Tomoya’s grip is tight for someone who just woke up. It’s firm around Masahiro’s waist, his chin even firmer on Masahiro’s shoulder, and Masahiro can’t stop himself from smiling a bit as he uses his elbow to gently tap the younger man on the forehead. He gets a giggle in return and a squeeze around his torso.
“No good morning?” Masahiro murmurs, turning his head just a bit, brow raised.
“Ah–” Tomoya blinks, then grins cheekily as he leans over to give the offered cheek a kiss. “Good morning, Mabo!” His voice is high-pitched and cheery, roughened only slightly from sleep. “Sorry, man, it’s just, I woke up and I smelled somethin’ really tasty and I just thought…”
“Yeah,” Masahiro agrees. “It’s for you.”
“I knew it!” Tomoya’s grin gets even bigger, his hands growing playful, and Masahiro ends up having to lightly smack at them to get the idiot to keep from tickling. “Ow, ow!” Tomoya goes back to hugging, a little pout on his face, and Masahiro chuckles and shakes his head as he adds some bayleaf into the mix. “I’m just happy, y’know!”
Masahiro lets out a hum. “You’re happy at just about everything, Tomo.”
“I’m happy ‘cause it’s Matsuoka-kun I’m with, ne.”
There’s a stubbled cheek rubbing against his neck. Tomoya nuzzles and nuzzles, his fingers clutching lightly into the front of Masahiro’s apron. In turn Masahiro tries not to laugh, instead letting the spoon he’s holding go so he can turn and give Tomoya a rightful smack on the top of his head. Tomoya, crafty little cat he is, takes this opportunity to kiss him.
And it’s a sweet kiss; their mouths are closed, but their lips fit perfectly–warm and simple, easy and soft. There’s something about knowing a person for more than half your life, Masahiro supposes. Something about your actions lining up, your expressions becoming similar, your habits starting to mix and meld as you grow up intertwined. In perfect synchronisation, Masahiro sighs at the same time Tomoya does. All things considered, the morning breath only bothers Masahiro a little bit.
“I have to cook,” Masahiro breathes, a low rumble in his chest as Tomoya’s tongue meets his. They kiss a little longer, a little softer, until Tomoya pulls away altogether with a wet sound.
He’s panting, pressing his warm face into Masahiro’s shoulder, hiding his blush as he always does. “I’m only stoppin’ ‘cause it’s food.”
Masahiro grins, getting back to work. “Of course you are.”
Cooking is good. Masahiro enjoys the simplicity of it, the versatility of it, the challenge of it when he tries something new. And all of it is captured in the little dish he makes: chicken and soy sauce and vinegar, black pepper and potatoes and onions and a nice dash of herbs. He puts it over rice on one big plate–there’s a generous amount of thin sauce in the pot that he covers the rice with, dyeing it a healthy brown–and moves to sit at the kitchen table with Tomoya at his side.
“Wanna know what it’s called?” Masahiro asks as Tomoya scoots the chair close to him, the younger man’s arm hooking around Masahiro’s left. His right hand he uses to scoop food up, fitting them on the spoon perfectly.
Tomoya’s watching the spoon intently, but he at least manages to say, “What is it?”
“Adobo,” Masahiro says easily, unable to suppress the way his eyes crinkle in fondness. “Say ‘ah’.”
Eyes never leaving the spoon, Tomoya coos, “Aaaaah~n~”
And Masahiro feeds him.
It’s always moments like these, he thinks. Watching the way Tomoya’s mouth opens, the way his lips wrap dutifully around the spoon, the way he always smiles when he chews, the way he assures Masahiro it’s yummy, it’s yummy, it’s really yummy!–bed-headed and sleepy and with little teeth marks in his neck, this is one of the greatest sides of Tomoya that Masahiro’s ever gotten to witness. One of the sides that only Masahiro is allowed to see.
That being said, Masahiro can’t be faulted for kissing him with half the plate still full of food.
And the way Tomoya whines, the way he fights, the way he flails just a bit because he still wants to eat–well, that side of Tomoya is beautiful, too.