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Omi hadn’t meant for it to become a routine. But these things happened, living in the Mankai Company dorm, like Izumi’s insistence on at least three curry dinners a week, Itaru confiscating the dorm’s supply of energy drinks when his favorite character had an “event banner” in his games (whatever that meant), or the fact that even though they all worried over his malnutrition, Hisoka’s marshmallow supply never ran out. Little routines they all fell into as part of the rhythm of living together, the grease that kept the wheels of Mankai Company running smoothly. Well, as smoothly as could be expected when part of the weekly cleaning routine involved scrubbing Misumi’s shoeprints off the walls (and occasionally, ceilings).
Omi had developed a few routines himself. His share of the cooking rotation was the biggest task that fell to him, but he had little habits he kept up too. Keeping his ears pricked for Juuza’s latest taste in sweets so he could prepare him something on test days, or “accidentally” baking extra cookies or scones when he knew Muku and the others were having their regular tea parties. It made him grin seeing their eyes light up when he could offer them an unexpected treat, because they were the types who never looked for that sort of favor. The dorm had its fair share of the other sort, too, the ones who wheedled or demanded favors out of him, but they were all grateful in their own quirky ways. Omi was just happy that he could be someone the others could rely on, that he could make the others smile just by doing something that came naturally to him, an easy part of his regular routine.
One part of his routine was not so easy, and he hadn’t meant for it to be a routine at all, in the beginning. With his delinquent days long behind him, Omi had fallen into an early-to-bed, early-to-rise habit that Taichi had described on more than one occasion – and with as much genuine good humor as possible – as “old” or sometimes “Mom-like”. Maybe it did make him seem older than he was, but he’d lived a lifetime of all-nighters, riding a high of adrenaline and violence, and this new schedule was a habit that made him feel even more like he’d left that life behind him. That yes, he was Fushimi Omi, a baker, a photographer, an actor; a young man trying to live with dreams big enough for two people, who no one would believe used to be in a gang, because he spent his free time now making handicrafts and going to bed at 9:30 so he could rise with the sun and make bentou for the little ones. Maybe it made him a little old, or even a little Mom-like. But it was the rhythm he liked for the life he had.
There was only one week a month that he made a break in this routine. But it was okay, because it was a routine of a different sort, his unofficially named Tsuzuru Week. The pressure had eased off of all of them in Mankai Company now that the theater wasn’t under any direct threat of destruction, but with school and part-time jobs and rehearsals and shows, crunch time still came upon them all in one form or another. For Tsuzuru, it was the week before his scripts were due. True, he worked on them intermittently throughout the month, and he and Izumi had worked together to make sure he wasn’t actually going to kill himself with the constant writing cycles. But writing was a tricky thing, he’d admitted to Omi one afternoon in the middle of a Tsuzuru Week, when he’d emerged from his room with dark circles under his eyes and his hair a mess from scratching his head in frustration too many times.
“There’s no telling when inspiration is going to strike,” he’d said, collapsing on the couch and planting his face right in Omi’s lap. Omi had smiled and patted his head gently.
“And it usually strikes when there’s only a week left until the deadline?” he had asked.
Tsuzuru had groaned in response. “With desperation comes inspiration?” he said with a bitter laugh. “By then it’s a do-or-die situation. I gotta get it finished, don’t I?”
“That’s true. We can’t have a Mankai Company production without a Minagi Tsuzuru script to produce, can we?”
“Thanks, that really takes the pressure off,” Tsuzuru had grumped and cuddled closer for the comfort Omi was only too happy to give him.
Physical comfort was one thing, but Omi had found himself wanting to do more to help Tsuzuru through those intense periods he spent crafting script after script of theatrical magic. Because in the end, that’s what they were, and whether Tsuzuru was watching a production by one of the other troupes or on stage himself, the light that shone from Tsuzuru’s eyes when he saw his words brought to life had him swearing even the worst crunch week was worth it every time. Even so, he shouldn’t have to endure the worst crunch weeks, and Omi was determined to make every Tsuzuru Week a little easier for his stressed playwright to bear.
Omi’s body had gotten used to his routine of early bedtimes, so it was always a challenge staying up for his Tsuzuru week routine. Sometimes he couldn’t manage it and took a nap on one of the living room couches, but sleeping curled up like that often resulted in a sore neck and stiff limbs. So, most of the time he sat himself down with his crafting supplies and needlefelted until his eyes watered (any time he ran out of ideas of what to make, he would just start making triangles, which Misumi was always happy to add to his collection). Or made some side dishes for the next morning’s bentou, so he wouldn’t be in as much of a rush. Or just watch everyone coming and going, occasionally catching variety shows or Tenma’s latest drama on TV. Once the last of them had gone off to bed – usually around one or two in the morning – only then would Omi begin his preparations.
Tonight was the same routine. Omi switched off the TV as Izumi and Kazunari yawned their respective good nights and Banri left to convince Itaru to do some gaming raids with him (again, Omi had no idea what he was talking about, but as long as they were having fun?). He stretched his long limbs and padded over to the kitchen, going right for his designated shelf. Once it had been established that he was a formidable cook and baker, Omi had been granted a shelf in the kitchen to store his supplies, and unlike the snacks they kept in easy reach, the others left Omi’s shelf more or less untouched. This was a good thing, because Omi had a few surprises hiding in the back, behind the flour and other staple ingredients. He reached for one now, pulling out a thick bar of imported luxury chocolate and a small metal grater. He always made sure to stock extra around Valentine’s Day (what with Masumi in the house and his ambitions knowing no limits when it came to trying to impress Izumi), but most of the time the rest of the company overlooked its presence.
He got out milk, sugar, the good coffee beans, and a small hand grinder. They had an electric one, but it was way too noisy to use this late at night – he’d learned the hard way that it was useless trying to bribe an irate Sakyo with fresh coffee in the middle of the night, because even yakuza value their sleep. This process itself was a routine by now, a quiet, almost meditative process. It made him appreciate Izumi in a way, as he grated out a generous measure of chocolate into thin shavings, because one time Tsumugi had asked why he didn’t just use the instant hot cocoa mix, and Omi had felt like Izumi when someone suggested she use curry roux from a box. It wasn’t about speed; it was about the quality of the results. He smiled to himself as he thought of their director’s pride in her curry, and he understood. Not only did it taste better in the end, it was a way of conveying your feelings.
You deserve this extra effort.
That was what he thought, tonight and every night during Tsuzuru Week, as he melted the chocolate in with the scalding milk and sugar, then carefully wound the hand crank to grind the beans. The good beans, every time. He poured the hot chocolate into one of the big mugs that Citron had purchased for the dorm (“Oh! In my country, it is considered fashionable to have a foam mustache that covers your nose!” followed by Sakuya’s gullible, “Doesn’t it make your face all sticky?”), letting it cool just enough before he added in the shot of espresso. He yawned big as he stirred it together, his focus flagging once the café mocha was nearing completion. Maybe tomorrow Azuma would see the bags under his eyes and tsk disapprovingly, ask him in that gentle, enigmatic way of his what had kept him up so late again. More than once Omi had poked himself with his needlefelting tools or accidentally burned the coffee due to his exhaustion. But he was nothing if not patient and determined to see each and every Tsuzuru Week through.
After all, that was what Tsuzuru did.
Omi balanced the mug on a tray as he rapped softly at Tsuzuru’s door to announce his presence. Masumi was a heavy sleeper, but he still didn’t want to bother him. He didn’t wait for a reply from inside, and sure enough, when he opened the door, Tsuzuru was in zombie mode, bathed in the blue light of his computer and struggling to keep his eyes open as he typed. Some nights Omi would come in there and Tsuzuru’s fingers would be making a percussive symphony of the keyboard, flying faster than his thoughts as inspiration struck. But many were like this, those late hours where Tsuzuru was no doubt starting to regret staying up to wring out words that weren’t coming. The fact that he persisted regardless was, Omi thought with a fond smile on his lips, what made him Tsuzuru.
“I brought you something,” he said quietly. The first few times he did this, he would set the mug down a safe distance away from Tsuzuru’s laptop, but the gesture was often for naught, as Tsuzuru hadn’t even remembered Omi coming in, much less that he’d brought him something to drink. Omi found it charming, that Tsuzuru could get so drawn into the worlds he was creating in his scripts, but part of why he did this was so Tsuzuru would have to take a break.
“Mm?” It always took him a moment.
“The usual,” Omi said, reaching forward with his free hand and massaging a knot near the base of Tsuzuru’s neck.
Tsuzuru sighed in relief and closed his eyes. After a moment he looked up.
“Hm? Omi-san?” he asked, as though seeing him for the first time. He probably was.
“Tsuzuru,” Omi replied, and held out the steaming mug. “It’s break time.”
“It is?” Tsuzuru’s eyes were tired, but they widened at the sight of the drink. “Eh? Did you- You made this for me again?”
Omi’s smile widened. Tsuzuru never asked for it, and he always seemed surprised every time Omi appeared with the tray and the mug.
“Café mocha – the perfect blend of sweetness for fatigue and caffeine for energy,” Omi said. “Just what a hardworking writer needs in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t know about hardworking,” Tsuzuru said, taking the mug with both hands. “But I guess I am working. Yeah. I- Thank you, you’re always doing this for me.”
Tsuzuru brought the mug to his face and inhaled, closing his eyes as he breathed in the aroma of chocolate and coffee. He took a long sip, and the sigh he released held all the satisfied warmth and relaxation Omi could hope for. Maybe it was just one moment in the day, a few moments in the week, but this routine of seeing Tsuzuru unwind for a little while over a warm drink, this comfort and encouragement Omi could give him, this was worth every late night and sleepy morning to Omi.
“It’s my pleasure, Tsuzuru.”