Title: I Don’t Like Chocolate
Day/Theme: May 21: the chocolate revolution begins
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Autor/Pique/Fakir. (I blame Manda.)
It had started with Autor inviting himself over to Fakir’s home. Fakir had been trying to explain to Autor that he was very busy with his current story and if he could just please come later he could stay for dinner, but Autor had taken one look at Fakir’s horribly unorganized bookshelf and that was that. Autor was staying and cleaning up the bookshelf, all night if he had to. So Fakir shrugged and rolled his eyes, but sat back down at his desk and continued to write. (Fakir had given up trying to tell Autor he couldn’t just come over whenever he wanted to about a month ago. He had come to learn that trying to get rid of Autor took up more time than what was wasted by Autor distracting him while he was over.)
Autor had pulled all of the books off the shelf and was halfway through shelving the ‘Ds’ when Fakir reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a box of chocolates. Every few lines, he would reach into the box with his left hand and pull out a chocolate, nibbling on it as he wrote.
It took him a few minutes to realize that the entire time he had been doing this, Autor had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, “Drosselmeyer: A Biography” (a book that had been his birthday gift from Autor) in his hand. Fakir turned to get a better look at him, popping his fifth chocolate into his mouth as he did so. Autor just stared, a slight frown creeping onto his face.
It took an awkward moment of the two staring at each other before Fakir realized what must be the reason why Autor seemed so disturbed by the simple act of eating candy. “...Sorry. Do you want one?”
“What? I don’t mind.”
“No, thank you. I don’t like chocolate.”
Fakir blinked, staring for a moment. “Who doesn’t like chocolate?”
“I do,” Autor said simply, turning to set the book in his hand on the shelf.
“Do you just not like sweets?”
Autor snorted. “Of course not! I like sweets just fine. I just prefer, say, sweets made with fruit, like toffee apples. Or other sweets, like Turkish Delight.”
“Turkish Delight?” Fakir said skeptically, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes! I’d sell my soul for some Turkish Delight right about now…”
Fakir shrugged, turning back around to continue his work on the story. Only to be particularly annoyed when he realized a few moments later that Autor was still staring at the box of chocolates.
“If you want a chocolate, I’ll give you one. You just have to ask.”
“I told you. I don’t like chocolate.”
“Then why are you staring?”
“I was just…thinking.”
“…Right. Look, if you want a chocolate, take a damn chocolate.”
To Fakir’s surprise, Autor jumped to his feet with a look on his face that made it look he had just insulted his father’s intelligence. “I don’t like chocolate!” Autor said, his eyes flashing.
It actually took Fakir a few seconds to recover from the odd reaction until he could respond. “What’s wrong with the chocolates?”
“…Okay. Fine.” Fakir reached for another chocolate. This was probably just one of those moments where he should just be quiet and let Autor work out whatever prob--
“...You got that from one of the Fakir Faction girls, didn’t you?”
Fakir nearly joked on the chocolate he was eating. He coughed forcing the offending piece of candy down. “The what?!” he gasped out when he could speak again.
“That’s what your fangirls call themselves. You didn’t know?”
“I didn’t even know they had a…’faction’ at all!”
Autor seemed to take comfort in that. He crossed his arms and made a sort of snort-laugh that he tended to do when he was feeling smug about something. “Really, Fakir, you should be aware of things that relate to you!”
“Why would I even want to know that?!” Fakir said, starting to feel exasperated.
“Well, wouldn’t you want to know about the girls that love you?”
“You call that love? That’s not love, Autor. They’re obsessed with who they think I am.”
“So why don’t you give them back?’
Fakir sighed, pausing for a moment. “They’re gifts.”
“But you don’t like them back.”
“Of course not.”
“So why keep the gifts?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Don’t you think it’s incredibly rude of you to keep those gifts?!”
Fakir could feel his head starting to ache. That tended to happen when Autor came over. “Why do you even care?”
“Hmph!” Autor turned on his heel and started to march out of the room. “I suppose someone like you wouldn’t understand!”
And then he was gone, leaving a stack of books on the floor.
It took Autor a few minutes of storming down the street to realize that he must’ve sounded absolutely ridiculous (but he would never admit that out loud). He had told the truth—he didn’t like chocolate. It really didn’t matter to him whether or not he had any of them. That wasn’t the problem.
Frankly, he was just tired of Fakir constantly getting those gifts when he didn’t even particularly appreciate them. He’d take the gifts, eat them, and never give the girl a second thought. It was pathetic. He was too caught up over that duck to even consider it. Why didn’t they start giving gifts to someone that could appreciate them? Someone like…
It wasn’t that Autor was jealous. No, no, jealousy wasn’t the right word. It was more like…
Okay, he was jealous. Fakir was, apparently, in love with a duck—a duck--and yet he had a whole group of girls that would give him candy and pay attention to him. Autor was free. Completely available. He’d gladly accept a box of, say, Turkish Delight.
It was incredibly silly, and he knew it was, but it still bothered him. So, for the rest of the day he was in a bad mood, and the next day at school he was still in a bad mood. So when Pique caught up with him at lunch, the first thing she said was “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Autor grumbled, resting his chin on his hand.
“Doesn’t look like nothing. Are you sure you’re fine?”
“Oh. …Okay, then.” She shrugged, reaching into her book bag and digging around. “Hey, you’re friends with Fakir, right?”
“Well, we’re relatives, but yes. I suppose you could say that.”
“Could you do me a favor?”
“Could you give Fakir this, and tell him it’s from me?” Pique smiled, holding out a box of dark chocolate truffles.
Autor’s immediate reaction was to slap his hands down on the table, accompanied with a cry of “Oh, Lord. Not you, too!”
Pique raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘me too’?”
“You’re not one of those…those…Faction girls, are you?”
“That’s what I would like to know!”
“What?” Pique stared at Autor for a moment, looking at him as if he was some sort of book she was studying. “…Are you jealous?”
Pique reacted quite differently from how she expected. She laughed. “You are jealous!”
”I am not!”
“Would you like a box, too?”
“I don’t like chocolate!!” And once again, he got up from the table and stormed off.
He was halfway across the school campus before he started to really think things through. Pique’s reaction was odd. Why laugh? Why offer the chocolates to him?
It was that moment that he realized it: Someone DID offer him chocolates, and instead of appreciating it like he told himself he would, he had refused them. Who knew? Maybe he did like chocolate. It had been a while since he tried some. Maybe…
Autor whirled around and began to run back to where he had left her. At one point he stumbled a little over his own feet, but he didn’t care this time whether or not he looked particularly graceful. He righted himself and continued to run.
But by the time he had gotten back, it was too late. She was gone.
That afternoon, Autor once again invited himself over to Fakir’s house, only offering “I have to finish organizing your bookcase” as an excuse for his return. For a half an hour neither Autor or Fakir spoke. Autor continued to shelve books, and Fakir continued to write. Then, Fakir turned and draped an arm along the back of his chair.
“I gave back a gift today,” he began, his expression unreadable.
“You did?” Autor dropped the book he had been holding and began to rise from the floor. “I didn’t mean you had to, you know, if you really wanted to keep it you should’ve—“
“Well, I knew you didn’t like chocolate.”
Fakir turned back to his story and dipped his pen back into the ink well, but Autor could hear in his voice that he was smirking slightly as he began to talk again. “I told Pique you preferred Turkish Delight.”
“She told me you had ran off before she could give it to you.”
“She actually told you that?”
“Yes. She knew we were friends.”
There was a moment when neither boy said something—Fakir was too busy writing another line or two of the story, and Autor was too busy realizing that Fakir had just called him a friend.
“So?” Fakir finally said as he finished a sentence.
“Are you going to accept it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” Fakir said, setting aside a freshly-written page, “I would decide soon. It’d be rude to accept it if you don’t share her feelings. That’s what you told me, anyway.”
There was another short pause as Autor picked up a book and set it on the shelf. “…Maybe I will accept it.”