Chapter Text
Kojiro Nanjo was tempted to call his current state rock bottom. The only reason he didn't was the unfortunate knowledge that there was always farther to fall. That's how he got here in the first place.
Fresh out of highschool he was hopeful and cocky. After all, being accepted to an illustrious culinary program in Italy was an achievement to be proud of, right?
Only, in the beautiful scenes of the Mediterranean that achievement easily turned into preemptive confidence, which turned into leaving shifts a little early, which turned into nights that went a little too late and romance that fizzled a little too quickly.
The biggest mistake Kojiro made in Italy, however, was not to ask for help. It was all too easy, too, when he became a social butterfly that everyone wanted at their parties. It's easy to cover up worries with loud music and one drink too many. It's easy to forget getting chewed out by a Michelin star chef hours before when a crowd of girls are giving you googly eyes.
So Kojiro limped through his apprenticeship, milked the party scene for all it was worth, and lied through his teeth on phone calls home. He only had a few people to talk to anyways，his friendships from high school all slowly deteriorated, and skating buddies were really more about action than words. That was all fine. In fact, it was better in his mind that there wasn’t anyone who could pick through his facade, at least any more.
But for the people in his vicinity, Kojiro hiding his gnawing feeling of inadequacy took work. Work like pasting on a plastic smile, boasting and promising his worth when his missteps were only becoming more glaring, and most importantly the work of honing his reputation as the man everyone wanted to be with if only let that confidence rub off onto their quiet little lives. Kojiro had let a few exaggerations and bluffs turn into a faulty jenga tower of lies that he scrambled to keep standing. And of course keeping up this shining reputation had costs, mostly in his actual reason for being in Europe in the first place. Aforementioned limping through his kitchen work turned to stumbling, turned to crawling. Until it stopped short completely, almost a year before his apprenticeship was set to end. Chef just chased him out one day with a spatula and told him this would be the last time. Even loitering on the step for the next week only earned him crossed arms and stern, pitying looks from the mentor he had dreamed of for years.
That moment only served to solidify and accelerate Kojiro’s downward spiral; He couldn’t go home early and deal with his family trying to comfort him or worse, ask what happened or what was wrong. He also couldn’t go home early and let his friends (read: elaborate circle of followers and connections) know that his whole identity was a ruse and that most of his exciting restaurant life stories were works of fiction. Sorry, folks, Gordon Ramsey had in fact not patted him on the back and invited him to his holiday party in the UK. And he had not been invited as a guest judge on Chopped , and he had not been given tickets to Eurovision after a hookup with Dominique Crenn in her rooftop Paris apartment. Yes, Kojiro had definitely gone overboard with those ones but he just got so creative after 3 am with a full bottle of Barolo Conterno in hand.
So the next 9 months were a bit choppy (Kojiro refused to use the word shitshow, but it wasn’t far off.) He drained his savings at a breakneck pace, kept up his partying because god forbid anyone suspect how many hours he spent hunched over his bathroom sink just staring at himself blankly, and he picked up the habit of going to the beach for hours a day whether he had company or not. Eventually, even the savings ran out, and he was forced to pretend he left his wallet at home, and pick up some less savory side jobs. They were all technically legal , he thinks, just left him with a few black eyes and in one case a smell of fish that took days to wash out of his hair. He faked sick for those.
All of this is why Kojiro Nanjiro does not use the phrase “rock bottom” anymore. Because he had truly thought he was there so many times, and yet gravity still pulled him down. The worst thing was knowing it was truly his fault. It was his fault Italy went wrong, it was his fault he didn’t have a reference to use when he finally had to show his face in Okinawa again, it was his fault that he had to stare at the ceiling of his childhood room every night waiting for sleep to take him. And it was his fault he spent so many nights in his dented 2003 Nissan Cube (yes you heard that right) crushing empty beer cans with his hands and scarfing down corner store croquettes. He didn’t even skate much anymore, waiting until S was in session to coast around the empty streets. This way, he wouldn’t chance running into any old friends who would definitely have questions and expectations.
The exact current state Kojiro was in was having half fallen asleep in his shitty used car, beer still in hand, and let it spill down his front like a dousing of fermented bread-scented cologne. The shock woke him up quickly, but not before his clothes and the driver seat were soaked through and squishing like a full sponge. He groaned in exasperation, allowing him the simple pleasure of sounding angry since no one was around, and fumbled for the old napkin he knew was in the backseat somewhere. He didn’t know why he tried at all, he knew it wouldn’t do anything in the face of half a can of beer on him, but as usual he attempted only to make it easier to sneak back into his family home without any disruption. As he drove the few minutes back and left the mess in his car behind, he snuck in like a guilty teenager, and was too beaten down even to change before laying on his back and passing out, eyes drifting to a small hole in his ceiling before his world went dark.
Kojiro groaned and snoozed his alarm, wiping a hand over his face. He was really getting sick of having the same dream. It’s funny how good memories can warp with time, into something that leaves nothing but holes in its wake. He rolled to his stomach, shoving a pillow over his head in hopes of recreating the dead of night at 8am. Oh yeah, 8am. Fuck. Kojiro simply rolled one more time, letting gravity bring him to the floor. He didn’t have any time to snooze this morning, Kojiro had to go to work. Work being running around like a little lapdog for his uncle at the most mediocre ramen shop in town. He swore he didn’t even need to be there that early, uncle Taijiro just liked to feel in control. Whatever the reason, Kojiro’s ass was going to get mega-fired if he showed up late again this month. That had been made abundantly clear last time.
When he made it to the floor something smelled, though. His half awake mind tried to place it. He made the mistake of looking down. His shirt was stuck to his front with dried beer. He was the something that smelled.
Not having time for this shit, he stripped to his boxers and ran haphazardly to the bathroom, using a wet hand towel to scrub some of the residue off while he squirted an altogether toxic level of toothpaste in his mouth. He didn’t recommend the multitasking but his shift started at 8:30, the shop was a 15 minute walk, and it was currently 8:10. At some point whatever state his body was in would have to do.
He clambered back into his room to find something clean to wear. The clothes at the top of his dirty laundry pile passed the sniff test so he stepped into them and ran out before thinking too much about what the day would have in store for him. If he thought too much, he wouldn’t have been able to get himself out of bed.
Kojiro knew this job was a favor. His uncle had never favored him, and upon his return from Italy, it was as if all those unfounded suspicions had come true. Even know, Taijiro would often grumble about the flaws of European cooking, Kojiro just wondered why his uncle thought that was his problem.
The fact of the matter was Europe had special power in the culinary world, and Kojiro had always been a go with the flow kind of guy. Plus, he had heard the women were hot. Okay, maybe Kojiro had some semblance of understanding as to why his uncle didn’t like him. Which is why this “prep cook” position had really turned into a job that primarily consisted of tedious cleaning, organizing, and being berated for who knows what. Even Kojiro, who at this point knew all too well about his many shortcomings, felt the anger was a tad misplaced.
So when Kojiro slid through the back door with not a second to spare, he wasn’t all too surprised that his uncle simply waved him off to the office without a glance. Apparently the budget needed some shifting, and even the simple old laptop Taijiro had from years ago got the best of him at times.
Kojiro wondered how his uncle could in the same breath call him a dunce and then make him do what was definitely the work of a kitchen manager. He didn’t question it this time, though, because sitting at a computer sipping tea meant he could nurse his hangover and avoid human interaction for a while.
The “office” was really just a tiny square closet shoved full with papers, a desk, and the oldest littlest TV he’d ever seen. Kojiro suspected that TV got way more use than the rest of the space, but really who was he to judge with the remnants of beer on his chest. Sitting in the office today made him keenly aware of how out of place his life felt in contrast to just a few years earlier; no friends, career in the toilet, he guessed living at home hadn’t changed. He gave a rueful laugh to himself at that and powered up the laptop, squished uncomfortably at the desk. Taijiro Nanjiro was a comfortable 5’8”. Kojiro was 6’1”.
Kojiro’s eyes were glossy over the spreadsheet as he attempted to make sense of some of the expenses his uncle had listed. He was actually pretty good at this stuff when he tried, but today he was caught in a similar loop of how he could have prevented getting here in the first place. If only he had felt a little less invincible that first summer, if only he had realized that adulthood meant small sacrifices every day. His eyes drifted to the dull colors of the television next to him. Tiny pictures scrolled by, but he didn’t really see them. He only saw the past there.
Creating S, the power of Adam’s charisma, were childish tricks looking back. Kojiro was never going to be like him, because he wasn’t filthy rich and he didn’t have advisors keeping him on top at all times. Even the feeling of Kaoru at his side, that had been a trick too. Children really do think friendships will last forever. The reality was that people fade in and out of each other’s lives like passing clouds, and it was best to always be aware that something, some one new would come along. Everything was replaceable. Italy had only solidified that, when his kitchen position was filled within a week after his untimely ejection.
Shaking his head as if the bad thoughts might fall out like sand from his ears, Kojiro’s eyes focused on the screen he had been blankly staring at this whole time. Kojiro truly hated his uncle’s trashy taste in television, it was mostly sensationalized and invasive information about famous people. What the point was in knowing about incredibly successful people he was never going to meet, Kojiro didn’t know. The irony was unfortunate when he figured out what was actually on the screen.
The people walking the red carpet looked truly unreal. Kojiro would have left it at that and continued staring off into space, would have avoided that unbidden crash of acidic emotions of the past, if only he hadn’t seen that hair. A river of sunset blush that haunted his dreams, nightmares, and every moment when day faded to dusk. If being back in his hometown was bad, this was a freefall.
The headline was something about Okinawa native Kaoru Sakurashiki being set to participate in some new modern Japanese arts show in Tokyo later in the year. It looked like some sort of over the top money pit where the average joe can pretend to be cosmopolitan for the right price, Kojiro thought. Then again, who would he be to judge anything about high class society; The only thing high in his life was the balance on his debt.
He honestly couldn’t focus on words past the start of the report, simply watching photos and clips of “Cherry” at fashion week, magazine shoots, and in a fancy museum somewhere. This had been just the type of thing he was avoiding. It was hard enough to hold back the old feelings of inadequacy that sprouted as high school drew to a close. Knowing someone you stood so close to was now world renowned, while he was one slip from being thrown out by his own uncle? He felt some frayed thing inside him snapping, thread by thread.
So he took a breath, turned off the TV, left himself to the menial tasks of the day.
And shuddered out an exhale.