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Teruteru felt a sheen of sweat coat his brow. The burners were really kicking at his complexion today, really making him flex those pores. He liked to think that all of the heat exposure kept him looking young.
Four slabs of salmon sizzled and popped in a generational cast iron. They were thick choice cuts that the butcher had set aside special for him. He had picked them up yesterday, all tied-up in brown wax paper and string.
“Making something special with these?” the butcher had asked. He was a rough and gruff sort. Not quite Teruteru’s type. Too Nekumaru-ish.
Even so, an ugly man was still a human worth loving, and Teruteru had given him one of the most cherubic of smiles that he could flex and said, “naw, just makin’ some comfort food.”
The salmon was shining and bloated amber, soaked with marinade that it had been bathing in for a good day’s run.
When Teruteru had asked Fuyuhiko what Hajime was more partial to food-wise, his itty-bitty ex-gangster friend had shrugged and replied, “fuck if I know, man. I mean, Hajime always ate oranges for breakfast, right? On Jabberwock?”
Oranges. Well, he had catered for banquets chock-full of picky eaters on less info than that. Teruteru loved any challenge to test his culinary mettle.
Soy sauce, olive oil, brown sugar, sriracha, and a rainbow desert of grainy spices that made even his nose tingle and smart were gathered. He had mixed it all into a porridge dampened with a healthy portion of orange juice and dollops of chunky orange marmalade.
The edges of the fillets began to turn crisp and black in little jagged scars along their tectonic layers. Teruteru cracked the burner down a hair, just enough to keep blue flames from licking up the sides.
Teruteru sang under his breath. “While peepin’ through a knot-hole in grandpa's wooden leg. Oh, why is the shore so near the ocean, the ocean?” It was an old song, bouncy and mindless, just something to put time to.
“Who will wind the clock while I’m away, away.” He let the burner flame die down to a thin ring. With the oven pre-heated, Teruteru readied a foil-coated pan and lifted the fillets from the cast iron with an expert flick of a spatula. “Go get the ax, there's a hair on Suzie’s head…”
With the seared salmon on the tray, Teruteru slipped on a couple of well-worn quilted mitts and popped the tray on the oven rack. He squinted at the blast of heat. “And a boy’s best friend is his mother, his mother…”
He set the timer for a half hour. Plenty of time to get himself spruced up and ready to dash out once the fish was cooked through.
Teruteru’s kitchen was the largest room in the humble townhouse he called home. It was part of the reason why its market value was so low. People loved big kitchens, but they tended to put more favor on a larger bedroom and more than one bathroom. Not Teruteru. It was a perfect proportional oddity that suited him just fine.
Who needed a master bedroom when he had a kitchen island (and wouldn’t Mom have been proud of that!), a chrome two-door fridge, a sink as deep as a meg in the sea, and what a pantry! An honest to god walk-in pantry in a townhome!
When the realtor had given him a tour of the place, Teruteru hadn’t even seen the second floor before his brain had settled on it. The kitchen was enough. It was perfect.
And, as a perk, he lived just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the (Michelin starred!) restaurant he acted as sous chef for. The rungs of the ladder? He was working his way up them, slowly but surely.
Mama would be proud.
Teruteru crooned a little tune and set the mitts on the counter, right next to a packaged-up tin of blondies and pralines he had whipped up last night and set to cool, just a little extra something if Hajime had a hankering. He also had a pre-prepped side dish of cold collards and walnut salad waiting in the fridge, with homemade Dijon honey dressing in a cup just waiting to be drizzled on-top.
Thinking of Hajime jogged his memory a bit. He piled a couple of soiled dishes in the sink and scrubbed up his hands before untying his apron and taking a gander at his phone. 2:50PM. He was still on schedule, but it wouldn’t harm anything to check in.
He had never been very good at texting. Hiyoko often teased him for ‘fat-fingering’ his keys. Well, he’d show her up.
It took him a couple minutes to draft it up, but he managed just fine in sending a message over to Hajime.
‘heya cher!! You still gonna be back home round’ 3:30 or so? Peachy if not, just let me know and I’ll work with it, kay?’
Coordinating a food drop off had never been a tougher knot to work out than with Hajime, at least with the way things were for him right now. Teruteru was no stranger to doing this kind of thing. He did a little work on the side with a charity that did home cooked meal deliveries to older folk who had lost caregivers and family after the Tragedy.
But Hajime was a different kind of roast to prep, a different kind of hardship. Nothing wrong with that, except that the involved party was one by the name of Nagito Komaeda.
Teruteru’s phone pinged. He dashed up to his bedroom as he gave it a once-over.
‘yeah. that’s still ok.’
Hoo man. Yup. That was about as much as he had expected. No big. He could work with it.
‘Sounds golden, stud! No need to wine and dine me – I’ll just pop in and out. No sweat.’
Hajime’s reply came back in an instant.
‘that would be good, if that’s ok. sorry. I’m only going back to get some stuff. Gonna stay overnight at the hospital again and I need to be back by 4:30 to make an oncology consult. can’t visit long.’
Teruteru tutted and sighed. Far as he and anyone else knew, Hajime hadn’t slept at his apartment in weeks.
He didn’t want to fuss over himself too much, but little acts of hygiene helped knife off the anxiety. No need for anything beyond a casual shirt and slacks (never jeans, he couldn’t stand denim as a concept).
To bind or not to bind? Teruteru had never been that dysphoric about his chest. Apart from a handful of days, he actually rather liked it. He still usually went with a binder, regardless of how he felt. He just liked the way it flattened things out and made him look less frumpy in his sous chef uniform. He liked it when the head chef called him sir. Was that dysphoria? Maybe. He wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t about to fall into introspection on it anytime soon.
Teruteru didn’t like to think about himself much.
He held the half-tank and rubbed at the stretchy fabric between his fingertips. Well, it wasn’t like he’d be going anywhere other than Hajime’s. Hajime wouldn’t think anything odd of him, he’d be the last person to. He folded the binder, placed it on the countertop, and picked up an old sports bra instead. That would do just fine.
He took the time to work some fresh mousse into his hair and style it up in a wavy do’. He heard the oven’s timer ding just as he wrapped up his facial care routine.
“Excellent timing, Hanamura.” Teruteru splashed an extra layer of toner on his cheeks. “Oh, thank you! You’re welcome, Hanamura. Handsome, too. Oh, you!” He snickered to himself.
He bounded back down the stairs two at a time (an impressive feat for someone so short) and practically danced to the oven. The air smelled savory and sweet.
There was a shallow dish already prepped with the final glaze and a rubber-tipped brush. It wasn’t anything fancy, just more orange marmalade, but watered down to make it spread better. Just a little extra something to lock in the flavor profile and really make it leap.
Mitts re-equipped, Teruteru opened up the oven door and took out the pan with a flourish. It only took a few minutes to slather up the fillets in a fresh orange coating before they went right back on the rack. He set the timer for an extra ten minutes.
While the fish did its final bit of roasting, Teruteru gathered up the sweets tin, the pre-packaged collard salad, and a couple of flat-bottomed insulated bags he used for transportation. The salmon would need its own bag, after all, and once it was fully done he’d have to haul ass out to Hajime’s to make sure it got delivered while it was still piping and fresh. Fish was tricky like that, like a fickle date.
Thank goodness that the drive would only be about ten minutes. Teruteru wouldn’t have taken the risk to transport cooked seafood otherwise. Too much trouble, even if he liked to beat the odds and impress folks with succeeding in the ill-advised.
Only three minutes left. Teruteru took up the ventilated plastic container and padded the bottom with a layer of paper towels. He got the baked goods and the collards snug and zipped up tight in their own transport bag.
Another ding of the oven timer. Like a well-oiled machine, Teruteru whipped out the tray and peeled the salmon away from the foil with a fresh spatula. The fillets were heavy with juices, held tightly in with a pan-seared skin and a sticky orange topper. He laid them out in a row inside the container.
“Hot diggity, Hanamura, you’ve done it again!” Teruteru crowed. He scrunched up his shoulders and popped down the lid. “Let’s go, go, go!”
He had been lucky to get a street side parking spot right in front of his townhouse after coming back from the butchers. Just a quick dash down the yard and he was in his SUV just five minutes after having done the crucial bit of salmon extraction.
The address was already pre-typed into his phone’s map app. Teruteru sat the food bags on the passenger side floor, revved the car, and took off.
Teruteru had been to Hajime’s apartment just once before, but that had been a while back. He tended to pussyfoot around Hajime’s invitations to come visit. It was selfish, and he knew it. Mom would be spitting venom at him if she knew, but he couldn’t help it.
When Hajime had approached Teruteru and asked if he’d be willing to do catering for his wedding, Teruteru had told him point-blank, “I’d only do it for you. Not for him.” Not for Nagito.
It was shameful that so much time had passed and yet Teruteru still couldn’t stand the guy. For him, Nagito was a force that gave off shame, guilt, anger, you name it. It was like how he felt about the Ultimate Imposter, he just couldn’t stand being in the same room as him.
Teruteru didn’t vocalize any of this. His mother had instilled into his very blood an instinct to watch his mouth and stay in his lane. He didn’t want Hajime to think less of him. He liked Hajime, quite a lot.
Hajime was the very first person to refer to him as ‘chef’ with no sense of humor or bite. Only earnestness. Teruteru valued that. He knew that he had been a real piss ant at first, that he had hurt a lot of people, but Hajime still sought him out and talked to him. Forgave him.
He had forgiven him, and the very least that Teruteru could do in repayment for that kind of kindness was cook something for him.
The apartment building was a depressing looking beige block. Teruteru pulled into one of the visitor’s spots and wasted no time in gathering up his bags.
If he remembered right, the place was on the third floor. There was a front double-wide door with an intercom system bolted on the side wall. Teruteru punched in the unit number.
The speaker crackled and fuzzed before Teruteru could make out a garbled “…ello?”
“Hey, honeybee, it’s Teru!” Teruteru called into the speaker. “I got some goods for you!”
“….ne sec…” The door clicked with a dull chunking noise.
“Alrighty, be right there!” He took up the bags and scuttled inside.
There was a single elevator in the vestibule that looked way too helter-skelter for Teruteru’s tastes, but he’d grin and bear it to keep from the stairs.
A quick ride up a quivering metal box and Teruteru found himself facing a hallway that clearly hadn’t been vacuumed in centuries. It had once been tan, now it was more of a mottled grey.
“304… 306…. 308!” Teruteru stopped at the door. There was a ‘wipe your paws’ mat at the stoop. Cute.
He gave a knock at the door, a ‘shave and a haircut’ series of raps.
“It’s unlocked!” Hajime’s voice called.
Teruteru used his elbow to get the door open (thank god it was of those handle-shaped knobs and not a more traditional circle shape. “It’s me!” he called in a quick reply.
The front door gave way directly to a kitchenette and living room kind of combo, with a couple of doors beyond that that probably led to a bathroom and bedroom. One of them was open. Teruteru could make out a shadowy figure puttering around. Hajime.
“Gimme just a sec. Sorry.” Hajime’s footfalls were loud and quick. “I’m almost done here.”
“Take your time, cher, I’m not on a schedule right now.” Teruteru eyed a table with two chairs that was littered in envelopes, papers, glossy folders with the Towa City Hospital logo embossed on the front, empty beer cans, stray cups, dirty plates, the works.
He tried not to wrinkle his nose, but the place smelled, well, rough. It had a sweet and sour tang of mold with a pungent dash of what he swore was brackish water. No wonder, considering how overflowing the sink was. Doubly so for the trash, which had a half-dozen take-out bags surrounding it like a moat.
And then Hajime emerged from the bedroom, smiling apologetically with a duffle bag over his shoulder. “Hey, Chef,” he said. He had on a rumpled pair of sweats and t-shirt with a hole in the front.
Teruteru tried to mask the surprise on his face. “Hey there, Hajime.”
It was obvious that Hajime hadn’t been showering. His hair wasn’t as clean-cut and chopped down as it usually was. Teruteru had never seen it so long. The ends nearly touched his shoulders and hung around his face in an oily curtain. His face had broken out bad, too. He had a real angry hornet’s nest of acne on his chin. It was, admittedly, a bit of a fright. Hajime was usually very self-conscious about keeping his skin cleared up to counteract the ol’ T.
Still, Teruteru did his best to save face and put on a bright grin. “Put down that bag, yeah? You’ve got some salmon to try before it gets too cold.” He unzipped the bags and took out the ventilated container. “I made it with orange marmalade and a spicy kick!”
“Citrus with fish?” Hajime looked exhausted as all get out, but the smile was real. “Well, I guess lemon slices are citrus, huh? That sounds nice. Smells good, too.”
“Don’t it, though?” Teruteru beamed. He took up the other bag. “This stuff’ll keep better, cold collard salad and a mix of pralines and blondies, a Hanamura Special.” He took out each container and handed them off to Hajime. “Don’t worry about getting these dishes back to me, kay? You’re a busy man, and I got plenty of these at home.”
“Oh, wow. This is…” Hajime faltered. His smile wobbled for only a second before it straightened back to a graceful curve. “This is really amazing. Thanks, Teru. Like, seriously. This looks incredible.”
“Don’t stroke my ego too hard, cher.” Teruteru chuckled. “Just try the fish, and I’ll get out of your hair, kay?”
“Alright, alright.” Hajime went to the table and shoved away some of the papers to make room for the Tupperware. “How long will this keep, anyway?”
“About three days, unless you wanna freeze it.” Teruteru cleared his throat. “I, uh… I included a few extra fillets in case you wanted your husband to have some.”
“Oh.” Hajime’s smile did that wobbling thing again before turning neutral. “That’s... really sweet, but I think it might be too rich for him to keep down right now.” He grinned, and it looked almost ghoulish from how forced it was. “I’ll ask him, though.”
Teruteru wanted so badly to pry, to at least ask on how things were going.
Instead, he only watched in awkward silence as Hajime made for the kitchenette drawers and fished out a cloudy metal fork.
He took a plunge. “You doin’ okay, Hajime?”
“Hm?” Hajime looked at him with a rheumy-eyed stare. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “Just tired.”
“Okay.”
“I’m excited to try this fish, though.” There was that strained smile again. “Salmon, right?”
Teruteru nodded. He waited. He had done his part. Time to reap the reward.
When Hajime took up a forkful of one of the fillets, Teruteru held his breath. He always did that when he was privy to witness the sacred and hallowed ceremony that was ‘the first bite’. Maybe it was superstitious. He didn’t care. It eased the nerves like ambrosia.
The flesh of the salmon was perfectly baked, pink and flakey. It had a trail of steam that seeped upwards.
Teruteru studied Hajime’s expression when the fish was consumed. He watched Hajime chew. Watched the way that the lines of his forehead steeped upwards in surprise, the slight surprised pursing of his lips, the soft hum of contentment.
Bingo.
“This is really, really good, man!” Hajime’s smile dialed back up. “Like, that’s delicious! Sorry, you know I’m not that good at describing stuff, but this is great. I hope you didn’t go out of your way for it.”
“Psh, nah. And even if I did, it’s just nice to see it appreciated.” A little pride never hurt anyone, though.
“Heh.” Hajime put the lid back on the container. “I’ll put this stuff in the fridge for later, yeah? But, uh, yeah. Thanks, Chef.”
Teruteru could tell he was being shooed out. No problems there. “No problem, cher. Let me know how you like the salad and desserts, alright? Consider that my payment.”
“Sure.” The effect of the food had faded away. Hajime shuffled a little where he stood. “I still have to grab some stuff before I head back….”
“You got it! No sweat, remember!” Teruteru made an A-OK sign with his hand and made back for the door with empty bags in-tow. “Just text me, okay?”
“Alright. Thanks, man.” Hajime’s tone was flat. Strained. Teruteru didn’t say anything as he left.
He swore he heard shaky breathing as soon as the door clicked shut behind him. He wanted to say something, maybe knock on the door, force himself back in.
But his mother’s voice rang like a chime in his ears, telling him that he had done his part, that he should mind himself and not stick his nose into the business of a man grieving someone that Teruteru still actively loathed.
Reluctantly, as the faint breathing beyond the door turned loud and hitching, Teruteru walked down the hall and made for the elevator. He hated himself more and more with every step, but he couldn’t go back. His work was done.
All he could do was stay in is lane.