Work Text:
"You don't need a silver fork to eat good food."
-Paul Prudhomme
Off-white pages, tight and crooked writing in thin mechanical pencils strokes, Kunimi's name signed at the top.
Kindaichi stands outside the door to Kunimi's condo, the same one his sister has been working her ass off to keep since Kindaichi first met either of them, years and memories ago. He's sure he could probably navigate his way here in his sleep, with how often he's spent childhood afternoons, his back pressed to the wall of Kunimi's room while they both push through completely unrelated tasks for the sake of "productivity"—as Kunimi says.
Kindaichi's hands fumble with Kunimi's forgotten school work, left carelessly in the club room after practice had ended and Kunimi slunk off early instead of cleaning up with the rest of the first years. He knocks at the back door with a shaking fist, letting his eyes wander the alley as he waits for an answer.
(“No one but salesmen use the front door,” Kunimi had assured once, years before, when Kindaichi stuttered before looping around back to enter.)
It takes a while, a whole fourteen flickers of the neighbour's dying outdoor light before the door pulls open only a crack.
"Uh," Kunimi makes in shock, "Kindaichi. Now isn't a good time."
"You forgot your schoolwork," Kindaichi says, extending a hand and the papers he's still holding.
Kunimi blinks down at the pile of his work. “Right,” He says awkwardly, “Thanks.” He takes it slowly, as if he’s afraid it’ll disintegrate the second he touches it.
“Is everything okay?” Kindaichi asks, trying to peak past where Kunimi has the door pulled tightly around his head.
“Yeah, yeah,” Kunimi says, back to his usual dismissiveness, “Everything’s fine.”
“Are you sur—” Kindaichi is interrupted by a loud and shrill shout from somewhere further inside.
“ Fuck !”
And it sounds—
“Oikawa?” Kindaichi calls. His eyebrows knit tightly across his forehead as he takes a step forwards, one hand on the door pushing ever so slightly.
Kunimi huffs, face disappearing from the doorway as he pulls it the rest of the way open. His expression melts into light disapproval, eyes half-lidded as he motions Kindaichi inside with a tight-lipped scowl.
Kindaichi steps in, shuffles his shoes off and places them gently in a row with the other three pairs tossed messily to the side.
Kunimi motions in the direction of the kitchen with his chin and shuffles off before Kindaichi can even ask what’s going on.
He follows, stupidly and blindly, to the kitchen where he finds something…odd.
Oikawa is mumbling a string of curses with his hand stuck under the running tap. Iwaizumi stands at the stove, stirring a pot of aromatic vegetable broth that smells rich and salty. And what’s worse is the two of them look at home, having changed out of their uniforms and into loose-fitting t-shirts and slacks.
“What’s happening?” Is all Kindaichi can think to ask.
“We’re making dinner,” Oikawa says matter-of-factly.
“I’m making dinner,” Iwaizumi is quick to correct.
Why? Kindaichi wants to ask. Last he’d known, Kunimi hadn’t had such a close relationship with their upperclassmen. Sure, the majority of the team is amicable with each other, but not in the cook-dinner-together kind of way that has the air around him sweet and warm with steam and something softer, more abstract.
But before Kindaichi can even open his mouth, Kunimi pipes up—willingly, at that—and says, “I was about to do my schoolwork. Thanks again for bringing it.” He places the papers on the countertop and searches with his eyes for something or other.
“Whatcha looking for?” Iwaizumi mutters without looking up from the pot.
“Pencil,” Kunimi answers, and the sheer casualness of it startles Kindaichi.
“Uh, I’ve got one in my bag,” He stammers, reaching into the messenger bag slung over his shoulder and digging through it for the pencil he knows is in there. By the time he tips his head back up after locating the pencil, Oikawa’s finished nursing what seems to be a slight burn across the majority of his palm and is standing right in front of Kindaichi. Oikawa looks slightly up at him, something teasing in his eyes and the crooked twist of his lips.
“No need to be so stiff, Kindaichi,” And then Oikawa’s hand is on his shoulder, “We’ve all known each other for years, yeah?” He laughs light, windchime clinks in the warm spring breeze.
“Right,” Kindaichi says. But how can he loosen up when he’s the cold wind tearing through something so sweet as this?
“I’ll take that.” Kunimi plucks the pencil right out of Kindaichi’s grasp. He hops up onto the counter, lean legs swinging gently through the air as he places a worn-out cookbook beneath his papers and gets to work.
Oikawa returns to the counter to start grating a few carrots by hand, assuring first that they’re washed and peeled.
“Kindaichi,” Iwaizumi speaks over his shoulder, “If you want to do something, you can crush the garlic and ginger.” He motions his chin to where everything’s already set out on the counter next to Oikawa. Kindaichi obliges with a curt nod.
He washes his hands first, scrubs away and away with the same lemon and lime scented soap that Kunimi’s sister has been buying for ages—things don’t really change around here, it’s a stagnant, sturdy part of Kindaichi’s childhood. He goes to grab the ginger, pressing a pre-sliced piece of it into the crusher. He clenches it in his fist until the slight tap of metal on metal rings out and then he proceeds to scrape the thinly crushed bits of root onto the plate. As he continues to work, the kitchen lapses into quiet. The only noise in the room is some low study beats playing from the speaker of Oikawa’s phone, so quiet it can only be heard through near silence, and the tap of Kunimi’s sock-clad feet on wooden cabinet fronts as his pencil dances across the page.
Kindaichi doesn’t have the heart to cut through the warm quiet of it, the silence that feels more blanket-like than stifling. He crushes the garlic and passes the plate to Oikawa, who’s since finished grating the carrots and passes both plates to Iwaizumi.
A timer beeps on the old oven, the one that was vintage when it was bought a few years back and is probably considered ancient now. Iwaizumi backs away from the pot, slipping an oven mitt over each hand to take a tray of tenderloin from the oven. He places it atop the stove, leaving it to cool for a moment while he slides the carrots, ginger, and garlic into the pot.
“You put the rice vinegar and oil in, right?” Iwaizumi asks Oikawa, to which he nods.
“And the soy sauce.” He crouches down to pull another pot out of a cupboard, going to the sink to fill it with water. He places it on the last available burner and sets it to maximum heat.
“Kindaichi, could you grab the noodles from the freezer?” Iwaizumi asks as he sets the meat onto a cutting board. He pulls a knife from the wall-mounted holder and starts cutting it into thin slices.
Kindaichi goes to ruffle around through the pull-out freezer at the base of the fridge while Oikawa hops up on the counter next to Kunimi. He looks over at the papers Kunimi’s still working on and whispers little corrections while pointing them out with the tip of his finger.
There’s something familiar in the way they interact, far less stiff than Kunimi’s apathetic and indifferent approach to club activities, far less aggressive than the lectures he receives for skipping out on practice every so often. It’s almost like they’ve done this a million times before, in the same way Kindaichi has stood in this kitchen and in this house with the steadfast and unremitting scenery probably scraping on a million times, too.
“Kindaichi,” Iwaizumi, his voice silken and gentle, “The noodles?”
“Right.” Kindaichi grabs the bag of frozen udon sitting right in front of him and kindly passes it to Iwaizumi.
By this point, he’s finished with cutting the beef and has laid a few slices at the bottom of four bowls.
“Is your sister home?” Kindaichi asks Kunimi.
Kunimi looks up lazily, eyes clouded with focus. “No. Why?”
“The bowls.” Kindaichi pokes his chin at them. It seems stupid to point out that there’s four of them and only three people staying to eat, since he’ll be leaving as soon as— well, he probably should have left ages ago.
“Oh,” Oikawa’s head snaps up from where he’d been studying Kunimi’s schoolwork, “I thought you’d want to stay after helping out.”
“Uh,” Kindaichi makes. He’d like that, he thinks. The food smells so nice and the walk to his house is quite a ways but not long enough to take a bus and Oikawa is smiling so kindly and Iwaizumi has a firm hand on Kindaichi’s shoulder and he’s saying,
“You can stay. It’s okay.”
“Okay,” Kindaichi says on an exhale, “Thank you.”
He seems to breathe and the food is done. The steaming broth is poured over the noodles, green onions finely sliced and sesame seeds as garnish. Soft boiled, jelly yolk eggs sit on a plate in the centre, cut into halves and salted lightly.
“Th-thank you for the food,” Kindaichi stutters at the grandness of it all. Eating with the team is something usually only done after a big win or loss, when everyone is full of big emotions and just stewing in them. When it’s so small as this, four of them crammed around the chabudai, it’s harder to pallet. A kind of Pavlovian response rushes through Kindaichi, filling him to the brim with elation and a twinging sense of guilt.
“Of course,” Oikawa offers.
“Thank you for helping,” Iwaizumi says.
“Didn’t mean to drag you into this,” Kunimi mumbles, which in his own way is a half-formed apology—one that Kindaichi doesn’t even need.
“It’s fine,” Kindaichi assures, boyish and charmless. And then, slower, choppy like Iwaizumi’s knife cuts at the beef with a years-dulled blade, “What is this? ”
It flutters through the air, catches in the wavering steam of the broth, settles slowly.
Kunimi starts with a glance to Oikawa, then to Iwaizumi. When neither says a thing, he sighs—prepares himself. “In our second year of middle school, I missed a lot of classes,” He says, states it flat-toned.
“I remember,” Kindaichi says.
“I was diagnosed with ADHD,” And he almost chokes, indifference aside, “So it’s harder for me to do certain things. Like cooking,” He clips it short.
“And because your sister works late you have to do that by yourself,” Kindaichi fills in, not even sparing a second to be shocked or surprised.
Kunimi gives him a slight smile, more eyes than mouth, because they’ve always been like this. What Kunimi can’t, Kindaichi can fill in and— a lot of things make a lot of sense now.
“I got diagnosed too,” Oikawa pipes up, “Last year. So I understand how hard a lot of things are and I know I wouldn’t be able to do them by myself either.” He shrugs, “Guess it’s the captain in me, wanting to help out.”
Iwaizumi’s hand finds Oikawa’s atop the table, his thumb rubs reassurance into the back of Oikawa’s palm before pulling away. “I’m just here to make sure things stay on track,” He says.
Kindaichi can see in the way that Oikawa and Kunimi look at him that that’s a lie. He’s the real backbone of this whole little operation, the thing that holds it together and assures it really gets done. But, as he does, he’s okay with lending the spotlight.
“Guess we should eat before it gets cold,” Iwaizumi says.
Oikawa digs in without hesitation, Iwaizumi and Kindaichi follow, and Kunimi holds his chopsticks tentatively for a second before he, too starts eating.
The food is good. Or maybe it isn’t, Kindaichi can’t tell. It doesn’t taste so good as it feels, warm with love flowing down his throat and choking him up.
“Do your families mind you being here?” Kindaichi asks when his bowl is half emptied and the edge has been taken off his hunger.
Iwaizumi shrugs. “My dad’s on a date tonight. Don’t think he’ll even notice I’m gone.”
Oikawa swallows a mouthful of noodles before speaking, “As long as my mom’s got food she can eat at home, she won’t mind that I’m out. Better than overworking myself at practice.” He chuckles, no one else does.
“My sister’s not around to care who’s over,” Kunimi says. Not bitter, only plain as the sesame seeds that stick between Kindaichi’s molars. Tasteless, almost.
“So you guys do this often?” Kindaichi asks. He finds himself curious in ways he hasn’t felt since early childhood, like his very fingertips are itching with the prospect of knowledge so close.
“Once or twice a week,” Oikawa answers. “We make sure Kunimi’ll have enough to eat for the week. Breakfast, lunch, dinner.” Oikawa counts it off of his fingers before sticking only his pointer up, “And we make dinner for his sister.”
“You make all his meals?” Kindaichi doesn’t mean for it to sound as judgemental as it does. He swears he’s only curious, but some unwanted hint of shrewdness forces his tone a little higher.
Kunimi looks down at the table.
Iwaizumi intercepts it, quick as he always is. “Still no eggs for you, Kunimi?”
“Can’t do the texture,” Kunimi says to the table.
“Sorry,” Kindaichi splutters, “I didn’t mean it that way.” He breathes, tries to sigh out the tension that weighs his shoulders down so heavily. “I just…” He’s grasping for words, “I’m curious, I guess. I’ve never seen you guys interact this way and it’s...nice. To see Kunimi get along so well with people. To see that you guys..” Care for each other, but that’s not right. This is more than care, this is hard-forged understanding and something deeper, something Kindaichi can’t put his finger on. The sweetness of the air and the warmth of it all that he’d felt earlier, it’s so foreign and still so familiar. It’s coming home to a house that isn’t yours, feeling welcomed in a place you don’t frequent.
He shrugs.
“He makes his own breakfast,” Oikawa says, sudden and spurting, “Every day, too.”
“That’s…” Kindaichi stutters, “That’s great.”
“Half the time he makes his own lunch,” Iwaizumi says.
The two of them sound like gushing older siblings. A little like how Kindaichi sounds when he brags about his younger brother’s artistic accomplishments—a painting of his was displayed school-wide last year and Kindaichi hardly shut up about it for months following the exhibition.
And this is like that, words bleeding from an overexcited mouth—or, maybe not excited, maybe just proud.
And Kindaichi’s remembering, middle school years hunched eating at desks. He remembers what Kunimi ate, what he still eats for every lunch a school. He remembers being confused by how Kunimi always picked the exact same food to be put on his tray, and how when high school had rolled around he’d learned to make that very meal he’d already eaten for the last three years.
There was a certainty to it, and suddenly it’d smelled so wonderful to Kindaichi. Homemade and careful.
And that’s what this meal is. As mediocre as it really tastes, there’s the overwhelming sense that it was prepared so cautiously, with purpose and oh so much care.
Maybe it’s not the food that has everything so warm at all. As much as this whole thing is about eating, maybe it isn’t. Kindaichi’s stomach is full, yes, but his heart is fuller. It’s understanding, finding those who feel what you do and share struggles, working through tough patches—together.
The air is full of newness, things Kindaichi is only now learning about people so close to him, and still there is that sense of same. This will always be a stagnant place, as much as they’re all evolving and changing. A home can grow to hold more hearts. Kunimi’s lonely dinner tables have become something so lively, something that Kindaichi has only stumbled upon by short chance.
“Kindaichi?” Iwaizumi asks. His hand is in Oikawa’s and his eyes are focussed on Kindaichi, storms of grey and green. “Do you wanna join us next time?”
“Uh,” Kindaichi stutters again. What has he done to find himself blessed by such lovely teammates, friends—family.
“I would,” he says, “I’d like that a lot.”