Chapter Text
On a cloudy Monday morning, Tsukasa awoke to the sound of… nothing.
Although, that's how his mornings usually go, anyway. He's always the first to wake up. His bedroom—their bedroom—is seemingly silent. He knows that's not the case, though.
Still lying in bed, he closes his eyes again and tilts his head to the right. He can hear the faintest breathing beside him. Mafuyu. Quietly inhaling and exhaling in her slumber, as if any bigger indication of her existence would cause the world to crumble. He smiles to himself, knowing she's sleeping soundly. He then carefully removes himself from their mattress so as to not wake his beloved wife.
He has breakfast to cook, after all.
It took a while in their relationship for Tsukasa to learn that Mafuyu couldn't taste anything. As someone who enjoyed all sorts of flavors himself, he was devastated that Mafuyu had never been able to experience the wonders of a dish that delighted her. (Of course, he also learned—much later—that delight itself was a rare feeling for Mafuyu. That, too, was something that devastated him.) After he had become aware of such, he had sworn, as her boyfriend, to cook the most delicious food she'd ever had—if not in actual flavor, then in texture. It took the two of them many months of Tsukasa testing and perfecting several recipes to finally find things that could warm Mafuyu's core.
Tsukasa learned this: Mushy textures are only good in hot soup, soft and fluffy textures are only good when they melt in your mouth, crunchy and crispy textures are only good when not eaten with something wet, and Mafuyu prefers having something to chew on for longer periods of time than to have something that instantly dissipates (as long as it stays relatively the same texture throughout the chewing time). Also, spiciness can still be felt, though Mafuyu has no preference over spice levels.
The nature of Mafuyu's precise preferences were not new to him, as Rui had similarly particular tastes about his food. The largest hurdle Tsukasa had encountered throughout cooking for Mafuyu, though, was that he'd constantly prioritize flavor over texture. Multiple times, he had used whole pepper to season his dishes, only for Mafuyu to comment that she didn't like how it felt to crush it with her teeth. It had taken him an embarrassingly long amount of time to wrap his head around the idea that the taste quite literally did not matter to her.
On their kitchen island, he's placed down a box of pancake mix and a large bowl. He'd usually prefer to make his pancakes from scratch, but as long as he cooks it right, Mafuyu can't tell the difference, texture-wise. And while he does prefer the taste of homemade pancakes, he also knows Mafuyu prefers to make meals together, and would rather he spend a long time cooking with her than for her.
It took several years before Mafuyu could taste anything at all. And at times, Tsukasa could feel Mafuyu slowly descending back into despair, perhaps because she had “wasted his efforts”.
“You don't have to keep doing this. I probably won't be able to taste anything for the rest of my life, you know.”
But she misunderstood his intentions. He had never wanted her to regain her sense of taste in the first place. Yes, it would be nice if she could. Yes, preparing dishes for her would be easier if she could. But rather, what he wanted was…
CRACK! He dropped an egg on the floor. “Again..?! Fuyu’s going to ridicule me when she wakes up!” he moans. He grabs a rag and some tissue to clean up the scene of the crime. Mafuyu won't make fun of him if he doesn't tell her. ‘I know. But she might smile if I do.’ He sighs dreamily, wiping the yolk off the floor. He's sure she'll be too tired to break into laughter, but even the slightest upturn of her mouth is enough for him. He knows how long it took to get to that point. He knows how much effort it took her to even get so far as a tiny quirk of the lips. So later—when she wakes up to the smell of the pancakes and the warmth radiating from the kitchen into the hall, and she comes in to grab a plate—he'll tell her: “Mafuyu, I dropped an egg this morning!” Or…no, that's too direct. It might be funnier if he leads into it. Maybe keep the egg tray out and let her notice that an egg is missing. She'll ask if he used an extra egg, and if so, why don't the pancakes taste any different, and he'll rub the back of his neck and sheepishly tell her about his accident: “Ah, yeah… About that, I dropped an egg on the floor again.” Maybe calling back to the previous incident will double how funny it is. Maybe she'll remember how ridiculous his mishap last time was, and she'll assume the most recent one was just as unceremonious, and she'll grin.
He whisks the pancake mixture on his own for a bit, before throwing it into the stand mixer. He starts washing some blueberries in the meantime. He doesn't even quite remember how he dropped the egg last time. What made Mafuyu laugh in the first place was that it had taken him a total of five seconds to realize he'd dropped it at all. She sat there, watching him cook, as he struggled to whisk the pancake batter. His arm was tired and shaking, and he normally wouldn't have a problem with it if he wasn't making a batch for more than a dozen people. Mafuyu was resting her own arms on the kitchen island, as she had tired herself out a while ago. And in his fatigued state, while trying to grab the mixing bowl into his arms to get a better grip on it, he knocked an egg off the island. He had even stepped on some of it, at least according to Mafuyu. It took until he heard Mafuyu snickering to realize anything had even happened.
Looking back, it most likely doesn't appear so funny to anyone else. Actually, it's not too funny to him even now. Rather, it's precious, and for that reason, he chuckles. It makes him happy to remember it, is all.
Tsukasa pours the batter into the pan, little by little. Mafuyu likes her pancakes small and thin. Tsukasa likes his pancakes as big as possible. It's for that reason that he makes his portion last.
Every morning that Tsukasa makes pancakes, Mafuyu wants exactly six. A little bigger than the palm of her hand, which means about the size of the palm of his hand. Sometimes, when he wakes up too early, he puts some batter into an empty condiment bottle and pours them into shapes. He usually makes rabbits for the both of them. Two big ones for him, and six small ones for her. He jokes that the two big ones are him and Mafuyu, and the six small ones are the children they'd have if they didn't both have generational trauma. Every time, he'd name them different things. All equally ridiculous, but with a new theme each batch. Last time he named them after Virtual Singers. “This one's Miku, and these are the Kagamine twins, and this is MEIKO, and KAITO, and Luka,” but Mafuyu cringed and said it was weird to imagine them being her children. Then Tsukasa cooed and kissed her on the cheek, because she'd been imagining each litter of little pancake rabbits as her children this whole time.
He flips the sixth little pancake over. There's barely any oil on the pan—or in their whole house, for that matter. Mafuyu doesn't like how oil feels on her lips. Tsukasa doesn't either, but he likes the taste of butter, so he uses that instead most of the time.
Mafuyu comes into the kitchen just then. She pulls up a stool to the island and rests her arms on it. “...Good morning, Kasa,” she yawns. He turns around to place her last pancake on the plate on the island. “Good morning, Fuyu!” he greets brightly. In the end, he never did figure out how to tell her about the egg he dropped. He never left the egg tray out, he never planned any lines—Nothing. But he knows it's fine.
“Something happened, didn't it,” Mafuyu says knowingly. She looks up at him. Even without smirking outwardly, he knows she feels smug. “Now, what makes you say that, my darling!” Tsukasa pouts. He turns back to the stove, preparing to pour his own portion of pancakes now. She quips back, “You got distracted, I'm sure. You haven't even started on your pancakes yet,” and then, her lips quirk up even the tiniest bit.
It's a cloudy Monday morning, and Tsukasa woke up early to cook breakfast for Mafuyu before going to work. He does this every Monday. It's a calm routine. Usually he makes sure both their portions are cooked and cooled before Mafuyu wakes up, so she can put the syrup and whipped cream and other toppings as she likes.
“You spent too long thinking, I'm guessing,” Mafuyu says, while gazing at him warmly. In truth, she's not guessing. She really just knows. Mafuyu could always see right through him—every costume, prop, and practiced line. Tsukasa knows this, too. As such, he also knows he shouldn't try. In her eyes, he's naked and see-through. As much as he daydreams of fooling her one day, he knows—in actuality—that he is the fool for thinking he could trick her.
“Nonsense! I was simply contemplating the optimal protection for an egg, should it be dropped on the floor from about three feet off the ground, so as not to break!” he huffs at her anyway, for he is a fool (a clown, a jester), and he is in love. And as such, he tries regardless. He knows that Mafuyu likes being reminded that she can see through him. He dons cover-ups so that she can tear them off. Everything he does—from the number of lights that are switched off in their room to the way he styled his hair that morning—is all one big act to make her happy.
And she knows. And she finds irony in it. And that, too, makes her laugh.
So in the end, it's just another cloudy Monday morning.