Chapter Text
The Rabbit’s Inn is like paradise on Earth. Somehow, the grounds seems to be trapped in eternal springtime, and its owner — Nito Nazuna, a short man with red eyes and blond hair — too appears unaging, perpetually at the cusp of adolescence. It’s not truly an inn, either, at least not as far as Tomoya can tell.
Hajime claims he’s been here almost his entire life — basically forever.
“Tomo-chin, could you harvest the tomatoes today? I’d like to make a soup for dinner tonight, it’s going to get chilly,” Nazuna asks as he sips at his steaming cup of tea, somehow not too hot to drink from. By chilly, he means that it will be just slightly colder than the Inn’s usual goldilocks-warm — the perfect weather for a light sweater.
“Yes, of course,” Tomoya responds. These breakfasts they share, sat at a small circular table tucked in a heavily-windowed corner of the Inn’s kitchen, remind Tomoya of family dinners back in Port Deusale only with much less pomp and circumstance. Where Wataru weeps at dramatic flourishes and grand gestures, Nazuna prefers comforts of the well-lived, creature-y sort. The table itself is hand-hewn, the tablecloth patchworked out of old clothing. All the food they eat is from their own garden and Nazuna’s small herd of farm animals, all cooked and served by themselves — some better than others.
Luckily, today was Hajime’s turn to make breakfast. He sits at Tomoya’s right, while Mitsuru is at his left. Nazuna is directly across from him, delicately nibbling on one of Hajime’s perfectly-formed croissants.
“What should I do, Nii-chan?” Mitsuru asks, crumbs and the odd glob of elderberry jam stuck to his cheeks. “I wanna go for a good dash-dash, so please don’t give me too much to do!”
If Nazuna’s annoyed by this request, he doesn’t show it. “Well, since Hajime-chin is handling the house today… you can go for your run, and then how about you help Tomo-chin process the tomatoes? I’d like half of them canned to make sauce later, and you can put the rest in the kitchen. I’m not sure Tomo-chin has been to the cannery yet,” he flicks a glance at Tomoya for confirmation, and when he’s met with a blank stare, continues on. “So you can show him ‘round.”
“Okay!” Mitsuru responds cheerily, digging into the rest of his breakfast with vigor.
Tomoya feels much less excited at the prospect. God, canning things. It almost sounds dangerous, and to learn it from someone like Mitsuru? Mitsuru, who cannot sit in a chair properly and runs off at the slightest distraction?
Tomoya fears for his fingers.
It’s a small blessing, he decides, swallowing down a bite of his own buttery pastry, that Nazuna had allowed him to cut his hair short as soon as Wataru’s back was turned, or he’d have even more to worry about.
Mitsuru dash-dashing off for his daily run around the perimeter of the Inn’s grounds gives Tomoya more than enough time to make his way out to the vegetable patch, gardening gloves on, and start harvesting the tomatoes. They feel nice in his hands, round and smooth with just the right amount of heft — he gets caught up in the motion, his careful selection of only the ripest fruit.
“You can grab some of the smaller ones, too, y’know?” Mitsuru’s voice cuts through his tranquil like a hunter’s arrow. He whips around to find Mitsuru standing right behind him, just on this side of sweaty. Tomoya opens his mouth to make an accusation, or maybe an admonishment, but Mitsuru just moves past him to the plants, squatting down with his own basket between his legs.
“See, these ones that are still a little green? The flavor’s a little different, so Nii-chan usually likes it if we grab a few of these too.”
Tomoya turns back to the tomatoes, taking a few steps away from Mitsuru before settling down himself. “I know that they taste different, but shouldn’t we let them grow properly ripe? That’s the way they’re supposed to be.”
Mitsuru doesn’t take the bait. He blinks obliviously at Tomoya — who is definitely only looking at him out of the corner of his eye, he’s totally focused on the tomatoes — before shrugging. “I mean you don’t have to, but I kind of like how they taste, too, so I’ll grab a few. We’ll have a big harvest this year, anyway.”
Tomoya hums back, but his brow is furrowed where Mitsuru can’t see him. He dislikes this. He dislikes it very much. Not quite hate, but he’s feeling something for sure. Almost every conversation he’s had with Mitsuru has only told him that the other boy, if not being a little dumb, is outright simple — the very opposite of the kinds of people Tomoya would like to be interacting with, quick-witted spies and double-faced magicians, the kinds of people who would be involved in Natsume-kun’s prophecies and distant, royal court intrigue. The good stuff.
But, instead, he’s with Mitsuru, who, for all his general obliviousness, is actually better than Tomoya at all of the farm and garden tasks Nii-chan usually assigns them. It’s kind of awful.
“I think we’ve gotten all the tomatoes that we can for now,” Tomoya says, partially because it’s true and partially because now he really wants to get this over with. Mitsuru replies with a jovial ‘Ok!’ and gets up, gesturing for Tomoya to follow him to a small shed at the end of the garden.
As they walk, his shoulder knocks into Tomoya’s. “Hey, Tomo-chan,” he starts, looking down at the grass, “How do you feel about… the whole, like, after-this thing?”
And then he looks up at Tomoya, big brown eyes pulled wide, warm and wet and so devastatingly open Tomoya almost trips on his basket of tomatoes.
“W-what do you mean?” He knows exactly what Mitsuru means — they do have a role in Natsume-kun’s prophecy, it’s just… a bit of a difficult one. Tomoya would like to avoid thinking about it for as long as possible.
Mitsuru’s eyes shutter instantly, going cold with disappointment. His gaze returns to the ground, and he’s pouting, just a little bit. Wrong thing to say, clearly.
“The cannery’s in here,” Mitsuru replies instead, yanking open the heavy shed door in one strong motion, “I’ll show it to you.”