This fic was written for the lovely Surka! You're a wonderful friend, excellent writer, and exemplary human being; I'm so happy to know you! I hope you enjoy this! ♥

(Thank you so much to the Superfan fam for the endless sprints in which this was written! In like three days! Help! ♥)

~~~

It began, as all notable things for Yuri did, with dance. Or, well, it began after dance. Technically yoga. Whatever, same category.

When Mila had suggested that they try out the little cafe/bakery combo thing down the street from their Tuesday/Thursday yoga classes, Yuri had been hesitant, at first. His stomach had been sensitive, lately, and he'd never exactly been big on pastries or sweets in general. He was hungry after class, though, and goddammit he needed a coffee if he was going to finish up the paperwork for the company's tour, that night. He needed caffeine, Mila wanted a friend to stare at the proprietor of the bakery with, and he was hungry; he saw no issue.

Except the possible probable one that the second he stepped into the bakery, he'd vomit from the scents doubtlessly shrouding the place-- cloying, sickeningly sweet perfumes of sugar and fat, as they were. But, worst came to worst, he could always wait outside; if he gave in to every mandate his body tried to set for him, he'd never get anything done, and he certainly wouldn't have survived the class he'd just escaped. Especially, thank god, with all of his limbs intact.

"That woman was insane, baba," Yuri whined as he trooped dutifully up the high street, trailing several feet behind his friend as they wound through passersby, following the bright, homing beacon that was Mila's hair. "People don't bend that way!"

Mila, for her part, seemed completely unperturbed. Bitch. "Ah, yes," she replied, "because you're not flexible at all."

She opened the door to one of the many storefronts, the words The Otabakery emblazoned on the sign above this one (weird name, Yuri couldn't help but think), and Yuri swatted her shoulder as they stepped inside, his reply of "not in my hips!" dying on his tongue.

Yuri had been right in his expectations; a thick, pervasive scent of baked goods hung over the entire inside of the bakery, forcing its way into his sinuses the moment he stepped through the door. What he hadn't expected, though, was that it would smell so good.

He gave Mila a second jab as payback for the smug look on her face as she watched him, but didn't put too much effort into it, his attention, as it was, almost entirely on the display case of pastries at the register. Yuri liked that.

The effort not to look too much like a kid in a candy shop was intense, but Yuri flattered himself to say that he carried off the facade quite well-- beyond Mila, who knew him far too well after the decade they'd been friends, no one seemed to have picked up on his astonishing eagerness to try at least seven desserts in no less than five minutes.

Yuri allowed himself to follow Mila at a trot to the front counter, gazing, starry-eyed, at the baked goods practically beckoning to him from behind glass, as she looked up at the menu boards above the counter.

She hummed lightly. "The tiramisu's good, here," she suggested, eyeing the small cake silhouette drawn next to its name in chalk. "So are the croissants, though. Should I at least try to pretend I'm keeping my diet, or just fuck it all? What do we think the odds of Lilia finding out are?"

"Greater than or equal to a hundred percent," Yuri muttered, finding it in himself to tear his eyes from the great many pastries singing their siren's song, to meet Mila's crestfallen expression. "Don't give me that," he rolled his eyes, "the woman's like a bloodhound-- I'm just saving you from public humiliation at tomorrow's rehearsal. Performers' diets are not to be trifled with."

He said this all with perfect earnestness, as though he had not broken his meal plan time and time again, second fiddle to and endless enabler of Mila's sweet tooth. This hypocriticism, apparently, struck Mila, as well, and she levelled Yuri with a piercing glare.

"But," Yuri continued, serene as you please, "as I am no longer a performer, there is absolutely nothing stopping me from ordering-- the tiramisu, please." The last part of his statement was directed to the cashier, who nodded. "And a small coffee." Yuri added, and watched as the man's head bobbed again; his ponytail bounced.

"Yuri!" Mila's look of petulance and glowering envy from Yuri's first order morphed into one of scolding, at his second. "No coffee!"

An eye roll. He had asked the doctor expressly-- this was fine. "I can have one small cup a day, thank you very much, baba."

A second eye roll, this time from the other, and dark mumbling ensued as Mila gave the ponytailed cashier her order, too. As they found their way to a small, sunlit table at the front of the shop, Yuri thought he made out "two heads" and "half a brain."

He deigned not to react, only pulling out his phone and skimming through notifications. Three text messages from Victor were ignored, as was only proper, an email about the logistics of getting sets halfway around the world was replied to, and screaming fans' comments on his Instagram were glanced over without much interest. It was always the same story, with them, no matter what their story was. Or seemed to be. It could be hard to tell.

He only looked up from the deeply engrossing matter of trying to decipher one preteen girl's all-caps comment on a picture he'd posted of his new sunglasses, when a small plate was being placed in front of him, cup and saucer following suit. "Thanks," he said, glancing up and giving his small, business-polite smile to the waiter. He was a different person than the cashier, would've been gorgeous had he shown any sort of expression, at all, but as it was, he only nodded, lips giving a feeble twitch, before returning to the counter. Yuri raised an eyebrow (weren't servers supposed to be polite?), and then the other when he looked across the table to find Mila, watching the man's progress with rapt attention.

Yuri snorted lightly. "The proprietor?" He guessed, and a nod was hazarded in his direction. "Hot," Yuri agreed, tilting his head and pursing his lips as he lifted his coffee. "Though his face is made of stone."

"Eh, it's part of the appeal--" Mila nodded, sagely, "once a little girl came in and he gave her this really sweet smile when he handed her her cupcake. It brings his attractiveness up by like ten points." And promptly ruined her air of wisdom.

Yuri hummed, taking a delicate bite of his cake, and doing his best impression of unaffected as fireworks went off in his brain. Damn. Whoever the hell the baker was, Yuri was definitely requesting their number. Were they freelance? Were they gay? Yuri needed to know.

Mila watched his consumption of the cake, bitter, and Yuri changed his tactic, openly savoring the cake as much as was decent while she stabbed and chewed her fruit salad with a venom befitting only a professional athlete. An athlete in the middle of a season, and therefore a diet.

"You'll be back to this in a few months," Mila snarled, waving skewered pineapple in Yuri's face. "Live it up while it lasts-- before you know it you'll be eating only rabbit food, trying to get your figure back."

"Oh I plan to-- but don't worry," Yuri's smile pierced, "I've got ten months before then. Plenty of time to eat sweets." Punctuated by a pointed bite.

The chocolate powder from the top of the cake went down his throat, and Yuri couldn't hold back his cough, spluttering as Mila looked on with a smug, satisfied smile on her face. "Karma."

Through his wheezing and hurried consumption of the coffee still before him, Yuri flipped her the finger, and the tinkling sounds of her laughter filled the shop.

***

They left a little under an hour later, with, to Mila's disappointment, no more sightings of the owner under their belts. Mila was determined, though, and so Yuri found himself returning to the small storefront hardly a week later, fresh from class and trying not to look too disheveled with his hair thrown over his shoulder in a haphazard braid, flyaways sticking to his face, and a hoodie thrown carelessly over blue stretch pants. If he was being dragged to classes taught by a sadist with no regard for body composition, then he would go in style, dammit. He'd like to see that fifty-something shrew look as good as he did in form-fitting clothing.

Sadly, though, Mila was not fifty-something, only two years older than him despite the fact that she was a grandmother of epic proportions, and did look good in skin-tight work out garb. Possibly better than he did, given recent developments, which was why the sweater had been donned before Yuri had left the studio. And because it was fucking cold out-- but, really, the vanity wasn't something to be underestimated.

A cloud of warmth rushed to meet Yuri as the door of the bakery opened, carrying on it tantalizing scents of fruit, chocolate, custard, and at least six different types of pastry. Idly, Yuri thought he might try the coconut roll, today.

Another round of banter and "No coffee!"/"Yes coffee!" at the counter later, and they were seated at the little table in front of the window, again, late afternoon sunlight flooding in and warming Yuri's shoulder, just inches from the glass. Mila poked him, and Yuri glanced up in time to see the man who apparently smiled at little girls (and, God, didn't that sound wrong--) moving toward them, a tray of coffee, pastry, and fruit, in his hands.

"Thanks," Mila reached out and took the cup as it was placed in front of her, before glancing at Yuri's. "Oh, sorry," she pointed at his mug, "my friend's was supposed to be decaf."

The man -- Beka, said the name tag -- blinked, before nodding and removing the offending drink. "I'll be right back with that," he said, in a low, shockingly velvety voice(did he voice-act? Yuri thought it was certainly something to look into), before turning around and heading back to the counter.

Yuri glared. "It's not decaf!" He hissed, but Mila merely smirked, eyes on Beka's ass before it disappeared behind the display case.

"Two birds, one stone."

Yuri grumbled, but he wasn't going to call her out on it. Frankly, the view was nice, and he wasn't going to get the dude to remake his coffee a second time just to spite her.

Not in the mood to either scold or commend her actions, whichever way the dice would fall, Yuri busied himself with trying the coconut roll in front of him. He normally wouldn't go for the marginally healthier option (fruit versus chocolate, nowadays, anyway, wasn't a hard choice to make), but he had been feeling nice after Mila had helped him get off the floor after their class, and, since it looked good, had gotten a less decadent dessert than he'd been tempted to, in a gesture of goodwill. He wasn't sure if he'd regret it or not, but as soon as the first bite hit his tongue, the matter was decided.

"Mmmm," Yuri couldn't quite regain enough neurons to stop himself before he let out a little moan at the flavor. The bite seemed to melt in his mouth, unlike so many of the other, tougher pastry rolls he'd had in the past, and was fluffy enough that it felt vaguely like chewing a cloud, not to even touch on the taste--

He was kicked under the table, and met Mila's eyes across it. She stared at him, glaring daggers with an intensity he'd very rarely borne witness to, the only time he was able to call to memory having happened during the Victor-pining-over-Yuuri stage of all of their lives. And, to cap this already legendary expression off, Mila's cheeks were pink, more so than could be accounted for by the fading cold or the steaming coffee.

It was like a horror movie, in a way, the type of moment where Chucky, Jason, or Michael Myers is standing just behind the inevitably stupid main character, and if they would just turn around, they would see the knife, or gun, or-- or coffee.

Fuck.

Beka, for his apparently natural state of inexpression, looked remarkably awkward. Instantly, Yuri's cheeks flamed. Carefully, with far more deliberation than could ever be necessary, Beka set the new coffee down on the table. He gave a little cough. "Is the coconut roll good?"

"Yes," could Yuri drown himself in the coffee? Certainly something to look into. Maybe if he angled his face just right-- "thanks."

"I'm glad," it was a valiant attempt at normalcy, almost giving the impression that Yuri hadn't just made his audition for an erotic film in the middle of his bakery. "The recipe's new-- would you say it's good enough to stay on the menu?"

"Uhm," eloquent, Yuri. Way to convey your innermost thoughts and emotions. "I thought you just owned the place?"

He blinked. "I'm the baker, too. A waiter, occasionally, if we're short-staffed."

"Oh." Death. By. Coffee. "Cool." Now!

Fuck, why was Beka raising his eyebrow? Why was Yuri getting kicked under the table? Oh--

"It is," ah, yes, engage the telepathic powers of rambling idiot to communicate what you mean to him. "Good enough, I mean. Definitely good enough for the menu."

"Excellent," well, if Yuri didn't know any better, he'd almost think that Beka sounded amused. Underneath all the monotone, that was. "Thank you for the feedback."

"No problem."

After a moment of drawn-out silence in which their breathing was ear-shattering, Beka gestured to the coffee, sitting, likely cold, by now, on the table. "That's decaf," he assured him, "I'm sorry for the mix-up. Is there anything else I can do for you, today?"

"Nope," Mila interjected, having been silent for the entire exchange and only now stepping in to save Yuri from further embarrassment. "Thanks!"

Beka glanced from Yuri to her then back to Yuri. He nodded, and walked away.

Mila, reminding Yuri uncannily of a slow-motion clip of the Exorcist he'd seen on YouTube, turned her head to Yuri. "So, that--"

She was interrupted by the dull, thunking noise Yuri's head made when he dropped it onto the table.

***

That night they stayed at the bakery longer, the ambiance nice and conducive to conversation (read: less-hostile arguments) about work. They only left when Mila looked up after a long, circular discussion about the newest costumes for the company (Yuri thought that all of the feathers was a disaster waiting to happen in regards to travel-- Mila maintained that they were adults and could be relied upon not to murder their outfits over the course of several flights) and found that it was nearing six o'clock. Their class had ended at three.

Needless to say, they'd been occupying a table for far too long after only having bought the bare minimum for the procurement of said table, and, civilized as they were, hastened to leave upon this realization. Perhaps too much so, because Yuri didn't even notice when, halfway to the door after paying, his wallet didn't make the journey back into his bag, instead taking a desperate leap for freedom. He was almost out of the store entirely before a call made him turn back towards the counter, ignoring Mila where she stood, holding the door open for him.

"You dropped this," Beka stood in the center of the bakery, Yuri's escaped wallet in his hand, and moved slightly forward.

"I didn't even notice," Yuri shook his head, taking the few quick steps to Beka's side and taking his wallet from his outstretched hand. It had leopard prints on it, and he'd never felt the weight of it in his palm more than now. "Thanks-- it would've really sucked to lose that." Feeble attempt at a laugh: check.

"No problem," was the reply, accompanied by a little shrug and a slight, almost imperceptible, curving of the lips. "Come again."

Yuri blinked at the abrupt transition, but nodded, realizing a moment too late that this was a normal thing for a business owner to say to a customer.

"You too," Yuri had already half-turned before he said it, and therefore had the blessing of his face being hidden when it bloomed bright red.

Yuri left the shop maybe slightly too quickly, and Mila's laughter followed him all the way home.

**A/N**

This fic is complete! It's four parts with the prologue, and will be updated on Saturday, every Saturday.

If you enjoyed this, votes and comments are thoroughly enjoyed! Leave some if you wish! ♥

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