Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hoopa, this is a serious matter.” Lear would have shouted if he wasn’t so considerate to the people around him. “What am I supposed to do about this?” 

When a playful trill is the only response he receives, his heart sinks: he’s doomed. 

He was supposed to take a rare day off at his favorite cafe, having bought iced coffee and a box of donuts (mostly for Hoopa, though he certainly didn’t stop himself from taking a few) when he spotted Cheren at a nearby table. With an aggravated sigh—soon to be one of many, knowing situations like these—Lear curses his own misfortune under his breath.

Why him of all people? The sight of him made Lear’s stomach crawl and his face burn, like he had been out in the sun for too long. It had been like this for a while now, and the reason for these unpleasant reactions wasn’t something he planned on examining too closely. Lear would much rather avoid the problem entirely; but of course, the universe could never be that kind, so here he was, the object of all his upsetting emotions, right there when he was supposed to take this time to unwind. Perfect.

He drags a hand over his face, barely stifling a groan while Hoopa, unhelpful as always, grabs another pastry from the box. “Ever the glutton, aren’t you,” he mumbles, eyes narrowed. “Can’t you help me out here instead of stuffing your face?”

Hoopa doesn’t react at first, chewing silently until its eyes light up with a mischievous glint Lear has come to expect, but dread nonetheless. lt was already too late for him to intervene, so instead he braces himself for another one of its antics and leans back in his chair. Trying to seem unbothered, Lear takes a large sip of his drink, closing his eyes as he hears the sound of portals being opened around him. He’s used to its shenanigans by now, anyway. Nothing could—

“Um, Lear?”

His eyes snap open as he chokes on his coffee, slamming his cup onto the table as he bursts into a coughing fit. Between the tears blurring his vision and his frantic spluttering, he’s able to catch a glimpse of what happened, affirming his worst fears. Right then and there, Hoopa’s buffoonery managed to escalate from childish to hazardous. Ugh.

“Uh, you okay?” He hears footsteps behind him and then feels a hand against his back, rubbing gently in a foolish attempt to calm him down. Really, it only made him cough harder, scowling at the spit drying on the fabric of his sleeve. Disgusting. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been that surprised to see me before.”

It took a few more painfully slow moments of practically hacking up his lungs before he could take a deep breath and relax. He finally looked up, silently praying that nobody had paid too much attention to them. “What are you doing here?” he huffs, knowing exactly why and at this point why did he even bother asking the question. “Were you just hoping I’d find you here by coincidence?”

“Well, not exactly.” Cheren sits back down in the seat across from him, offering him a few napkins with a wry smile. Lear takes them immediately, scrubbing furiously at the stain that was now drying at an increasingly disturbing rate. “I was actually hoping you’d know. I mean, Hoopa’s the one who brought me here, and seeing as you’re its trainer, I’d assume that you played at least some part in this.” After a beat, Cheren stops pressing him, seemingly finding it futile if he wasn’t going to answer. “...You need help over there?”

Lear is, quite frankly, extremely aware of Cheren’s attempts at conversation. He was just ignoring him—or trying to, occasionally letting his eyes flick to Cheren’s face before focusing pointedly on his sleeve again. Prickling shame curls along his neck, especially with Cheren’s attention wholeheartedly on him, and he reminds himself not to flee right then and there.

After a long stretch of silence, Lear clears his throat and straightens in his seat. Since Hoopa decided to summon him here, he might as well grace him with a conversation or two. “Well,” he coughs a few more times for good measure, “please disregard all of that. It was unbecoming of a future king like myself to act that way! Therefore, I expect you never to bring it up.” He coughs, again. “Ever.”

He tried not to look at Cheren too much, but apparently his eyes found every movement he made worth cataloging. He watches as Cheren laughs and wipes down the table, cleaning up some spilled coffee that Lear hadn’t noticed. “Don’t worry about it. Anyone would be shocked if their Pokemon did something like that so suddenly.” His stare turned inquisitive, and Lear instinctively fumbles for his coffee cup. Maybe he can avoid the question if he’s fast enough... “Why did Hoopa do that, anyway?”

Too late. “Ignore it,” he snaps, foot tapping insistently against the floor as an outlet for his growing frustration. “My mischievous partner is simply playing tricks on me again. Although, I’m shocked it had the nerve to involve you this time." Meanwhile, Hoopa seems overjoyed at what it’s accomplished, hanging around Cheren and clinging to him as if his company was any better than his own. Which was a foolish thought in itself, honestly! “Still, I suppose it’s done something praiseworthy. You must be happy to bask in my presence, right?”

“You could say that,” and again with the annoying roundabout responses, Lear avoiding his eyes as he subconsciously reaches into the box for another donut. “It’s nice to see you again, though, I’ll admit. It’s been a while.”

“Indeed.” He felt tense, as if any second he wasn’t speaking was filled with unbearable, awkward silence. Despite that actually being far from the case—the air was filled with the sounds of people talking amongst themselves, machines whirring to add syrups and espresso and who knows what else—sitting and talking to Cheren, one-on-one made it feel that way. It was much too different for his liking, and to make matters worse, he had no idea why it was happening. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

“I could say the same to you,” and as Cheren speaks he appraises him, nodding at him approvingly. For some reason, that gesture makes Lear flush, and knowing that brings on a new wave of confusion. “Honestly, I feel like you only come out of your office for publicity reasons or food, which is understandable.” He nearly comes up with a sharp retort to defend himself at that, but lets it die on his tongue because, admittedly, he was partly correct. “I guess even a workaholic like you can get out of your office for coffee this good, huh.”

“I find it rather hypocritical of you to call me out on being a workaholic,” Lear huffs. “...And well, it is one of my duties as founder of Pasio to ensure that its products are top quality. Technically I’m still working.” He shifts in his seat, unnaturally antsy for somebody as capable as him. “Though I could just have coffee brought to my door, admiring an island full of my accomplishments is always nice.”

“That right there proves my point.” Cheren hums in response as he takes a sip of his coffee, steam wafting out of the lid and dancing across his jaw. Lear’s eyes can’t help but follow its path, allowing it until they settle on his lips for a moment too long and he has to force himself to look away. His face grows hot instantly and he resists the temptation to press his cold drink against his face, frowning. That would look insanely stupid.

He’s snapped out of this thought process when Cheren’s voice cuts in and interrupts, a hint of curiosity in his tone. “You always seem so busy, Lear.”

Lear scoffs in reply. Such an astute observation from Cheren, as usual. “That’s because I am. Running an entire island is much more difficult than people give me credit for, you know. They should be more grateful!”

Cheren smiles at him, lips trembling slightly as if he’s said something funny, and although it’s such a small, inconsequential gesture, Lear’s knee begins bouncing from under the table, suddenly jittery. What in the world is happening? “You know, there are actually many people who I’ve heard praise you for your work. Just... not to your face.” 

He rolls his eyes at the idea. Of course they do, it is him they’re talking about, but what’s the point of complimenting him if he’s not around to hear? “Well, if they knew better they would do so!”

After a quiet laugh, Cheren refocuses his attention towards the box on the table, leaning forward to get a closer look at its contents. “Donuts for Hoopa, I’m guessing?”

Lear grins, drumming his fingers on the table. “That’s right. If you ask politely you might be allowed to have one.”

Cheren raises an eyebrow at him, skeptical before shaking his head and giving in. “Alright then, if you insist...”

Lear’s expression goes from smug to shocked in a split second when Cheren turns to Hoopa, not him. Ridiculous, really! “May I please have one?”

And of course, Hoopa has to agree, rather enthusiastically too as it pushes his hand towards the re-opened box. To be honest, Lear had planned on taking that last one, but he supposes he could be gracious enough to put others before himself this time. Not only that, but another lecture from Cheren about “being selfless” was not what he had in mind for the day. 

Perhaps his disappointment was coming off of him in waves, however, because Cheren had caught his gaze and tilts his head, somehow concerned for him. Why does he always have to fuss over the small details? Lear thinks sourly. He would be much more tolerable if he let some things go unnoticed. “Do you want a piece or...?”

“Or what?” Lear snaps, sighing dramatically and loudly enough that Cheren should know to leave him alone. “I wouldn’t bother fighting you over a dessert, of all things. It’s none of your concern, anyway, so just eat it.” It still stood that under any other circumstance, he would most definitely fight him for it, but he had suffered enough humiliation in the last hour to know better. “It’s not like I care.”

“You’re acting awfully defensive over some food,” Cheren laughs, and Lear glares at him for his accusatory words. Of course Cheren insists on continuing this conversation, he’s practically as stubborn as he is! Which is rather admirable, in itself... “Though you usually are, to be fair. Do you want to share it instead? I don’t mind.”

What? Lear sputters and nearly chokes again at the suggestion—no, at everything he said, really. The audacity to call him defensive! After multiple attempts to steady himself and speak up, he finally succeeds and crosses his arms, trying to push away the sides of him that weren’t immediately telling him to refuse. “What did I tell you? I’m not going to force myself to share with you,” and he scoffs angrily, at this point only refusing out of pride. That’s what he was feeling, right? After all, the warmth inching up his neck had returned with a vengeance, and he was trying his best to swat it away somehow (and failing miserably).

Cheren smiles, somehow all too aware of his weakness for sweets, and waves it teasingly in his face. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Because, just to let you know—this donut is really good.” To emphasize this (and be extremely obnoxious in the process, Lear thinks with a frown), Cheren takes another bite. 

In that instant, what’s left of Lear’s dignity shatters before his eyes. 

With the heat on his face clear as day, he thrusts his hand out. “Okay! Fine. Since you’re begging to split it with me, I might as well accept. But this doesn’t mean I actually wanted a piece,” he adds, not wanting Cheren to get the wrong impression of him, “I’m simply taking pity on you so you stop being so pushy.”

“Sure,” Cheren says, a hint of smug triumph in his voice as he passes him the donut. All this hassle over a single dessert. 

As he grabs a napkin to hold it with, Cheren continues speaking. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you should really be more open with others. I mean, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“I should be the one telling you that,” the prince replies, offended. “You have some serious nerve, pinning this little debacle on me. Who was the one pushing me to eat this?”

“Do you want me to take it back?”

Lear hesitates, considering for a long moment before wringing his head. “No.”

“Alright.” Cheren kept talking, unaware of the current crisis Lear had put himself in. “Plus, I had seen you glaring daggers at me as I took it out of the box. I wasn’t sure if you were going to ask, but then I figured, knowing you, probably not, so—” He looks up, finally, and pauses. “Lear? You... you good?”

“You bit it already,” Lear tells him, practically frozen. Does he expect me to eat this when he’d already—isn’t that—?

Cheren sits there, confused. “...Yeah.”

How does he not see the problem here? “Isn’t that—er...unsanitary?” He settles on that, not wanting to admit what he was really thinking—wouldn’t that be considered a kiss? And wouldn’t that be inappropriate?— Lear didn’t want to think too hard about the implications that came with Cheren casually handing it over, as if this wasn’t a big deal. Which it was a big deal! Was he the only one who thought it was a big deal?

Apparently the answer to that question was yes, because it takes another frustratingly long second until a flicker of realization passes over Cheren’s face, his eyes widening. “Oh! It hadn’t crossed my mind, uh, sorry about that." He holds out his hand, expectant. "I can just rip off a piece for you instead?”

Lear immediately opens his mouth to agree, but something in the back of his mind stops him. A faint sense of dread swells inside him, as if he would regret not doing this. And why was that? Surely he didn’t—surely he didn’t want to... 

The thought hits him like a train crashing into his skull, and his skin warms considerably, feeling like he could spontaneously combust at the idea of kissing Cheren. “I-I don’t care!” he shouts, slamming his hand onto the table without warning. It was loud enough that now the people around them are staring, and for a moment Lear wonders why people can never act decently and mind their own business. “I’ll take it,” he continues, at a considerably lower volume, “it was—it was just an observation, obviously, that’s all.”

Cheren raises an eyebrow, eyes full of doubt. “Are you sure—”

“Yes,” he hisses, free hand now gripping the table. “I don’t stress over such trivial things. In fact, for a prince like me, this is nothing! To be bothered about something so insignificant is a sign of weakness!” Still in shambles over his overactive imagination, he laughs haughtily and eats some of the dessert. 

“Was that worth it?” Cheren asks, watching his expression with a face Lear can only describe as soft. His heart stutters in his chest, and without thinking he takes another large bite, trying not to answer. “Okay, wait, sharing means I get that back. I actually want some, don’t eat too much of it.”

After a bit of consideration, Lear finally gives it back to Cheren, crossing his arms. “I know what sharing means,” he mumbles, grabbing his drink and successfully draining it of its remaining contents. “I assume you’re satisfied now?”

“Mhm.” Cheren reaches out and pats Hoopa on its head as it passes him by, letting out a hum at the happy response he receives. “Sorry for being such a bother. I just knew that you wouldn’t say anything unless I pushed you to.”

Lear is about to accept his apology with a remarkable amount of grace, but the thought dies on his tongue for some reason. In any other situation he would do exactly that without pause, but now he waits a second, thoughtful. He wasn’t exactly mad about it, and the art of being appreciative wasn’t lost on him. So with a deep breath and a turn of his head in order to pointedly avoid Cheren’s eyes, he says, quietly, “It’s fine.” Then, under his breath, even quieter, “thank you.”

“Oh?” He can hear tell Cheren’s grinning without even looking at him, and despite everything that’s happened today, Lear still has it in him to feel embarrassed at that too. “Is that a bit of gratitude I hear?”

“Think nothing of it,” he grumbles, with half a mind to melt into his seat. Maybe then he could be spared from the agony that was this insufferable warmth in his chest. “I’m just giving credit where credit’s due, that’s all!”

“Well it’s noted and appreciated.” He hears the slide of a chair against tile, and his head snaps back in his direction to stare. Cheren is standing up, and on instinct Lear follows suit, although it did feel somewhat awkward doing so, his arms stiffly glued to his sides. “Hey, I’m glad I got to see you again, but I should probably go. We could plan to hang out some other time, though?” 

His hand slides into the junction between his jaw and his shoulder, cupping his neck and absently leaning into his own touch. Lear doesn’t let himself ignore the motion, watching with some sort of strange fascination. Cheren continues, unaware of this. “It’s really nice to see you, and I mean, talking to you is always a pleasure. If you need anything you always have my number, so just call me.”

“W-Will do!” He tries to ignore his embarrassing voice crack and stands up straighter, only to tense back up at a hand on his shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks warily, eyes narrowed.

“Just thinking you should relax a little,” Cheren laughs, and Lear scoffs because he is and nothing that has transpired in the last hour has changed that fact, certainly. “I know that may be difficult for you but there’s nothing to get so worked up about.”

The warmth is gone as quickly as it arrives, and Lear oddly feels himself missing it. “Nothing’s ever difficult for me,” he huffs, “and I know that. If I require your presence I’ll contact you.” He hesitates, reluctant, before murmuring, “It was nice to see you, Cheren.”

Then, because the world just couldn’t get enough of watching him fumble like a fool, he stiffly reaches out his arm and pats Cheren on the shoulder.

Alright. That was strange, but surely they’ll both forget about this soon enough and it will all be nothing more than a faint, terrible memory. Hoopa watches them giddily and Lear wonders why. Shouldn’t Cheren be leaving by now? “Well? Don’t you have other matters to attend to?”

A pink flush creeps along the other man’s cheeks, and Lear once again tries to understand the reason—that is, until a hand is grabbing his own and his face suddenly mirrors Cheren’s perfectly. “I would, but you’re kinda holding onto me here.” He gently pulls at Lear’s hand, which has, he realizes in horror, a rather tight grip on Cheren's arm. “I know you like talking to me but—”

“I never said that!” Lear exclaims, retracting his hand like it was seared by a hot iron. Wiping it on his coat, he takes a step backward and nearly trips in his desperation to get away. “Forget about that. That was—it, it didn’t even happen! Don’t tell anybody about this!”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and scans the room for an exit (making a point to look everywhere but at Cheren), staring right past him and making a beeline for the door. “Looks like I also have to go,” he says hurriedly. “It’s so sudden, I know, but it's very important— business emergency—no time to waste!"

He hears Cheren’s voice behind him, a hint of concern in his voice. “We can walk back together if you want—”

“No, no, we’re going in opposite directions anyway!” He snaps his fingers, and Hoopa appears at his side, giggling as if something about this horrendous scene is funny somehow. “Come on, Hoopa! We're leaving.”

As he shoves the door open and makes his way onto the street, he barely restrains himself from screaming right then and there. What is wrong with him? Everytime this completely mediocre man so much as looks at him his face grows to unseemly temperatures. And now he couldn’t stop making a fool out of himself! Is it possible that he could be constantly flustered around him because he... he...

The mere idea of him liking Cheren in that way made Lear’s stomach curl in on itself, and the sudden urge to yell returned. Was it even possible that he would—would stoop so low for a commoner?

He covers his face in his hands and lets out a groan, the world crashing down around him. His days off always ended up like this.

Chapter Text

“You should come over.”

Lear, stunned by Cheren’s sudden offer, sits up so fast that his head bangs against the headboard of his bed. “Why?” he asks incredulously, holding his phone at arm’s length as if the dramatics could help him avoid this conversation. “I don’t—I mean,” Lear pauses and takes a breath, “you know yourself that I am a very busy man.” He clears his throat and grimaces, soothing the back of his head with his hand. “I can’t simply drop everything to do nothing with you.”

“It’s a passing thought,” Cheren responds. “In case you wanted to hang out. And we wouldn't be doing nothing, you know.”

Lear clicks his tongue. “Nothing productive.”

Cheren’s unfazed by his point, not missing a beat as he answers. “That’s the point. We all need breaks sometimes, you especially. We could bake,” Cheren adds quickly, effectively interrupting Lear before he could make any snide comments. “You’d enjoy that, I’m guessing.”

The idea instantly piques his interest, and Lear is momentarily taken aback at how easily he’s swayed towards the thought. “I’m offended that you think you can lure me using food,” he huffs, although he can’t deny that it really is rather...picturesque. And to do it alone with Cheren is...

He allows himself to imagine it for a few seconds before snapping back to reality with a harsh jolt, reminding himself with a frown that he’s still on call with the person he has very...well, complicated feelings about. “Why so suddenly, anyway?” Cheren inviting him over to his apartment wasn’t exactly a normal occurrence, after all. “And right now? Isn’t that a little too last-minute?”

“I know, I know,” and he hears the crackle of laughter from the other line along with some faint shuffling. “It’s just, I thought we could both use some cooldown time. Is it surprising to hear that I want to see you again?”

Despite how casually it was said, the connotation behind Cheren’s words were enough to make any and all of Lear’s thoughts derail immediately. “You...” He trails off, heat rushing to his face. “You do?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Cheren asks, as if it’s the simplest question in the world, and without realizing Lear’s breath catches in his throat, and all of a sudden he feels like he’s going to pass out from the way his head spins a bit.

Before he can get even more lightheaded, he shakes himself—well, this should be expected, he’s spectacular so why doesn’t everybody appreciate him this way—and takes a moment to collect himself. “True,” he responds, sighing to fill the silence, “I mean, of course you do! I suppose I’m just too brilliant for you to contain your adoration.” He smirks. “For that, I suppose I can honor your offer and humbly accept your invitation.”

“I’m glad somebody’s in a good mood. You good to go for today?”

Lear makes a sound of agreement before he starts combing through his hair, taking his phone with him as he makes his way towards the full-length mirror. “Baking seems easy enough. With my help, they’ll be the greatest desserts in all of creation!”

Cheren laughs. “At least one of us is confident.” 

As he continues talking, Lear looks himself up and down, groaning internally at the disheveled state of his... ah, everything, really. Not only is his shirt crumpled in a multitude of places, but his hair is in such a distressing state it makes him scowl instinctively upon seeing it. Absently, he wonders how much time it will take to fix all of it, accidentally tuning out Cheren in the process.

A little louder now, the man in question addresses him again, tone almost nervous. “Lear, I hope you know this, but I don’t really bake much. You sure you’re up for this? I’m not completely sure if my and your skills combined will meet your impossibly high standards.” He chuckles before adding, “Then again I don’t really know anybody who could.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Lear huffs, pointedly ignoring his teasing comments. “I’ll be a natural. As long as you follow my lead everything should be fine!”

There’s a brief pause before he hears Cheren’s hitched, sharp inhale. “You’ve never baked before, have you?”

“...No.” He sets a carefully curated outfit onto his bed and messes with his hair one last time in the mirror, flashing himself a small smirk before turning away. “Though like I said, Cheren, I’ll be a natural. It’s simply following instructions, right? So there’s clearly no problem.” 

“Well...” Cheren is silent for a moment before he speaks again, seemingly considering his words. “If you insist, then alright. I’ll take your word for it.”

—

It takes longer than Lear had hoped, but eventually he’s out of his manor and in front of Cheren’s apartment. He carefully runs his fingers over his hair and clothes, a last-minute check to ensure everything is in top shape before knocking on the door. “Hello?”

“It’s unlocked,” a muffled voice replies, and once prompted Lear lets himself in, shutting the door behind him. “Come in, I’ve got some of the stuff laid out already—we’re making cookies, I hope that’s fine?”

“Perfect,” and despite himself Lear can’t bite back a smile, can’t push away the idea that he’s actually excited about this. He tugs his jacket off as he considers the incredulity of it all, in disbelief that the unnatural thrum in his veins, the suffocating sound of his heartbeat is all thanks to a single person— Cheren , more specifically. That realization alone makes Lear even more desperate to get his stuffy overcoat off and onto the nearby rack, rubbing his shoulders gently once he hangs it up.

“We can start whenever,” Cheren calls out, and Lear nods absently, taking his gloves off and placing them neatly inside one of his coat pockets. “Just come over to the kitchen counter when you’re ready.”

Once Lear is standing next to him, Cheren gives him a fond smile, and something inside him aches. In the back of his mind, Lear wishes it’s heartburn or another kind of condition that can actually be cured, and clears his throat to relieve himself of the alleged symptoms, to no avail. Bowls, ingredients, and measuring tools are haphazardly strewn all over the table, and at the mess Lear sends Cheren an irritated look. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“You’re one to talk,” Cheren responds, shooting him a teasing grin that makes Lear’s face all too warm for his liking. “For someone who talked so big over the phone you’re not sure what to do now, are you?”

Refusing to confirm nor deny his words, Lear turns away with a dramatic scoff. “Well, it’s hard to lead someone like you —hey! What are you—why are you touching me?” His shoulders jerk when Cheren’s hand suddenly curls around his wrist, pulling them just a little bit closer. “Did I give you permission to?”

“Do I need it?” Cheren asks playfully, knocking their shoulders together and making Lear tense up at the contact. “C’mon, lighten up. As long as we don’t burn my kitchen down you can relax and just have fun. That’s what today is about, isn’t it?”

“F-For you, maybe.” Lear feigns disinterest before chancing a hopefully inconspicuous look Cheren’s way, only feeling his face grow hotter at the way his gaze is easily met. After that the other man dares to walk closer, tilting his head until he’s in Lear’s peripheral vision. “I’m mainly in this for the cookies!” he exclaims, pointedly avoiding his eyes. “Having fun is trivial. I don’t understand why you think I’d be having fun with you.”

“Mhm, whatever you say,” and when Cheren lets go a moment after, there’s a strange pang of something in his chest that makes Lear want to slam his head into the counter. “You can start by measuring out the dry ingredients, I’ll work the mixer for a bit.”

Lear rolls his eyes at the nerve Cheren has to order him around. “A prince should not be doing such menial tasks, but…” Lear sighs, tone lacking any real bite to it, “...since you are treating me today I can do you this favor.” 

He grabs the recipe off the table as Cheren thanks him and the whirring of the hand mixer begins. Baking soda, salt, and flour. Lear drowns out the sound with his own thoughts, only half-focused on measuring out the ingredients given to him. Cheren was nicer to him than most people, so what? If someone as great as himself could be swayed by such simple gestures then the world would be much messier than it already is. 

He closely inspects the measuring tools as he thinks over the matter again, worrying his bottom lip. It’d be absurd to settle for Cheren, anyway. There are probably many others out there much more suitable to his status, fitting of his admittedly high standards. And Cheren—instead of challenging or matching him in power, rank or anything else that could be discernible in the least—drags him along to spend frivolous time together, to waste days in leisure and contentment. It was impressive in its incredulity, but nothing else.

Although… 

He abandons his task briefly to watch Cheren again; how his eyes narrow in concentration, how he so readily focuses on what he’s doing. The change of pace with him is, as much as he hates to admit it, a relief. A sense of domesticity in his life once in a while is pleasant—if nothing else, he can admit that much. Somewhere along the way of their developing… companionship, Lear had unknowingly allowed himself to relax in his presence. Besides, to say that the other man didn’t complement his genius on occasion would be a lie, and he knew it. But to truly acknowledge all of this couldn’t possibly mean anything more than a feeling of grudging respect, right? It was nothing more, surely, and with that half-hearted resignation he returns to measuring. 

It isn’t long until he’s abruptly whisked out of his reverie by Cheren himself—or rather, by the sound of the mixer he’s using. It hums to a stop and suddenly there’s attention on him again, a pair of eyes staring intently as he folds the ingredients into one another. He tries not to notice, but fails miserably, and eventually stops pretending not to. “What’s with the staring?” he snaps, grumbling as he pats the bowl’s contents down aggressively. “Don’t you have your own duties to attend to?”

“I’m waiting for you,” Cheren answers simply, cocking his head. “We have to mix the ingredients together now.” Then, he smiles, an odd expression on his face. “Besides, you started it.”

“What?”

“I’m not dumb.” Cheren moves next to him and nudges his shoulder. “I know you were looking at me. You should really be focusing on what you’re doing instead of telling me off.”

Lear wills his jaw not to drop and shatter on the floor at that moment. “You—! No, I wasn’t ,” he lies, shoving the bowl he’s using into Cheren’s outstretched hands. “Just take this and move on with it, before I get bored.”

“Or,” Cheren starts, placing the two bowls beside one another as he speaks, “you could try the mixer.” He chuckles to himself. “It is kind of a challenge to use at first, though.”

“A challenge?” Lear narrows his eyes, sizing it up. It was unassuming and plain, and Cheren seemed to have no problem using it, so what trouble could it possibly cause for him? He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “Hardly seems like it, considering who you’re talking to. How hard could it be?”

Lear feels a twinge of suspicion in his gut at the way Cheren describes it, yet quickly dismisses the feeling once Cheren smiles at him again, all passive and soft. That awkward, yet pleasant warmth in his chest returns, and Lear wants it to prickle inside of him, wants a reason to be upset at its presence. No such wish is granted, and he drives the unnecessary thought away with a hefty sigh. “No matter, then. Hand it over, Cheren. You just sit back!”

“Tell me if you need any help,” Cheren says—not unkindly, yet Lear can’t quite tell if he’s serious or if that was an obvious jab towards his inexperience. “That thing can get seriously difficult sometimes.”

“You underestimate me,” Lear scoffs, as he pours part of the dry ingredients into the other bowl. “How incapable do you think I am?”

The other man huffs breathlessly, leaning his arms onto the counter. “Believe me, it’s not that I question your capability. I just remember the first time I used it, and…well, it takes a while to get used to, is all.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Lear sighs, grabbing the mixer and weighing it in his hands. It’s heavier than he expected, but that’s still no big deal, as it’s not like he was, in any sense of the word, weak. Though he wasn’t exactly Sawyer levels of strong… “Are you just trying to scare me now?”

“A little bit,” Cheren replies, and Lear rolls his eyes, devoid of the annoyance he had wanted to convey. “Honestly, as long as you maintain a strong grip you should be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Of course he would say that. Lear can’t tell if he’s more irritated at the obvious goading or appreciative of the reassurance. “A direct contradiction to what you were saying a moment ago, but I’ll take your word for it.”

He’s about to turn it on, but he hesitates and wordlessly looks to Cheren one last time, thumb hovering over the switch. Cheren just smiles at him, as he always does, and Lear’s hands go weak, nearly dropping the mixer. He sharply reminds himself to calm down and tightens his grip on it, arms tense. “I’m here if you need anything,” Cheren says, “just putting some ingredients away is all. Add the other stuff in a bit at a time.” 

“...Alright.” With a slow nod, he finally turns it on. How hard could it possibly be?

He regrets his words immediately.

One moment the mixer is safely in his grasp, and the next it nearly flies out of his hand. What the—! With a start and a shriek, he flails in order to retain his grip on it, realizing with rapidly growing horror just how quickly it was slipping out of his control. The bowl shakes with the force he’s exerting on it, and he barely picks up on Cheren shifting from his spot in the pantry. “You good?” he hears him say (faintly, although at this point he finds it a miracle he can hear anything over this grating noise), and Lear wants to say, more than anything, no.

“Of course I am!” he responds, meanwhile finding his attempts to guide the mixer ultimately hopeless . Flour flies out of the bowl and he tries not to cough, instead silently choking on his own breath, ultimately letting go of the bowl to instead stabilize the tool with both hands. It only takes a moment for him to realize his newest mistake, only struggling twice as much now in order to keep the rest of the dough inside the bowl, finding it a balancing act to keep it from toppling over. 

He doesn’t register the footsteps from behind him—or anything else, for that matter, not until there’s arms around him and a warm hand steadying his own. In a single moment, he’s suddenly aware of all the ways Cheren is touching him, nearly letting out a gasp when his back hits his chest. Just how close are we…! “W-What are you—wha—”

“What are you doing?” Cheren exclaims, grabbing the bowl and squeezing Lear’s hand tighter. There’s a mess all over the counter now, and Cheren’s lips are so close to his ear, and Lear wants to collapse on the spot and force him to sign an NDA so they never have to speak of this incident again. “I thought you said you had it under control!”

With Cheren’s body slightly pressed against his, Lear loses all hope of a strong grip, silently grateful that Cheren doesn’t notice the way his hands go slack. Why is he so affected by Cheren’s sudden appearance? It must be the embarrassment of having a witness to his failure, right? (It would also explain why his skin wouldn’t stop burning in every place he touched.) 

Contrary to the havoc it was wreaking not even a minute ago, the mixer moves smoothly under Cheren’s control, effortlessly clockwise and an utterly embarrassing sight for Lear. “I needed more time is all,” he grumbles, a blatant lie, of which he didn’t even see the point of saying anymore. He tries to move as far away from Cheren as possible—which is, unfortunately, not very far at all. “I don’t know why you found it necessary to interfere.”

“I don’t think I need to explain myself.” Cheren gestures vaguely to the table in all its chaos, and Lear grimaces. “For a manager of an entire island I’m surprised you see that as control.” His voice grows softer, and Lear feels his heart lurch. “If you needed help you should’ve just told me.”

Lear pretends not to feel the way Cheren squeezes his hand again, turning away and letting out a sigh. “I don’t know why you insist on… caging me in and touching me,” he huffs, expertly dodging the reassurance, not wanting to admit that maybe he did want his help, especially not to his face. The heat prickling on his skin spikes when Cheren shifts from behind him, unconsciously pushing him into the counter ever so slightly. “I don’t need your help.”

Cheren leans in, breath ghosting his skin, and Lear finds that his head is spinning. “Would you like me to let go?”

He considers this briefly—thinks about what would happen if Cheren walked off, left to his own devices, and sighs before shaking his head; the most he could do as a response with his throat so dry. It takes a moment before he registers the potential implications of his refusal and sputters. “To be clear, I’m agreeing to this for a single reason! Who would want another person touching them anyway? I’m just ensuring that nothing like that happens again.”

“Okay,” Cheren laughs, so clearly unconvinced, turning the mixer off and detaching himself from him once everything seems stable. And of course, because Lear can never have any understandable emotions, he misses the feeling, shoulders sagging slightly at the loss of warmth. “I didn't say anything, but okay.” He turns back to Lear, as if what just transpired was the most typical scenario in the world, and rests an elbow on the counter. “Do you need me to take over?”

“No,” Lear frowns, crossing his arms. “As if I would ever fall back on your aid. It just… caught me off guard, that’s all. I wasn’t aware your mixer was so defective.” When Cheren smothers another laugh from behind his hand, Lear feels an odd pang in his chest, a sense of longing in wanting to hear that laugh in full. Frustrated, he shoos the thought away, scoffing loudly. “I’ll be fine, Cheren. Now go away, lest I ruin your counter on purpose.”

“I’ll be looking over my shoulder,” Cheren teases as he walks back to the pantry, with Lear blatantly ignoring his gaze as he pours some more mix into the other bowl. “In case you decide to let go of anything again.”

“Be quiet,” Lear groans, much to Cheren’s clear amusement. He hoists the mixer back upright and chooses to disregard everything that he’s unwillingly felt over the last few minutes, because surely that was the end of it all. Surely after this he could go home and not consider any of it, because none of it was worth even a moment of his time.

Despite this, his bothersome thoughts linger, finding himself unable to forget about any of it as he continues with the rest of the recipe. The mixer is much easier to use now that he knows what to expect, but Cheren’s… intimate methods of assistance have been seared into his mind. To make matters worse, every trace of physical contact is now enough to send his mind spiraling downward, even moments as inconsequential as their fingers brushing while shaping cookie dough.

By the time the first batch is placed in the oven, Lear’s mind is at war, caught up in the specifics of how to navigate his thoughts. With Cheren around, everything’s a jumble, and he hates the feeling almost as much as the fact that he has no way of finding out why. Ugh! Why did things about him have to be so complicated? What about Cheren makes him complicated?

With a groan, he holds his head in his hands, not gone unnoticed by Cheren. “You okay?” he asks, and a hand stretches across his back in an attempt to comfort him (for which it does anything but). Under his touch, Lear tenses up further and hides his face, making Cheren laugh. “What’s going on?” he says, sounding almost concerned. “You’re not usually this shy.”

It’s at the word shy that Lear jolts back to life. “How in the world did you get that impression?” he shouts, shooting up from his chair. “I’m just, um, disconcerted is all!”

“Disconcerted,” Cheren echoes, with a smile that Lear assumes is not one of understanding. “Why might that be?”

“Because of your mixer,” and sure, although he just supplied the first thing that came to mind, his words did have truth in it, he’ll admit. “I can’t believe you still use that!”

“It’s not that bad,” and as he talks, Cheren’s already moved away to clean up again, placing baking utensils and empty bowls in the sink. He places a hand on the mixer in a way that screams—to Lear, at least—misplaced fondness. “It still works, so no use in getting rid of it.”

Lear rolls his eyes and busies himself with his surroundings, passing Cheren the rest of the ingredients from across the table. “Oh, please, that’s nothing more than the bare minimum. I could practically feel it falling apart in my hands.” After a beat, he pauses and considers doing Cheren a rather generous favor—out of the good of his heart, and most definitely not because that mixer gives him unparalleled shame to look at. “If you aren’t too attached to it, I suppose I could provide you with a replacement.”

Cheren pauses at the offer, caught off guard. “You don’t have to do that,” he replies, glancing his way with a small frown. “I mean, sure, it isn’t exactly in pristine condition, but there’s no need to replace it.”

Lear scoffs and follows him to the other side of the table, a hand on his hip. “You shouldn’t own something so shabby, Cheren. It’s a blight on your apartment, and I insist that you allow me to dispose of it.” 

“...If it bothers you that much then I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” Cheren answers after a beat, having moved on to wiping down the countertop—a motion which Lear mirrors, desperate to remove any trace of the incident as soon as possible. “Just don’t go for something super expensive or fancy like you usually would, alright? Having something I barely use as the fanciest thing I own would just be disappointing.” He turns to Lear, grinning. “I would say I’m surprised that you’re so invested in what I own, but I think I understand why you’d want to get rid of that, specifically. I mean, you didn’t have the easiest time with it…”

“It’s not about that!” Lear snaps. When Cheren gives him a skeptical look, he falters just a bit. “...Not the only reason, but no matter. I guess I would simply like to return the favor.”

Cheren’s expression changes from one of curiosity to confusion, although he isn’t the only one—Lear is just as shocked at his own words, if not more so. “For what?”

It’s a question that, truthfully, Lear couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. “It’s nothing!” he splutters, “forget I said anything! Rather , you should be grateful to me for providing my aid today!” He laughs haughtily, to which Cheren smiles , fondly at that—an expression that he is not used to, and most likely never will be. “I’ll just buy you a new one. No more questions!” 

“Okay, okay. You win.” Cheren washes his hands in the sink before turning to Lear, some form of affection lingering on his face when he looks at him, some warmth bleeding into his cheeks as their eyes meet. He laughs to himself a little before looking away, the beginning of another teasing smile on his lips. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”

Lear raises an eyebrow at his roundabout statement, taking a step forward and crossing his arms. “I’m already bothered by your choice of words,” he huffs. “Just say it. Surely this isn’t still about earlier?”

“It’s related,” Cheren murmurs under his breath, scratching the back of his neck lightly. “You kind of got flour all over you earlier.” He pauses and lets his eyes wander for a moment—an action that Lear’s brain latches onto without thinking, heat simmering under his skin at the attention. “There’s a lot.”

Lear blinks. And then, stunned, he blinks again—slower, this time. What?

Silently, he looks down and pulls at his shirt experimentally, only to be appalled upon the confirmation that indeed, his shirt is completely dusted with flour. He lets it snap back against his skin and jumps back, spluttering. “I—! Cheren, you—why didn’t you tell me the instant you noticed?!”

He’s tempted to take it off right there and then, but that’s its own problem; the idea of unbuttoning anything with Cheren watching is enough to make him sweat through his shirt, which would truthfully only make him feel (and probably look, too) worse than he already does. “This looks awful! Why, Cheren, how in the world did you manage a whole conversation with me without saying anything?” He continues to complain, and loudly at that, finding it easier to do so as he prickles under his clothing.

Cheren is silent for a few moments, lost in thought before his eyes widen, almost unnoticeably so. Lear notes how his face turns a bit red—a feeling that he understands all too well—hesitant before he suggests, “Do you need to borrow something? I mean,” he laughs awkwardly, “if you’re okay with it, if you would like to?”

Everything halts in Lear’s mind, and as if he doesn’t feel foolish enough already, Cheren gives him a small smile. In that moment, there’s only one clear thought in his head, something too embarrassing to admit aloud. “L… Like to?” he echoes dumbly, asking the question as if he doesn’t already know the answer. Immediately, he looks away, eyes boring holes into the wall right behind Cheren, just out of reach from his gaze. “I-I mean, it’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had, and after all, it is your mixer that did this to me.” He crosses his arms and huffs. “I suppose it’s only right, then.” 

He’s not sure why he’s stammering so much, nor why the both of them are dancing around the subject like grade schoolers. In fact, the least he could do is simply accept the offer with elegance! He’s certainly capable of ignoring the fact that parading around wearing the other man’s clothes is nothing short of outlandish (as long as he doesn’t think about it any more than is strictly necessary). “It’s only right,” he repeats, more so to himself, and looks back up, where Cheren has already been staring. “Go on, then.”

The way he says it is lacking in his usual bravado—then again, how is it possible to have any semblance of pride when asking for something like this— and Cheren shifts from where he stands, nodding. “I’ll go get one,” he responds softly, disappearing behind a door only a moment later and leaving Lear alone. 

It only takes a minute or two of what could only be described as suffocating silence before he comes back into the living room and passes Lear a loose, gray sweater, folded neatly in his arms. “Here,” he murmurs, gentle in every way possible, their hands brushing, so, so close. Lear takes a shallow breath.

He carefully avoids his eyes, immediately stepping back and slipping it over his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. It fits him better than he initially thought it would—his arms feel ever so slightly drowned, but the rest is much more comfortable. Silently, he relishes the way he feels in it. “I suppose some thanks are in order,” he mumbles, seeking both confirmation and elaboration. What do I do about you?

Cheren stops him from saying anything more when he steps forward, hand now curled around his wrist. “Don’t thank me yet,” is all he says, vague as always, and when he doesn’t let go, Lear’s breath hitches at how the touch brands his skin.

Cheren reaches out towards him, and instinctively, he moves to stop him, only cutting himself off once there’s a hand lifting his chin, frozen almost in consideration before Lear feels a gentle press against his cheek. The pad of Cheren’s thumb grazes the corner of his mouth, and suddenly there is nothing else that he can think about, not when there’s fingertips pressing into the warmth of his skin, not when the feeling is hot and searing and overwhelming all at once.

He goes rigid, a hand now on the counter to steady himself, the other suspended mid-air. With that foolish and painfully oblivious expression, Cheren swipes raw dough off of his cheek, smiling passively as if they weren’t obscenely close. How Lear hadn’t noticed it before is beyond him, but currently he finds himself too caught up in keeping himself upright to care. “There was some on your face,” Cheren says conversationally, as if this could be any other discussion on any other day. If it was, though, then maybe Lear wouldn’t feel like evaporating on the spot. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice it.”

Lear wants to turn away; well, he’s trying to convince himself of that, but truthfully he’s unable to move at all, stuck between where exactly to go—tantalizingly closer or further away. “Personal space,” he mutters, dumbly, as if moving his mouth as little as possible could help the situation (which, of course, it couldn't). In a lost battle against his desperation to seem unbothered, he takes a shaky breath, and he knows, he knows that Cheren can feel his every move. “Cheren, your hands.”

“Ah,” and the other man falters—just enough that Lear notices, “yeah, of course,” and it’s barely an instant that passes between them before those hands are letting go, leaving him untethered and sharp. Lear pointedly disregards the chill in his chest and crosses his arms, waiting for them to step away from one another and go on with their day, but the moment never comes.

In fact, Cheren doesn’t make any motions to leave, and instead Lear finds himself looking up again, although what he’s hoping to see, he has no idea. Again, he’s staring—he knows this, now more than ever, and he would have been more ashamed if Cheren wasn’t doing the same, head tilted ever so slightly and bangs obscuring his eyes.

His own eyes betray him as they focus in on the way Cheren’s lips part slightly, and why that is he refuses to think about any further. After all, he has no business thinking about Cheren the way he does–or at all, for that matter! In the end, it’d be impossible for him to like the commoner as anything more than a friend (and even that is hard to wrap his head around on occasion). 

At most, they are friends, and nothing more.

Just friends , he reassures himself, but when he’s wearing the man’s sweater and he’s still lightheaded from his hand on his cheek, he can’t quite bring himself to believe it. “Cheren,” he starts to say, nothing more than a whisper, and he has never felt more lost and confused in his life, not when he can still vividly remember the way those hands had burned his skin. “I—”

He abruptly cuts himself off when a loud ding erupts from the oven, jumping backward and effectively dissipating the tension as quickly as it had appeared. “The cookies,” Cheren needlessly explains, tearing his eyes away from Lear’s and stealing his chance away with it. Lear, still frozen in place, watches him go—unable to speak, nothing more than fragments under his breath.

Once he reaches the oven, he turns back to Lear, eyes searching, always searching. “...Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

His tone is slow and even, and Lear’s stomach turns at the gentle press of his voice. “What are you talking about?” he snaps, hurriedly moving away while Cheren turns the oven off. “Simply disregard it—it’s nothing important.”

Cheren hesitates for a few moments before he concedes. “If you’re sure,” he replies, and although he is clearly unconvinced, he lets it go after that. Lear, silently relieved, says nothing more about it. As if there’s anything I could say to him after that.

Instead, he distracts himself and sits back as Cheren brings the cookies out, rolls of steam and the sweet scent of melted chocolate wafting through the air as he places the tray down. Lear takes a deep breath, savoring the feeling, and pulls the sweater just a bit tighter around himself, smiling when Cheren brings some over on a plate. “We did well on these,” Cheren admits, grinning at Lear albeit a bit sheepishly, adding quietly, “Better than I thought we could.”

Lear smirks at the off-handed remark, waving his hand with a flourish. “What did I tell you?” he gloats, grabbing a cookie unceremoniously from its spot on the plate and thoroughly melting into his seat once he takes a bite. “Looks like I went above and beyond your expectations of me, correct?”

Cheren rolls his eyes and nods. “Yeah, I’ll admit it. Nice work, Lear.” The comment was said in a playful tone, yet Lear flushes with pride even then, squaring his shoulders and sitting up straighter. Cheren watches his reaction, amused. “Although I won’t be surprised if I see a ban on hand mixers anytime soon…”

“What—! Hmph, if you keep teasing me about it I might as well!” Lear’s shouting only seems to entertain the man further, highly offended at Cheren’s… mostly inaccurate idea of him. Although he grumbles about it, though, he’s aware that he’s less bothered than expected by his endless teasing. I suppose I’ll be merciful and let it slide this time. “It would spare me the trouble of using that horrid thing, at least.” Absentmindedly, he finishes his cookie, holding out his hand without thinking. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t be a very productive idea, now that I’m buying you a new one.”

Cheren nods, grabbing another cookie from the plate and passing it to him, an action smooth and immediate like routine. “And I’m grateful for that, of course, just don’t go overboard, okay? I don’t know if I’d be able to accept something expensive, is all.”

“Of course, Cheren, just leave it to me.” Lear smirks at him, and the fond smile he receives in return is enough to make his face flush—a reaction that he’s been getting much too used to making recently. He averts his eyes and shifts from where he’s sitting, face growing warmer when he hears Cheren laugh.

With a soft sigh, he fidgets with his sleeve, watching him again as he’s turned away. Even now, he’s filled with an indescribable feeling—something he finds too difficult to name, although inside him he knows, somewhat. He hates to admit it, but he’s ever so slightly afraid to confirm anything. If the burning sensation in his chest is any clue, though…

All of a sudden, Cheren’s calling his name and Lear suppresses an insufferable, awkward smile before it can ruin what’s left of his pride. He supposes the feeling can go unnamed for now, and deal with it all later, preferably once he’s alone and there’s nobody to distract him further. Right here, though, when the taste of chocolate lingers in his mouth and Cheren’s sweater feels comforting to the point of overwhelming, Lear can bring himself to admit one thing, at least:

he may like Cheren much, much more than he could have ever hoped for.