Raindrops and... Strudel?

Prologue

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! ♥)

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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."