Rating:

Teen

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Haikyuu!!

Relationship:

Oikawa/Sugawara

Tags:

bakery au, college/university

Stats:

Posted on:

2015-11-12

Words:

4,558

combine water, milk, and flour — whisk until no lumps remain

Tooru knows about the new bakery around the campus city; but he’s never actually walked inside until one day Hanamaki asks him to bring food before he goes over. Tooru says into his cellphone, “You have a kitchen,” and Matsukawa calls out, from somewhere in the background, “Go to that new bakery place,” and Hanamaki is saying, “Yeah, yeah,” and Tooru sighs and tells himself that he’s not going to because Hanamaki and Matsukawa are nothing to be scared of.

Then Iwaizumi texts him with, Heard you’re going to the bakery. Get me a sweet bun, and, okay, Tooru is scared of Iwaizumi. A little.

So he goes into the bakery, deciding that if he’s going to buy stuff for his friends, he might as well get more things for himself. He’s humming and standing in the queue, observing the options through the glass display case, and he doesn’t look up until someone says, “May I help you?”

In front of him is the cashier—though by the looks of his apron and the smidgen of flour on his face, he must be the baker, too.

Tooru coughs. There’s flour on this guy’s nose. “Yes.”

The guy smiles patiently at him.

“You may help me,” Tooru says, because the flour on the guy’s nose is distracting and there’s a bit of powder in his hair, too. It doesn’t get any better when the guy laughs and flattens the fabric on his stomach.

“I know, that’s what I’m here for,” he says.

It takes a second for Tooru’s brain to catch up to him, but then he rattles off his order, along with Hanamaki’s and Matsukawa’s and Iwaizumi’s. The guy raises his eyebrows—Suga, his nametag reads—but he punches the orders in without hesitation. “Coming right up!”

Tooru pays. He watches as Suga ducks behind the counter to open the cabinet. “Throwing a party or something?” Suga asks, from behind the display.

“If you can call a study session partying.” Tooru rolls his eyes.

Suga stands back up, holding a few plastic-wrapped pastries. “Sounds like a whole lot of fun to me,” he replies, grinning.

Tooru chuckles. “This is more fun than studying,” he says, accepting each of Suga’s pastries, letting them gather into his arms until Suga begins piling them in without Tooru having to take them himself.

“Oh, you flatter me,” Suga says, putting one more at the top. He closes the display cabinet and stands on his tiptoes to peer over at Tooru. He’s kind of short, because Tooru doesn’t need to strain himself to notice the stains on Suga’s apron from here. “Got it all?” he asks.

“That’s—” Tooru counts the food in his arms, and they add up right. “It looks like you got everything,” he says, beaming.

Suga looks pleased. “That’s good,” he says. “But if I did miss anything, you can come back and get something free for it.”

Tooru laughs and half-wishes he’d lied. “I might come back anyway,” he calls over his shoulder, as he heads out.

 

 

place mixture over low heat and continuously whisk, before letting it cool at room temperature

And he does, because the bakery is two blocks away from his apartment, and Suga’s pastries had been excellent—Tooru himself had gotten milk bread, as per usual, but it’s better than the ones he’s bought from other bakeries.

Tooru decides to get another piece the next time he comes in, which is a couple of days later, and he catches some time between his classes. It’s easier during the day because his evenings are jam-packed with volleyball practices, and he never eats sweets right before or after a practice. But today his lunch is in a couple of hours, and he’s only had an early morning class, and he doesn’t have any classes in between. So he breezes into the shop, autumn air brushing behind and nudging him in.

Suga is already tending to customers, so Tooru unwinds his scarf and drapes it on a chair near a small table at the side. He waits in line until it’s his turn. Suga lights up as soon as he sees him.

Or it’s a trick of the sunlight, but Tooru won’t bet on that.

“You’re back,” Suga says.

“And you are excellent at pointing out the obvious.” Tooru smiles and cranes his neck over the display case. “Milk bread, please.”

He takes out his wallet as Suga rings him up. “You know,” says Suga, as he goes to get Tooru’s order, “I didn’t catch your name last time.”

“Probably because I never offered it?” Tooru says. Suga is back with his food.

“Ah, that must be it,” says Suga, and hands over the plastic wrapped pastry. Tooru takes it and tucks it into his jacket pocket. Suga perches his elbows on the counter. “So are you going to tell me your name?”

“You won’t wait for me to offer it? Are we already developing a name-basis relationship?” Tooru teases.

“You came back like you promised,” Suga points out. “And it’s hardly fair that you know my name when I don’t know yours.”

“You don’t know that I know your name.”

Suga grins. “I suppose,” he says, and covers his name tag. “You should guess it, then.”

“Hm.” Tooru taps his chin. “It’s… oh goodness, I’m not sure…” Suga’s still grinning as Tooru looks around the bakery, the pastel paintings and miscellaneous photographs decorating the pale blue walls, lined with white like frosting. “S… Se… oh, that’s not right.”

“You’re close,” says Suga.

“S… Suga! That must be it,” says Tooru, the same time Suga takes his hand off his name tag and laughs.

“You’re ridiculous,” Suga tells him, shaking his head, light hair brushing over his eyes. “So? Does that mean I can get a name from you, too?”

“Oikawa Tooru,” Tooru introduces. He gestures around vaguely. “I go to school around here.”

“I suspected,” says Suga, as the door rings. “Otherwise I would’ve thought you were some sort of competition.”

“Competition?” Tooru asks.

The customer who’d just come in waits behind him. Tooru moves out of the way and leans back on his elbows against the glass display case, next to the cash register.

Suga takes the customer’s order and shrugs, going over to grab a pastry. “Anyone looking your age—or my age—is either here for school or an attempt to run a business like my bakery. Thank you,” he adds to the customer, as they leave.

Tooru watches the door jangle shut. “You’re probably right,” he says. Glancing over his shoulder to Suga, who’s scrubbing the counter with a stray rag, he asks, “Is it difficult?”

Suga shrugs. “Probably,” he says. But he smiles, and casts it on Tooru, stunning him for a second. “But I love it.”

 

 

combine the tangzhong with flour, milk, sugar, eggs, and other ingredients — knead until elastic

“You’re glowing,” says Hanamaki, when Tooru walks into the gym later that day. “You’re literally glowing. Oikawa.”

“What, did you get laid?” Matsukawa asks, dangling his arms off the scoreboard.

Tooru wrinkles his nose and throws his towel at him. Matsukawa catches it. “Don’t be crass,” he says.

Then he thinks for a moment. “Give that back.”

Matsukawa tosses his towel to Hanamaki, who grabs it out of Tooru’s reach. “Oikawa,” he says, dangling the towel. “You have to tell us why you’re glowing. Spread the love!”

“I’m not glowing.” Tooru tries to grab at him, but Hanamaki manages to snatch it away again before he can get it.

“How do you even do that?” whines Tooru. “I’m taller than you.”

“Too slow,” Hanamaki teases, and waves the towel in front of him again. “Good boy Oikawa. Roll over. Play dead. Tell us why you’re glowing.”

“Maybe I did get laid,” Tooru says, hoping that will be the end of it.

“Not likely.” The gym doors slam open, and Iwaizumi appears, glancing at their teammates who are already practicing, before turning to them with an air of disappointment. “And since when are you guys keeping score?”

“I’m going to go back out,” Tooru whines, grabbing for Hanamaki again. “Makki’s—just—I am in agony!”

Hanamaki laughs and throws his towel back to Matsukawa.

“I hope it’s not from not getting laid,” Iwaizumi says, not bothering to look at Tooru’s face when he scrunches his nose again. “You’re already loud enough when you’re watching the sports network.”

“I hate all of you,” Tooru grumbles. He settles down on the bench.

Iwaizumi says, “But why are we bothering Oikawa anyway? Give that here.” He reaches for Tooru’s towel from Matsukawa, who gives it to him.

“‘Cause look at him!” Hanamaki leans in and pokes Tooru’s cheek. “He’s glowing!”

“He’s been like that all day,” says Iwaizumi. He hands Tooru back his towel, and Tooru just bats at him with it before wiping his forehead. “Ever since he came home, and when he took out his milk bread—”

“You’re glowing because of a piece of bread?” Matsukawa says incredulously.

“It,” Tooru says with some dignity, slamming his towel down, “was a very good piece of bread. I’m going to go back out to practice.”

“Don’t fuck the bread!” Hanamaki calls over to him.

Tooru slaps his face with his hand.

 

 

shape dough into ball and let it rise, before deflating into equal-shaped pieces

He drops into Suga’s bakery a few more times over the next week, once catching him during a rush, but usually when the bakery is looking mostly barren. Suga asks him about his schoolwork and pretends to be interested in economics, and then tells Tooru a little bit about his baking. Tooru doesn’t really know that much about cooking, but Suga beams and sometimes looks at his hands when he talks like he’s so caught up in his head to make eye contact. Tooru doesn’t really think Suga notices it, until one time he manages to convince Tooru that he uses heaps of melted cheese instead of butter in Tooru’s regular order, and Tooru nearly gags.

“You’re kidding,” he says, as Suga nods, staring somewhere between his fingers in that far off way of his.

“Yeah,” he says. “It makes it richer, and thicker—really absorbs the sugar, you know? Even though it takes so much cheese, it’s almost ridiculous—”

“I’ve—”  Tooru is clutching his chest dramatically. “I’ve eaten so much of your milk bread!”

Suga’s gaze is somewhere near his fingers, so Tooru can’t quite believe it a second later when he’s cracking up, laughing and clutching at his counter.

“Oh my god,” Suga hiccups between gasps. “The look on your—I didn’t think you would actually believe that.”

“Of course!” Tooru throws the end of his scarf at Suga, who bats it off. “You’ve made—I’ve eaten so much of your food! Who knows what you’ve used now? Who knows what you’ve poisoned?” He widens his eyes at the display case.

“Stop that,” Suga says, but he’s still giggling. “Honestly, Oikawa. Really? Cheese?”

“I mean, you could make it work, probably.” Tooru sticks his tongue out. “And that’s so underhanded, too, to lie about the food that I eat the most…”

“You set yourself up for it,” says Suga. He folds his arms on the glass case and grins. “When you came in that first day.”

“Maybe I’ll order something new.” Tooru glances over the menu. “Throw you off your guard.”

Suga scoffs. “I doubt it. What else do you like? Cake? Egg tarts?”

“Everyone likes cake and egg tarts,” says Tooru, pressing his fingers to the glass and trying very hard to keep the milk bread out of his periphery. “And I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable at making my own milk bread. Maybe I won’t come in anymore and make my own.”

“Sure,” Suga says, and Tooru raises his head to see him rolling his eyes. “Except you can’t resist my charm.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s my line,” Tooru chuckles.

Suga takes his rag off the counter and whips it over his shoulder. “And it was a spot-on impression,” he says, as he heads toward the back.

Tooru pretends not to watch, until the last second, when Suga’s apron disappears around the corner. Tooru ignores the tug of want in his stomach and tries to focus on deciding what to order. It’s not really his fault that he accidentally got roped into this—bakery of emotional seduction, or whatever. And that milk bread, which is getting better by the day. Even if Suga was using copious amounts of cheese, Tooru would seriously consider giving up volleyball to eat more of it.

Volleyball would win, obviously, but it’s the consideration that counts.

Suga comes back out with stacks of new cakes to put in the cake display. He swings the counter door open and asks, “Made your decision yet?”

His light hair flops around his eyes, and Tooru wants to tuck it back. He shoves a hand into his pocket.

“Yes,” he says, and looks into the display case again. “I’ll have… the milk bread.”

Suga laughs, trying to set a cake down and open the display case. “Well that’s new,” he teases, shoving at the glass with an elbow. “What an excellent choice. It’s sort of a favorite around here.”

“Well, I am ordering based on a dazzling recommendation,” says Tooru.

He goes over, as Suga struggles a little. “Need a hand with that?” he asks.

Suga is nudging at the case with his nose. “It’s—yeah.” The cake looks like it’s about to fall, and it’s either that or Tooru can open the glass door. He makes a quick decision.

“Let me,” he says, gliding swiftly and making sure not to brush Suga’s arm. He opens the case just as Suga catches the cake, and Suga smiles gratefully at him.

“It was probably a bad idea to try to carry three cakes at once,” he says, pushing the first cake onto the bottom shelf.

“Probably,” says Tooru. “I’d only carry one cake at a time myself. Makes the job much easier.”

Suga laughs, and lets Tooru get the second cake from his arms. Tooru’s fingers brush against his forearm. They tingle and he nearly drops the cake.

But Suga doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ll take your advice, Oikawa,” he says, sliding the third one in.

 

 

place rolls in a round pan; allow them to rest and rise again

All the milk bread eating is inspiring Tooru, sort of, so over the weekend he says to Iwaizumi, “We should bake!” and Iwaizumi says, “That sounds like a terrible idea,” so Tooru calls Matsukawa over, instead.

Calling Matsukawa over means calling Hanamaki over, too, and then the three of them are in the supermarket, browsing through the aisles and trying to find all the ingredients for Tooru’s milk bread.

“We should make other things, too,” says Hanamaki. He’s curled up in the shopping cart like a child, while Matsukawa is pushing him like there’s nothing weird about pushing a twenty-three year old around the supermarket. “Like rice cakes. Or red bean bars!”

“Do you know how to make any of those?” Tooru asks him, trying to settle on a bag of bleached flour.

“That’s what the internet is for,” says Matsukawa, without missing a beat.

Hanamaki practically jumps out of the shopping cart. “I’m on it!” he says, and whips out his cellphone.

Tooru rolls his eyes and picks a bag, tossing it into the shopping cart. It lands on Hanamaki’s stomach and Hanamaki oofs.  “Watch where you’re throwing things!” he protests.

“Watch where you’re sitting,” Tooru mutters, following signs down the aisle to find the sugar.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki stay near the flour, but Tooru gets the sugar a few shelves over. He turns the corner and slinks into the dairy aisle, searching with intent. He’s not even looking where he’s going, until he runs into someone’s side, nearly falling over even more with the pound of sugar in his arms.

He’s almost knocked the other person over, too, but then Suga is saying, “Oikawa?” and Tooru is blinking, beaming.

“Suga,” he says, with a nod. “What are you doing here?”

Suga glances at the bag Tooru is clutching and smiles. “Evidently doing the same thing that you are,” he says. “Making your own milk bread now?”

Tooru shrugs. “What can I say,” he says with a smirk. “I’ve been craving it recently.”

“You better not leave me for your own kitchen,” Suga teases, but his eyes flicker down again. “Don’t tell me I should start taking your threats seriously.”

“If you started taking my threats seriously, then you’ll be ready when I replace your supply of butter with cheese,” says Tooru. Suga laughs and shoves his shoulder. “But I do make a mean milk bread. So I can’t make—or really, promise to keep—any promises anymore.”

“You can’t promise to keep any promises anymore,” Suga says thoughtfully. “So does that mean you can’t promise to keep that, either?”

Tooru blinks at him—then they’re both keeled over and laughing, Suga clutching at the handles of his shopping cart, while Tooru does his best not to fall to the floor, burying his giggles in his arms.

“Don’t squeeze that sugar too hard,” Suga tells him, which is even more hilarious, and Tooru is kind of wheezing as he straightens back up.

“I’ll do my best,” he gasps through his laughter. “But I—I mean, I really do make great milk bread.” And he knows he’s made himself more transparent, this time, the suggestion behind his words. He doesn’t trust Suga to pick up on his hints all the time—but if this will end with how he hopes, then—

“And mine isn’t better?” Suga says, raising his eyes. His grin is a challenge and Tooru’s heart flips in his chest.

“We could see, I guess,” he says. He adjusts the bag in his arms. “I mean, I’ve been eating yours for weeks now, and I can tell you, as an avid fan of bread, that mine will blow yours out of the water.”

“But you’re an avid fan of my bread,” says Suga, walking up to him and poking him in the chest, above his bag of sugar. Tooru smirks. “So I’m sure mine will be better than yours.”

They’re standing a foot apart, and the place where Suga had poked him is burning, and there’s an excitement bubbling through Tooru from his toes up.

“We’ll see,” he says, and can’t stop himself from smiling.

 

 

brush the rolls before allowing them to bake until golden brown at the top

He gives Suga his number and address before leaving the aisle and feels like he just finished playing two hard sets of volleyball. He finds Hanamaki and Matsukawa in the snacks aisle arguing over a bag of crisps, before Hanamaki stops at Tooru and says, “Oh my god, you’re glowing again.”

“What, did you think about milk bread too hard?” Matsukawa deadpans.

Tooru shoves the sugar against his chest. Matsukawa oofs this time. “You’re both terrible and I hate you,” he declares.

“Oh,” says Hanamaki, as Matsukawa lets the sugar fall in and swings the cart around to follow him. “Oikawa, you’re such a romantic!”

They find all the ingredients, plus miscellaneous others for Hanamaki and Matsukawa. Tooru pays before they grab the bags and head off. Hanamaki and Matsukawa bicker loudly about how if Tooru is the chef, who is going to be the sous chef, and Tooru does not say anything about how he hopes Suga will be his sous chef instead of either of them.

Or Iwaizumi, except he’ll probably refuse to indulge Tooru even if he can smell his cooking from the living room.

They get to Tooru and Iwaizumi’s apartment, and Tooru lays all the ingredients out on the counter. He’s grabbing a tray while Matsukawa has begun to measure the sugar when the doorbell rings.

Hanamaki, who is doing nothing, starts toward the door. But Tooru slides on his socks across the kitchenette and says, “I’ll get it!”

He pretends not to notice Hanamaki’s frown.

Suga is on the other side, looking windswept but smiling, carrying a bag of groceries.

“You just saw me buy the ingredients,” says Tooru, but he smiles back.

Suga shrugs. “And I wanted to bring my own,” he says.

Tooru invites him in and steps aside. As Suga takes his shoes off, Tooru peers into one of his bags. “There’s no cheese here, is there?”

Suga laughs, loud. At the same time Hanamaki rushes over, Iwaizumi’s head jerks up, and even Matsukawa tears his gaze away from the measuring cup to look at them.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi starts, from the couch.

Tooru waves his hand at him. “Shush shush, let me do introductions,” he says, still facing Suga. He gestures around the room. “Suga, that’s Iwa-chan, who’s a meanie, Mattsun, who is a little less of a meanie—” Matsukawa makes an appreciative noise from where he’s returned to the sugar “—and Makki, who’s the biggest meanie of them all.”

“It’s a title I worked for,” Hanamaki says seriously, wiping at an invisible tear.

“I’m Suga,” Suga says to all of them, raising a hand and smiling.

As he heads into the kitchen, placing his food on the table, Tooru starts after him. But Suga starts up a conversation with Matsukawa (probably because of that meanie comment, Tooru thinks) while Hanamaki blocks his way (he lives up to his title.)

“Who is this?” asks Hanamaki, and he sounds more scheming by the way his eyes are glinting and the corner of his lips are curving.

Tooru shrugs and rolls his eyes. “You heard him. He’s Suga.”

“Yes, but Oikawa,” says Hanamaki, as the smile spreads across his face. “Who is this?”

Tooru shrugs uncomfortably. After a second of Hanamaki’s unrelenting expression, he says, “He works at the—he’s the baker. Of the bakery. At the bakery place.”

“I never thought I’d see the day,” says Hanamaki, but he moves aside and lets Tooru through, as Suga turns and rubs the heels of his palms together.

“So,” says Suga, bright and full blast on Tooru. “Where should we begin?”

 

 

allow cooling before serving to families and friends (and your lover)

Their baking competition is a little bit more of a collaboration, with the way they try to work on their own loaves while saying things like, “Pass me the milk,” and brushing elbows and laughing when Matsukawa drops an egg on his foot. Suga is fluid in his kitchen, like it’s easy to settle into the motions around Tooru and with Tooru and here, in Tooru’s apartment. Tooru doesn’t let his gaze linger too long but he thinks about it, and while Suga is humming while sprinkling sugar with his deft fingers, Tooru sneaks a glimpse from the corner of his eye, teasing himself until Suga tilts his head to the side ever so slightly towards Tooru’s direction.

Both batches turn out excellently. Suga takes a piece of Tooru’s and says, “You really could give me a run for my money,” and Tooru laughs, nudges him.

“I won’t, though,” he says, and enjoys the slice of Suga’s bread that he’s eaten so many times.

Iwaizumi had gone to hide out in his room because he has big exam tomorrow or something; Matsukawa went to wash his hands while Hanamaki had stolen away to Tooru’s bedroom to find a clean sock. Only Tooru knows which clothes in his bedroom are clean or dirty. It’ll take Hanamaki a while.

Suga smiles from behind his bread and says, “This was fun. Is this what your weekends are always like?” His gaze goes around Tooru’s apartment, the silly frames on his walls, the clumps of flour on the kitchen counters.

Tooru snorts and takes a bite of his bread. “Yes, I always have baking competitions with cute bakers every weekend,” he says, before he stops to think.

And his throat jumps but it’s not terrible, and Suga has turned to face him, not away from him. Tooru hasn’t really thought about it, but suddenly dating a baker sounds like the greatest idea in the world. When all this milk bread runs out, it’ll be hardly a challenge to get more.

And then he’s not really thinking about bread anymore, because Suga’s saying, “So you know other cute bakers?” and he’s standing in front of Tooru, who’s leaned back against the wall, struggling to think because Suga is only getting closer.

“Yeah,” Tooru breathes. “I mean, no—I mean, okay, I don’t know a lot of bakers—well, cute ones—well, there’s you,” and Suga is laughing, like, into Tooru’s mouth, because their noses are touching, and Suga is on his tiptoes again and Tooru doesn’t have to look down to see Suga’s eyelashes against his own.

Closing the gap barely takes any effort, but kissing Suga is—he tastes like the fucking milk bread, and a little bit of sweat, and he’s smiling and this is as good as walking into the bakery and seeing Suga perk up at him every time. Tooru cups the back of Suga’s hair, tucks a strand behind his ear, and he’s grinning back, mouth hurting until Suga licks his bottom lip and giggles and Tooru hums, letting his hand fall behind Suga’s neck. He kisses more, back, and Suga is warm and his hand is dusting flour along the side of Suga’s chin, which Tooru sees when they pull back, breathing heavily into each other but not feeling like they’ve been kissing enough.

Suga says, “So, about those other bakers,” and Tooru teases, “What other bakers?”

Hanamaki bursts in, brandishing a sock victoriously. He crows when he sees Tooru’s hand clutched at the back of Suga’s head, the flour on both of their chins.

“Glowing!” Hanamaki croons. “I knew it! Mattsun, get in here and—”

“Shut up and help us eat,” says Tooru, grabbing a piece of the bread. He throws it at Hanamaki, who barely manages to dodge it as he heads to the bathroom.

“Eating, sure—Mattsun, come put on Oikawa’s alien socks—”

“Alien socks,” Suga giggles, and Tooru nudges Suga’s chin fondly against his own.

The bread he’d thrown at Hanamaki looks alone and pale on the ground. Tooru stares at it, forlorn.

“I shouldn’t have wasted that piece,” he says sadly against Suga’s skin.

Suga pats his face, kisses his cheekbone. “I’ll make you more,” he promises.

Tooru pulls back to beam at him. Suga kisses at the flour on Tooru’s chin next. He makes a face afterward, but his lips are dotted with powder and Tooru laughs.

“I know you will,” Tooru says. “I’m one of your regulars now.”

“You’re more than that,” Suga chides, and Tooru kisses him this time, keeps kissing until the flour’s off his lips, until Suga’s clutching his face with a happy sound, until the bread gets cold in the tray on the kitchen counter and Hanamaki is yelling about glowing again. But it doesn’t really matter because later, tomorrow, three days from now when they’re finishing the bread over dessert at midnight and a movie on Tooru’s living room couch, everything, even the bread, is so much sweeter.