Work Text:
Title: This Man in Want of Food
Rating: PG
Word Count:
Character(s)/Pairing: Takki/Tsubasa
Disclaimer: Total fiction.
Summary: Takki cooks.
Note: For both 
luin_lote who wanted fluffy cooking fic, and for mii_hazeru who is being cruelly bullied by her teeth. <3
There are exactly seven dishes Hideaki can make for himself that are not only not toxic, they're delicious. He learned how to make most of them as a Junior, practicing at home to make sure he could produce them on TV without a hitch. He feels confident in saying that at one point in their lives, he was a better cook than Tsubasa.
It sounds like high praise, but it's not, considering that Tsubasa once set a pan on fire.
Now, of course, Tsubasa can make all seven of Hideaki's mastered dishes seven times better than Hideaki can, plus he enjoys the actual practice of cooking seven times more than Hideaki does, so Hideaki doesn't bother cooking them anymore. Instead, he watches Tsubasa cook and washes dishes when he's finished.
Sometimes, though, on a slow day when Tsubasa isn't around and his family is busy and he doesn't feel like wrangling someone to eat out with him, Hideaki is moved to cook for himself. It's never anything fancy; pasta, mostly, topped with whatever seems like it needs the least amount of preparation. He keeps sauce packets in a juice jug in the pantry, hidden to spare Tsubasa the horror he'd feel seeing them in Hideaki's kitchen.
Today he pulls out a package of sauce and drops it into a pot of boiling water. While that's heating up, he breaks a fist of spaghetti in half and tucks it into a different pot of water that's just starting to simmer. Cooking complete.
He swallows a yawn and wonders if it's midnight yet. It wouldn't matter except that Tsubasa hasn't called today and if he waits much longer to do it, Hideaki might actually fall asleep standing up. It's been a long week.
To stave off the urge to sit at the island and put his head down, Hideaki bounces on his heels and hums "Backborn" to himself. At least he has a truckload of things to keep him busy. If he finishes reviewing the interview for TakiCHAN he can email his manager about his overbooked Tuesday and after that–
Headlights pour in through the window. Beaming, Hideaki turns down the heat on both burners and leaves the room to go unlock the front door. By the time he's back in the kitchen and dumped the softened spaghetti into the strainer, he can hear the elevator engaging downstairs. He hesitates in front of the sink and thinks about all the other things Tsubasa does when he makes spaghetti. He sets a timer, pours in olive oil, then places a lid over the pot at just the right angle to let a bit of steam out. He'd never break the spaghetti in half to save on time, nor would he use packaged sauce when he could make his own. He'll probably eat this anyway, though, if he's tired.
Hideaki wonders if he can order food and have it arrive before the elevator does.
The sauce package burns his fingers as he's pouring the sauce into bowls and some of the leftover pasta water in the strainer manages to leap up and splash into his eye and so Hideaki doesn't notice Tsubasa until he can feel waves of judgment from the doorway.
Tsubasa blinks at him and says about nine things by raising his eyebrows.
None of them are especially flattering.
Hideaki holds up a bowl and smiles.
Tsubasa hides a grin and goes to shower.
About an hour later, Hideaki's sprawled out in bed writing a long email to Yuma on his iPhone and Tsubasa's using his backside as a pillow while he rereads Zlatan Ibrahimovic's biography. The pasta is still in its bowl, untouched and cold and probably congealing judging by the smell.
Hideaki flexes his gluteal muscles until Tsubasa lifts his head and makes a quiet noise of annoyance. Hideaki nods at the bowl.
Tsubasa wrinkles his nose.
Hideaki employs a sad face.
Which is how Tsubasa gets dinner, and Hideaki gets the satisfaction of feeding Tsubasa for once.