Work Text:
When Shinobu got back from his hiking trip, the first place he went was the kitchen. Tonight’s meal was going to be different, he told Miyagi through text. Mushroom soup.
An assortment of different fungi was spread across the granite island, a sea of color and a faint, earthy aroma. They were freshly picked; dirt crested the bases and tendrils. Shinobu had read through his plant guidebook on the train home, he could tell the ones with flavor and the ones with the key apart easily. Yet, they were all going in the same pot. They were to marry with the cream, with the spices. Tonight was special after all.
He begins with washing, then chopping, then throwing it all in stirring it about. Shinobu wasn’t going by a recipe, he decided it wouldn’t be best for this sort of thing. But it came together: the vegetables had softened, the scent had become appealing. It might be the best thing he’s ever cooked. Miyagi would say. Miyagi will say.
“I’m home,” Miyagi’s rough voice calls through the entry hall. He got off work three hours ago, this he knew. And Miyagi would lie about it: “Oh, I got really into writing a paper, and I lost track of time…” or “Kamijou wanted me to go out and have drinks with him…” Today, however, it was just “I’m home.”
Shinobu does not welcome him, he’s too occupied with mixing the stew about. He doesn’t dare look up. The deadness of his eyes would give the surprise away.
“Ah, what a nice thing to come home to!” Miyagi chirps, peering into the kitchen, “I’ve been needing a change of pace.”
“It’s finished,” Shinobu attempts to remove the coldness from his voice, “You can sit.” He ladles the soup into a small bowl, filling it to the brim. There are two separate dishes holding white rice. He delivers each carefully.
“Are you not having any?” Miyagi questions, a hint of skepticism in his words.
“I don’t care for mushrooms,” Shinobu sits across from the man with his rice, “But I know you do. You’ve been working hard lately, I know. I-I figured you deserved something nice.” Lies dipped in icing and coated in confectioner’s sugar.
“Oh,” he dips his spoon into the liquid, a half-hearted smile on his half-hearted face, “That’s sweet of you, Shinobu-chin. Thank you.”
Shinobu considers it for a moment. He considers blurting his thoughts: ‘It’s sweet of you to go play with some cuter girl. It’s sweet of you to lie to me.’ He refrains, though. That will be saved for a few bites in. That will be saved for the hospital bed.
“Itadakimasu.”