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Mitsuru wanted to make a pizza. What brought him to this decision, Sho didn’t know, but it had resulted in the most interesting events of that week: Kazuo had orchestrated an elaborate theft of a show floor oven from the local appliance store, and he and Mitsuru had somehow shimmied it all the way back to the clubhouse without being caught. This left enormous ruts in the ground outside, which Hiroshi promptly slipped in on his way over, breaking his neck. This was on Thursday, making it Hiroshi’s third death of the week; a new record for the little guy.
Now, on Friday night, all five members of the Kiriyama family sat at their places around their dumpster-salvaged table in mismatched chairs in anticipation of their long awaited pizza.
Across from Sho, Hiroshi was absorbed in his ancient brick of a Nokia phone, trailing his greasy stubs of fingers across the buttons as he typed. Sho had never figured out how he managed to get online with it. Ryuhei was next to Hiroshi, holding his nose shut (they’d discovered the death stench took a day or so to dissipate after a respawn. Mixed with his regular rotten egg smell, it was nearly unbearable) while letting out occasional bursts of laughter as Mitsuru struggled to open the frozen pizza packaging. Sho wished he could be surprised, but Mitsuru seemed to hit a new low every day.
What was surprising was Kazuo. Sho had been thinking about it all week but still couldn’t get his head around it. If Mitsuru wanted a pizza, why didn’t Kazuo just buy him one? Why didn’t he do what he normally would and bluntly tell the others how idiotic they were being? God knows the rest of these boys couldn’t tell left from right without the Boss to guide them, and Kazuo damn well knew it. What was his angle? Was he having… fun? Sho glanced at him while Mitsuru found a rusty piece of sheet metal to cook his pizza on. Kazuo was calm as ever, hands folded in his lap, quietly observing. He didn’t even flinch at the loud scrape of metal on metal as Mitsuru forced his pizza into the oven. Sho figured Kazuo’s mind was likely just as blank as his face.
He looked cute, though.
“Hey, Kazuo-kun,” Sho said. Kazuo turned to look at him just as Mitsuru yelled, “Call him Boss!”
“You think Mitsuru’s gonna burn down the clubhouse with this pizza idea? I mean, having an oven in here is a bit of a… what do you call it? A fire hazard?” It was one of Kazuo’s favourite warnings and the reason Sho had to smoke outside like a deadbeat. That and hydrocarbons or whatever the hell else he said.
Kazuo thought for a moment, then said, “We’ll see.”
He must have been getting a kick out of it.
“I ain’t burnin’ shit!” Mitsuru countered. The smell of smoke that was already coming from the oven disagreed. “I read the directions!”
“I’m surprised you could,” Hiroshi mumbled, looking up from the two square inch display for the first time today.
“I can read, okay?” Mitsuru took two exaggerated steps over to the table. “At least I never fell in a hole and died!”
“He’s right,” Ryuhei agreed, still holding his nose. “Plus, ya stink like shit.”
“Yeah, like shit!”
The fighting continued throughout the pizza’s ten minute cooking time, not even interrupted by the thick black smoke that had begun to seep from the oven’s poorly fitted door five minutes ago. So much for not burning shit. Kazuo didn’t do or say anything until the shrill beep of the timer sounded.
“Your pizza is ready,” he said. The calm interruption instantly stopped the fighting. Hiroshi went back to his tiny screen while Ryuhei and Kazuo looked across the table at Mitsuru. He was glaring at the oven and rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“Shit,” he mumbled to himself. “I hate this part.” Mitsuru pulled open the oven door and leaned back as smoke poured from it. It wasn’t so bad, actually - it covered up Hiroshi’s smell. He then reached in and - wait, without oven mitts? Or a rag? Or… anything? Sho leaned over in his chair to see through the smoke and realized Mitsuru was, in fact, ripping the pizza from the oven with his bare hands.
And nobody was saying anything.
The pizza landed on the table, burnt chunks of crust cracking off with the impact. Mitsuru cursed and rubbed his burnt hands, taking his seat shortly after. Ryuhei picked at the pizza, but it was too hot. Hiroshi looked up, noticed no egg products, and went back to his business. Kazuo stared.
He just fucking stared.
“Did you… did you just…” Sho couldn’t seem to find the words to articulate what he was feeling: the pure shock, the amazement, the frustration that no one else saw it… what was happening?
“What?” Mitsuru asked. “That’s how you make pizza.”
“Are you serious?” Sho looked at Kazuo, pleading. “Am I going insane? Doesn’t anybody realize how fucked up this is?!” The silence was utterly deafening.
“Yeah…” Ryuhei spoke up hesitantly. Sho breathed a sigh of relief; someone else was finally getting it. Granted, it was Ryuhei, and the kid didn't exactly have two brain cells to rub together unless he and Mitsuru combined their efforts, but he was getting there. Slowly. Turning the thought over in his head, Ryuhei frowned and poked at the pizza again.
Suddenly he turned to Sho, a satisfied expression on his face. He'd done it. He'd figured it out.
“There’s pineapple on this pizza.”