After finally completing a way-too-long essay, an unnecessarily detailed project, and a successful round of testing across the stream of classes she unfortunately had this semester, Kido felt as though she deserved this snack; staying up far too late into the night for days on end for the sake of good grades was surely a cause for even the smallest bit of celebration, even if it were simply a tray of fresh-baked sweets and a glass of (lavishly decorated, admittedly) hot chocolate. Ironic, it was, that out of the entire dormitory, she’d most likely be the one to vote for an agreed kitchen cutoff time (most decisions made in the kitchen at three in the morning were notably not very good ones, after all) and yet there she stood, tray in hand and a scant smile on her lips.
Not for a second did she consider something like sharing her treat. Who would be up and wandering around this time, anyway (dutifully, she ignored her own antics and the logical reasoning behind them)? If anyone else were up, it’d do well for everyone’s sake if they bothered to clean the place up; she always made a point to wash up after herself, but after that mountain of stressful assignments there was no way she would bite the bullet and clean everyone else’s messes too, no matter how irritated she got in the space.
Lost in thought and blissfully unaware of her sudden company thanks to the soft music playing in her earbuds, it was no wonder that the most horrific of tragedies nearly occurred when the girl turned around, gaze briefly catching sight of a figure she had clearly not noticed, voice catching in a near (quite) terrified squeak as the tray nearly fell from her grasp. It was truly the greatest surge of unfiltered luck that instead had her slam it on the countertop instead, leaving the cookies in a far more stable state than she could consider herself to be in.
An expression lost somewhere in the route of ‘what do you want?’, ‘when did you get here’, ‘why are you just standing there staring?’, and ‘holy fuck you scared me’ is what greets her apparent audience in lieu of any actual words, her mittened grip near protective on the sides of the baking sheet as she waited an answer to the questions she hadn’t even asked.
“Whoa -- !” Yato speaks at last, vocalizing the feeling of sheer panic that wells up in his chest as the tray of heaven incarnate ( he refuses to refer to it in a more mundane way ) makes a precarious lunge towards the ground. Only after their holy bearer ( this skewed perception is likely a combination of being both starving and sleep-addled at the moment ) regains control in nothing less than a divine miracle does he let out the breath he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding in. “S - Sorry,” he chokes out quickly, and both hands are raised in front of him with a loud smack punctuating the air as they come together. Timbres are pleading and borderline whiny when he lowers his head in an imploring gesture: “I’m sorry, I really am! But please -- let me have some of your cookies!”
The sight would’ve been downright comedic if the desperation in Yato’s eyes hadn’t been so real -- and as if to further hammer his point home, the sound of a stomach rumbling echoes through the kitchen seconds later. Abashedly, a wince flickers across his features. Dressed in ratty pajamas ( he’d at least had the decency to throw on a pair of sweatpants, although they’ve dipped down just enough for his Capyperland-printed boxers to peek through ) and with hair as disheveled as it currently is, the young man isn’t quite the picture of an upstanding citizen at the moment. In other words, he’s downright sketchy.
“I don’t know if this is a dream,” he continues, clearly beginning to ramble at this point, “but even if it isn’t, I’ll do anything at all! Cleaning, homework, escort services... just name it, and I’ll grant that wish!” It isn’t as if he hasn’t already done every single thing on that list in the past -- although in his own defense, the life of a broke college student is a hard one. He figures that something with such a godly scent couldn’t possibly be worth less than the pennies and dimes he usually charges. At the very least, there’s no way he’ll be able to get back to sleep at this rate; not when both his dreams and nightmares will likely be awash in tantalizing themes of baked goods.
