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There is something so beautiful about cooking for the one you love.
Sasuke remembered what it was to take a bite and know there was love inside. He remembered what it was to eat in joy rather than survival. It had slipped into a past so far away now it seemed more like a dream than a distant reality. It was the warmth of his home that brought the memory back, that brought Sasuke to the kitchen counter where for a long time he simply stared. It was scary to hold a knife that wasn’t meant to hurt. It felt awkward and unbalanced in his hand. He worried, and he didn’t know why he worried so he got frustrated, and when he got frustrated he ended up walking away before he’d managed to cut a single thing.
Sometimes he just had to put the knife down, but he always came back to the cutting board.
Sasuke sliced a mango. The wedges were slippery as he laid them on a plate in a pinwheel pattern and drizzled them with honey. Sweet but simple. He placed a cup of sticky rice in the middle. It wasn’t particularly hard work, nor particularly elegant in presentation, but it was something. And when the boy with sunkissed hair walked in he brought the tang of dirt from the garden and sweat on his neck to clash with the sweetness and Sasuke felt as if something whole had been made. And the boy- not a boy anymore, a man- looked upon that plate with a sparkle of blue as if he had woven the thread of the entire universe between each grain of rice. And Sasuke watched as he ate, and for the first time, he felt the home he had been so graciously welcomed into was his now, too.
From there he took his time. He tried and tried and tried. And he learned. He liked recipes that took hours to make properly. He liked mixing method and madness, following an instruction here and winging it there (the winging it is where the love got in, he theorized). He liked that he had to keep half his mind on the oven or the stove even if it was something he could walk away from, like a sauce simmering low for hours, because it kept him from traveling too far into his own head. He liked keeping his hands busy, too, liked making something with them. Making and creating, not destroying. Not hurting.
Sometimes he had to put the knife down, but he always came back to the cutting board.
He made the meals of commoners and foreigners, meals fit for gods and kings. On bad days, he made meals fit not even for a dog. Sasuke would worry more than usual on those days, and that most adored man would tell him not to, that if Sasuke had made it he would love it no matter what, but he refused to give him anything he wouldn’t eat himself, so away it went. Sasuke would spend every last penny to his name before he gave anything less than his best to him. It was the least he could do, he’d say. It was the least he could do. Never enough. Never enough to repay him, never enough to make up for the terrible things he’d done to him…
Sometimes he had to put the knife down, but he always came back to the cutting board.
It was the flame, he decided, that made him feel at home by the stove. The warmth of hearth and home had turned to ash on his tongue too young, and now he had no taste for it. The inferno of vengeance had burned him too many times to hold any appeal now. The embers at the end of a cigarette did nothing for him. He had gazed into the darkness far too long for the torchlights to phaze him now, and the sun’s rays failed to reach him so tiny as he was here on earth. The heat of the stove held no expectations. Its flame responded to his kindling, and his food responded to it. All the stove expected of him was to make things Un-Raw, as the sunshine presence at his side had once said. Whether they got cooked enough did not matter. It cared not if something cooked too much and dried or burned. It only followed the simple command of “cook”. Maybe that was why he didn’t mind cooking on the field, where he didn’t have the spices and condiments he used to express himself at home so he relied entirely on the flame to cook his meat right and give that perfect cut to the person that mattered most. Sasuke remembered he always used to complain about the food when they were children (god, they were children, who allowed that to happen to children?) but he didn’t complain at all now. He always said “thank you”, and he always smiled, and Sasuke knew he didn’t deserve either of those, but Sasuke also knew he would never stop, so rather than hold them close and never let go like the greedy, selfish bastard he knew he was inside, he simply placed those sentiments into the next meal. Sasuke wasn’t allowed to keep them, he knew he couldn’t or he’d surely lose himself, so instead Sasuke fed it all back to him, all of the gratitude and love he gave plus Sasuke’s own, and he hoped it was enough. Please god, be enough. And if he was injured or sick and couldn’t cook, he gave quiet instructions, trying so hard to make sure it was enough. Please be enough.
Those days, he had no choice but to put the knife down. But he always returned to the cutting board, even if all it was that day was a slab of stone.
They had reached the time of year where all the darkness in his mind started to roil with unease. He needed, more than ever, to feel capable of being something other than the monster he saw in the mirror. He needed to do something to distract himself from the memories of blood on his hands and screams in his ears and the stomach-churning scent of death-
He wouldn’t let it drive him to the brink. He was reminded every time he saw a spot of sunflower hair or a flash of bluebell eyes that there was someone in this world who cared about him. There was someone who loved him as he was, who had seen him at his worst over and over again and never shied away. Sasuke couldn’t bear to look him in the eye right now. He wanted to get on his knees and repent until he broke. But he didn’t, because that wasn’t what he was saved for. So instead he put himself to work. Sasuke was beyond cooking now, beyond experimentation, even. No, what he was doing now was an attempt at magic.
It took months. Months and months of trial and error. He was starting to think it couldn’t be done. But then, one day, the front door slammed open and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest until he realized what it was. He watched those bluebell eyes flicker cardinal red as he sniffed the air.
“Ichiraku’s?” he blurted out, confused. Sasuke stifled a laugh.
“No. I made it.”
“You’re tryna trick me! That’s Ichiraku’s, you’re just heating it up, y’know!” he accused. Sasuke barely batted an eye.
“I’ve done many things, usuratonkachi, but I’ve never lied to you.” He turned back to the pot, giving it a swirl just to seem busy. “Check the trash if you don’t believe me. I’m sure you’ll find all the clippings and wrappers will correspond to the ingredients in the dish.”
For perhaps the first time ever, Naruto was at a complete loss for words. He marched up to the stove and shoved Sasuke aside, making him stifle another giggle behind his hand before it could escape. He watched with a mix of pride and dread as he blew just a bit of wind chakra at the ladle-full of broth to cool down before he drank.
He swiveled so quickly Sasuke jumped, reflexively getting his hand up and grabbing the arm that came toward him.
“I’ve been trying to recreate this shit for years, how the hell did you do it?!” he cried, reeling Sasuke into a firm, warm hug. He melted into it, even nuzzling against the juncture of neck and shoulder that presented itself, basking in the golden glow of affection. “Thank you, oh my god, Sasuke, thank you, this is magic, how the hell did you do this-”
“A magician never reveals his tricks.”
Naruto reared back a moment in stunned confusion, then threw his head back and laughed as if he had just heard the funniest joke of his life.
Sasuke was glad he didn’t have to walk away from the cutting board that day.