into another kiss, this one much shorter. "Why were you trying to make chocolate?"

Ken met his eyes, brow furrowed. "Thursday's our anniversary."

He laughed again. "Oh, right."

"You forgot our anniversary."

"Well, I mean…" Daisuke tried to shrug, but it wasn't nearly as carefree as he meant it to be. "It's not like it's the first time."

Ken shook his head, trying not to laugh, and leaned down to kiss him again.

The morning of their anniversary, Daisuke woke to an empty bed. He spent a long minute glaring at the imprint of where Ken was supposed to be before forcing his limbs into motion. He stretched once he had his feet on the heated wood floor and threw on a pair of boxers before he descended to the main floor.

Ken was in the kitchen, wearing one of his pretty, thigh-length kimonos—this one was black and olive green in honor of Stingmon—and mashing strawberries with a fork.

Daisuke padded closer to lean against the kitchen doorway and enjoy the view of Ken's slender legs and the very nice part where his legs met his hips as he bent to retrieve a tray from the fridge. "You didn't burn down the kitchen?" But his eyes were still tracing up and down his form.

Ken sent him an irritated glare. "Of course not."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't sound so affronted. It's not a ridiculous question."

With an affirmative hum, Ken slid a knife around the edge of each ramekin, then tapped the side of the first one until it flopped down onto the plate. He frowned as it jostled, but the cream-colored pudding had set, and he spooned some of the strawberry sauce on top.

Daisuke lifted an eyebrow when Ken offered the plate to him. "You sure it's safe?"

"I only had to boil water," he admitted in a quiet voice. "Didn't burn anything."

"That doesn't mean it tastes good," Daisuke added, but he finally took the plate and a spoon and swallowed down a bite while Ken watched in nervous anticipation. The tofu pudding wasn't particularly silky, but the flavor was tolerable and the strawberry sauce greatly improved the bland taste. "Dear god," he said, meeting Ken's eyes, "I think you actually didn't fuck this up too bad."

Ken snatched up the nearest hand towel and chucked it at his face. "Oh, shut up."

Daisuke shrugged the towel off his shoulder and onto the counter, then bridged the meter of space between them. He gathered another spoonful and offered the bite to his boyfriend, who glared even as he opened his mouth.

Ken's eyes darted around the room as he moved the food around his mouth, tasting and testing—Daisuke's eyes dilated as he watched—and when he finally swallowed, he seemed to still be considering it.

"Well?"

He frowned. "It's okay, I guess," he said with a sigh, disappointment lacing his voice.

But Daisuke finished the rest of the pudding in two big bites and practically shoved the plate on the counter before his hand was wrapped around Ken's.

"Where are we going?" he cried as Daisuke dragged him toward the stairs.

"Back to bed."

"What? But the kitchen, the food!"

Daisuke came to an abrupt stop partway up the staircase to press Ken against the wall and slant his mouth on his. The kiss was wet and eager, and Daisuke groaned when fingers gripped his hair and teeth grazed his bottom lip.

When they pulled apart, flushed and panting, Daisuke pressed his forehead to Ken's. "Okay," he said, still breathless, "you're the worst cook I've ever met—"

"Hey!"

"—but you're sweet and wonderful and far better than I deserve."

"That's not true," Ken snapped.

Daisuke scoffed, leaning back to meet his eyes. "Shut up, Ichijouji. I'm trying to be romantic."

"Insulting yourself isn't romantic." But his narrow eyes softened as he pressed a hand to Daisuke's cheek. "You deserve all I could possibly think to give you and more. You're the kindest, most loyal person I know, always putting everyone else's happiness before your own, always putting me before anything. I love you more every day."

"Oh, fuck." Daisuke chuckled, nuzzling against Ken's hand. "You say things like that, and it's not fair. You know I'm shit with words."

Ken smiled, his eyes sparkling, and traced down the side of his face. "Then take me to bed and show me how much you love me." He pressed another kiss to his lips and pulled back to murmur in his ear, "Because if you think I'm wearing anything under this kimono, you're wrong."

Daisuke inhaled sharply, then laced their fingers together and led the rest of the way up the stairs.