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Sprout has been getting on his nerves all day. Some of it is irrational, Cosmo is self aware enough to realize that, but other things are definitely a jab at him.
Repeated directions—even though Sprout most definitely already knows what he's meant to do next, delays in orders for customers, strange touches that linger too long for his liking, and just his general existence. It's like he's trying to get a rise out of Cosmo.
Well, if so, mission accomplished Seedly, you've officially gotten what you wanted.
It's the end of the day by now, the pair are busy cleaning up the diner and kitchen. Cosmo attempts to put as much distance between them so he can cool off, but Sprout keeps finding ways to bug him, even if he's nearby or not.
In particular, a child's drawing was left on one of the tables he was wiping down. A crude drawing of both Cosmo and Sprout, smiling with the artist.
The drawing is charming, and very well done for what Cosmo assumes is a young kid. It tips him off however, the look of Cosmo and Sprout being this close bothering him for reasons that are inexplicable. They look almost like genuine friends.
Against his better judgement, Cosmo crumples up the paper and tosses it into the nearest trash bin.
He makes his way back to the kitchen, mood significantly worse than it was when he left. He makes a pointed effort to ignore Sprout so he can complete his remaining duties. Unfortunately for him, it seems Sprout hasn't picked up what he's been putting down.
“Cosmo?” A question, but not really, it's a forewarning to another attempt to get a reaction out of the pastry. Cosmo steels himself. He has a feeling things are about to get messy.
“Cosmo,” Sprout says again, drawling it out a bit, “are you mad at me?”
Cosmo decides to give him one answer.
“Yes,” he says. Curt and concise, an end to the discussion.
Sprout steps behind Cosmo, his fingers dance on his waist, skittishly fiddling with the string of his apron. “May I know why?” It's posed as an innocent query but Cosmo hears the smug grin lacing his tone.
This time there is no response. Cosmo supposes that Sprout will just have to figure it out on his own if he's so innocent.
His supposed best friend hums. “Is it because…I was late to the orders?”
Cosmo can feel the rope within him stretch.
Sprout steps closer. “No?” His hands fully remove themselves from his waist. “Was it because I kept forgetting the recipes?”
The rope pulls tought, beginning to snap.
“Or…” he says softly, almost a mutter, “was it nothing at all?” Sprout's hands return to their teasing nature, this time on the pastry's back. ”Did I just,” he places his hand firmly against Cosmo's back, “push all your buttons in the wrong order?”
He shoves Cosmo forcefully and the rope snaps in two the moment it happens.
A culmination of irritation, exhaustion, and another thing he would rather not name, resulted in one burning emotion: rage. Cosmo lunges at Sprout and knocks him to the floor. He straddles his chest and shoves the strawberry's head back, anger flaring dangerously. Just as Cosmo is about to punch the living daylights out of him, Sprout retaliates with elation, shoving Cosmo to the ground. The pastry kicks at his face but Sprout dodges, grabs the outstretched leg, and, finally, bites down.
He bites like a starving man, Cosmo thinks, as his body becomes a mural of teeth marks. Saliva coats his limbs each time sharpened teeth make contact with soft skin. Cosmo pushes him back with enough force to slightly release the teeth in his flesh. He isn't gentle when he pulls Sprout off his marked body. For a second, Sprout grins with rapture, finding humor in how he's testing the patience of the man he calls his best friend. Cosmo looks at him with a glare that, if it could, would cut beneath the red skin of the strawberry. And he'd let him. Cosmo knows that too.
Cosmo pushes his knee onto the chest of the other, digging the bone in deep. His hands find purchase underneath the pink and white striped scarf, at the base of Sprout's neck. He itches to squeeze but refrains from doing so.
Cosmo seethes. His body language already tells enough of how he's feeling right now. In this moment, Cosmo only feels the sticky fingers of disdain tracing up the rings of his ribcage. Those awful fingers belonging to none other than the man underneath him.
The man smiles. It makes Cosmo furious.
Sprout's hands languidly move up to Cosmo's chest, then his collarbone, before finally connecting behind his head. Cosmo allows this to happen. He's aware that Sprout won't do anything to remove himself. The fact of this knowledge sparks at his irrationality.
He shifts his thumb between the juncture of Sprout's throat and collarbone before pushing down, hard. Sprout's gaze flicks down, but returns to Cosmo's heated gaze.
Well that certainly didn't spur the reaction he wanted.
He decides he must not be going hard enough and quickly changes that.
He repositions his hands to below the jaw of his best friend—more like a stranger—and pushes once again. That seems to get the reaction he was hoping for. Sprout grunts a bit before softly coughing. He grins his shit-eating grin even as his throat is being forcefully closed.
Cosmo takes that as a challenge and pushes harder.
The heartbeat thudding beneath his fingertips grows faster. He wonders if it would get faster if he applied more pressure. No, not wonder, he hopes it does.
Maybe it would even cease to beat.
Sprout's arms clamp a bit more around his head as he says, "Break it." The words 'break me' are left unsaid, but Cosmo knows what he meant.
Bewildered, Cosmo has half the mind to stop altogether. But something wicked twists in his gut as he ponders over the words of the man. He follows through, though not enough to actually break his neck. And he's met with disgustingly pleasured chokes and gasps. Sprout looks directly at Cosmo as his hands grip around his neck.
Sprout wants him to look at him. He wants Cosmo to see the awful mess he's made of him.
Who is Cosmo to deny him of that wish?
He watches, acting as if he were only just a silent observer. And the observed keens, a performer even in this sorry state.
How truly reprehensible can he get?
-
Cosmo goes through the motions of his daily routine. Sugar and salt are restocked, dishes cleaned and dried, everything has been checked off. The only thing left is to wait for Sprout to get his lazy ass in here and start baking.
He taps the counter, his patience growing thin. He's about to wrangle the strawberry into the kitchen before he finally walks in—speak of the devil and he shall appear.
Sprout readjusts his apron, his scarf held between his teeth. Cosmo's eyes linger on the bruises, he knows Sprout is doing this deliberately. Sprout's expectant gaze flicks over to him, asking, begging, pleading for him to indulge in the image of his ravishment. A rotten pride fuels Cosmo's lungs as he looks over his handiwork.
He does the same, furling his sleeves to subtly show off Sprout's own work: a series of bite marks lining his arms and legs.
As Sprout finally makes his way towards the pastry, Cosmo doesn't miss the way Sprout's eyes scan over the punctured skin. The strawberry wraps the scarf around his neck once he's next to the pastry, hiding away the evidence of their excursion a few hours prior. Cosmo keeps his marks on full display though.
Cosmo makes idle conversation in the otherwise quiet morning. "How was your rest?" He asks, his voice too calm and collected to be natural.
Sprout replies back in a similar fashion, "Good," and then switches the topic, "what's on the agenda today, partner?"
Cosmo huffs a laugh before filling in the strawberry of their workload for the day.