(no subject)

[makotes]

When she's upset, Makoto bakes.

Or cleans her apartment, or goes to the dojo and beats the crap out of a sandbag - but more than anything else, when there's too much in her heart that Mako can't stand to face any more, she can always lose herself the methodical, deliberate process of starting from raw ingredients and bringing them together step by meticulous step into something good.

She cried herself out earlier, when she first got home, sitting alone just inside the entry of her apartment. Now she's in the kitchen, kneading too vigourously at a lump of dough on a floured countertop and trying hard not to think about anything except how long the dough will need to rise and when she'll need to start pre-heating the oven and the physical rhythm of kneading. It almost helps.

She's absorbed enough in the effort that, when she hears the knock on the door, Mako can't quite keep a spark of hope from flaring up. Maybe--

So this is what greets Mamoru when the door opens in answer to his knock: Makoto, with flour dusting her hands and smudged under one red-rimmed eye where she scrubbed the side of her hand across her cheek without thinking about it, for one moment almost looking hopeful before recognition and reality both set in at once and she starts to hate herself a little for being so foolish. "...Mamoru-san." Her voice tries to manage some kind of welcome, but it's thick in her throat. "Hi."

---

Standing across the threshold from Makoto is, yes, Mamoru-san. He's in his short-sleeved summer uniform, light jacket draped around his wrist above the hand holding his school bag, tie loose, glasses hooked over his unbuttoned collar. In his other hand -- he must have knocked with the edge of his briefcase -- he's holding a big brown paper grocery bag.

As soon as the door opens, he freezes, eyes widening a little; the assessment is instantaneous, no deliberation to his read on her body language and the tight coils of misery she's trying so hard to keep contained.

"Mako-chan," he says, voice kept deliberately light, acknowleding the room-filling presence of her unhappiness and discreetly offering his help in keeping it from spilling out the door into the public world. "I brought you tea as a bribe to help me with the plant I mentioned last week. If I make the tea, too, it'll keep my hands out of your pastry-in-progress."

His expression is warm, but it's also clear he's not about to offer to come back at a better time, or apologise for interrupting, or, in fact, leave unless she actively asks him to. Mamoru may not get the best grades in People 101, but his name does fit him, and Makoto is hurting.

---

She can't do this right now, is the first thought that comes to Mako's mind. There's no way that she can face Mamoru and have a normal conversation and pretend everything's fine, and she can't stand the thought of having to admit what happened and hear him say (she thinks for sure he'll say) that he told her so.

But suddenly and powerfully she can't stand the thought of being left alone in her empty apartment, either. Makoto opens her mouth and closes it again, searching awkwardly for words.

"...Thanks," she says at last, lamely. "But you don't have to - the dough needs to rise anyway." If she hasn't completely murdered it already. "I can make the tea."

Her hands lift as though she means to reach for the paper bag, but she stops herself as she sees the state of them, white with flour, fingertips sticky with bread dough. For an awkward moment, Mako hesitates, then her hands drop and she turns away to head back across the apartment to the kitchen sink, to gather the dough up into a ball and cover it with a dishcloth and begin washing her hands with mechanical movements.

She's just kind of left Mamoru at the open door; he can take that as an invitation to come in if he wants to. It's probably as much of one as he's going to get right now.

---

It's enough of one for someone who a) lived there for a bit and still stays over if things get treacherous, and b) is super worried for his friend. Mamoru silently comes in and closes the door with his heel -- gently -- before toeing off his shoes and moving to place the bag on the table and his other stuff on a chair.

The unhappy-looking potted plant comes out first, and then the upperclassman pads into the kitchen after Mako, carrying a tin of really ridiculously nice tea.

He doesn't leave Makoto hanging, either: while she's washing her hands, he unwraps the tin, glancing in her direction. "What happened? Is it anything I can help with?"

---

She shakes her head mutely, not looking up from the sink, the only response she gives until she's finished rinsing off her hands and turns off the tap. No, it's nothing that he can help with.

"I just got dumped, that's all," Makoto murmurs, and then the corners of her mouth tighten and she shakes her head again, correcting herself. "Except you can't be dumped if you weren't ever going out in the first place, so it's more like I got rejected." She looks for something to dry her wet hands - she already put the clean dishcloth over the dough, and ends up rubbing her hands against her skirt instead. Bad habit, but it's hard to care right now.

"...it's no big deal," but the raw little hitch of a helpless laugh that follows the words proves it's a lie she can't even make herself believe. "It's always like this."