Work Text:
There are sparkles in Chisato’s eyes the moment she walks through the front door’s threshold. “Uwaa, your apartment is so clean, Takina!” She exclaims.
Takina notices Chisato is about to step beyond the tiled entrance with her white sneakers still on. She gently but firmly tugs on Chisato’s cardigan sleeve as a quiet reminder.
“Thank you,” Takina says, “I clean”—she shoots a glance towards Chisato’s feet—”it every day.”
“Huh? You have time to do that even with all our missions?” Chisato asks, kicking off her sneakers at the entrance and shoving them flush against the wall with her foot.
“It only takes thirty minutes to pick up after yourself.” Takina takes off her black loafers and sets them aside next to Chisato’s shoes.
“Ah…is that so….” Chisato looks off to the side, an uneasy smile on her face.
She’s so painfully easy to read.
“You’re the kind of person who leaves half-eaten ramen cups on the table for a week, aren’t you?”
Chisato suddenly perks up. “Well! Anyways! We’re not here to discuss me! We’re here to cook!” She quickly turns around on the ball of her foot, readjusts her grip on the bloated grocery bags she’s holding, and dashes to the kitchen.
Takina exhales in amusement as she follows suit.
She flicks on the kitchen lights. Chisato has already set down the groceries on the counter behind her and busies herself with sifting through the cupboards in search of…whatever it is she’s looking for, humming that one pop song she’s been blasting on repeat in the café for the past week. Takina takes it upon herself to take the groceries out of the plastic bags.
“Where are your pots and pans?” Chisato asks, opening the cupboard with the three plates and two bowls Takina owns.
“Bottom cupboards in front of you.”
“What the hell?”
Takina looks over her shoulder as she takes the onions out. Chisato is staring at her incredulously, holding two different-sized pans in one hand and a medium-sized pot in the other.
“What the hell is this?” Chisato repeats, moving her arms for emphasis.
Takina blinks. “My…pot and pans?”
“How do you only own three pieces of cookware? How do you survive?”
Takina half-heartedly shrugs. “It’s not impossible. You only really need a pot and a pan to cook, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah but—”
“Besides, I don’t really cook much anyways. If I’m hungry, I can just buy food from the convenience store or order delivery.”
“And? If you do cook? What do you make? Do you even have groceries?”
“I have rice.” Takina gestures to her mini rice cooker and clipped bag of short-grain rice sitting next to the stove. “Then I have this.” She opens the refrigerator door next to her. There’s a half-empty carton of forty-eight eggs, a gallon of milk about a quarter of the way done, a Tupperware of day-old rice, and at least twenty packets of different-flavored konjac jellies stuffed into the door shelves. Oh, and a bottle of ketchup and half a stick of butter right next to it.
Chisato stares blankly at the fridge. A solid five seconds pass. Her eyes flick over to Takina.
“You live like this?” She deadpans.
Takina tilts her head to the side. “I do.”
“What the hell!” Chisato throws her arms into the air. “Weren’t you literally telling me the other day how that triple-stacked pancake tower with double-fudge chocolate syrup, strawberry jam, blueberries, and fresh whip cream I ordered the other day wasn’t”—she straightens her posture and mimics Takina’s usual placid expression—”’ideal for training as a Lycoris because it doesn’t provide a satisfactory amount of nutrition.’ Huh?!”
Takina blinks. “Because it doesn’t.”
Chisato makes that ugly expression where she scrunches her nose up in disbelief and squints her eyes.
“Besides,” Takina continues, “eggs with rice is healthy. Eggs have a lot of protein and rice gives enough carbohydrates which is an essential energy source especially because we do a lot of physical activity. And it’s not like I eat the same thing every day. I buy fruit from the convenience store. And order food. And nowadays, I mostly eat stuff from the café.” She pauses. “As long as it’s not made by Mizuki.”
Chisato’s mask breaks. She blows a raspberry before tumbling into a pile of infectious giggles. Takina smiles softly, soda pop bubbles fizzing inside her chest.
“Well,” Chisato starts, immediately putting on an air of smugness, “good thing I’m not Mizuki. Because you’re going to be eating my cooking, huhu!”
Takina rolls her eyes. “As long as you don’t burn the rice. Like you did last week in the café. Again.”
Chisato turns beet red from the base of her neck all the way to the tips of her ears. She turns around to put away the smaller pan and pot.
“Shut up and give me the onions,” she mumbles.
It’s Takina’s turn to stumble into that pile of giggles.
…
Surprisingly, cooking with Chisato is very quiet.
Not much is said between them the moment they start working. Takina takes the chicken breast, runs the tip of her knife against the plastic packaging, and drains the “chicken juice” (Chisato’s words, not hers) into the sink. She rips open the plastic packaging and pats the chicken dry with paper towels when she transfers them over to the cutting board. She slices the chicken into bite-sized pieces and cringes when she cuts them a bit too unevenly. Across from her, Chisato is busy peeling and mincing the onion. Her knife hits the cutting board in rhythmic strokes—dmp—dmp—dmp. Eventually the sound of Chisato sniffling back her tears falls in line—dmp—dmp—sniff—dmp.
It’s strange being in silence with Chisato like this, because Takina is used to the way Chisato cooks in LycoReco: enthusiastic, loud, and grinning mischievously as she sneaks Kurumi pieces of Mika’s dango from the fridge.
But here, in Takina’s kitchen, there is none of that. No spontaneous plans for the upcoming weekend, no random bursts into song; just the soft music of prepwork and the gentle touch on the shoulder when Chisato reaches over for a paper towel to wipe away her tears.
“This good?” Takina asks. It almost feels blasphemous to crack the silence, but if she was being honest, it was beginning to unnerve her.
Probably because silence reminds her of the empty apartment she comes home to every day. And that feels wrong when Chisato is right next to her.
“Yup!” Chisato exclaims.
Takina frowns. “You sure? Aren’t the pieces uneven? Some of them are a bit bigger, no? I should probably go down and buy mo—”
Chisato rubs Takina’s head, and her heart rattles excitedly inside her chest like konpeito stars in a jar. “Don’t worry, this is perfect. I like bigger chicken pieces in my fried rice anyways.”
Takina doesn’t know why she does but she takes note of this.
“Well,” she starts, “is there anything else I need to do?”
Chisato carefully carries the cutting board of chicken over to her counter. “Mm, the ketchup, rice, and butter from the fridge. Oh, and the milk.”
Takina nods, opens the fridge, and gathers the ingredients. She stops when the konjac jellies on the door catch her attention.
“Do you want jelly?” she offers.
A pause. And then, “Lychee, please.”
Takina smiles. She grabs a pouch for Chisato and then one for herself. It’s lychee, too.
The conversation between them fizzles out by the time Chisato seasons the chicken and heats butter on the pan, then completely replaced with the sound of sizzling chicken. Chisato impressively cooks the chicken with one hand, flipping over the pieces as needed with cooking chopsticks while drinking her jelly in the other. Takina drinks her own with two.
There’s something a bit different, Takina notices, but she doesn’t know what it is. It isn’t the dish Chisato is cooking; Takina had omurice plenty of times before when she was still in the DA dorms. And it isn’t the way Chisato is cooking either; Takina is positive the DA chef used the same ingredients whenever she watched him cook through the glass barrier separating the kitchen from the dining commons as she waited.
Once the chicken is slightly browned, Chisato adds the onions. The initial scent is pungent enough to make Takina wiggle her nose, but it eventually tapers off into something sweet and irresistible as Chisato sautés them in the butter.
Hunger claws at Takina’s stomach, and even that feels a bit different. It feels…feral? No, that’s a weird descriptor. Desperate? Mm, that’s closer, she thinks. It might be that. But the longer she sits on this feeling, slurping up the last bits of her jelly, Takina quietly realizes this feeling might be…longing.
…But for what?
Takina holds out her hand, silently asking for Chisato’s empty pouch of jelly. The other girl gives it as she keeps a watchful eye over her translucent onions, then quickly adds the rice when Takina takes her trash. Chisato breaks up the cold blocks of rice with her chopsticks, squirting in the ketchup once everything is sufficiently broken apart. With practiced motions of the wrist, she expertly tosses the rice, coating every grain in a dull red sheen. Takina is in awe—Chisato looks like she’s been doing this for years.
Honestly, she might have been. She’s been living on her own for a while, hasn’t she? Takina wonders if there was ever a time when Chisato longed for something, too. Like something warm aside from her fleece blankets draped over her messy couch. Or a nice cup of tea with a blend from Hokkaido she picked up from the convenience store. Or maybe the warmth of a hug from a familiar face and smile. Or a home-cooked meal made with her in mind.
…Oh.
That’s what Takina longs for, isn’t it?
Just some food to come back to.
But what does it mean to have food to come back to? A breath slips past her lips in a quiet sigh as Chisato cracks salt and pepper into the rice. After, she pulls two plates out from the cupboard, then the two omurice molds they bought earlier. Chisato fills the molds with fried rice then sets each of them aside on a plate. She takes out two bowls and in one she cracks six eggs. She adds in milk and beats everything together with a fork, making sure everything is incorporated before straining them into the second bowl.
Takina has had meals before. She's had soup and curry and tea, for example. She’s always been well-fed as a lycoris, and that only got better when she transferred to Tokyo. And then she started having New England clam chowder, sushi, premium maguro and hamachi sashimi, even filet mignon on special occasions—and, of course, omurice. So what difference does it make, she wonders, whether or not she’s eating food that’s here or there? Food is food. Isn’t it all the same?
Chisato pours half the egg into the hot pan and immediately the edges begin to cook. Using her chopsticks, she scrambles the egg with one hand while rattling the pan with the other, making sure an even layer of egg coats the bottom. Once a thin layer is beginning to set, Chisato scrapes the sides of the egg off the pan with her chopsticks, coaxing it to fold over itself until it reaches the side closest to the handle. At this point, she tilts the pan towards her and taps the handle rhythmically to shape the omelet into a perfect yellow cloud, rich and fluffy.
Hunger claws at Takina’s stomach, and she realizes that, no, it isn’t all the same. She doesn’t want gourmet cuisine. She wants this—she wants Chisato’s omurice, even if she burns the rice again because Kurumi is distracting her or if the egg isn’t that perfect because Mizuki is nagging her again.
Because no one has ever cooked for Takina like this before, and she never realized how much she was starving for something like this until now.
Once Chisato thinks the egg is done, she takes off one of the molds to reveal a perfect mound of fried rice. Using her chopsticks, she delicately rolls the egg on top. She sets the pan and chopsticks aside, picks up the chef’s knife from earlier, and runs the tip along the length of the omelet. The egg spreads open, blanketing the rice beautifully. It’s as rich and fluffy as it looks, steam rolling off its surface.
Chisato makes a noise in awe; Takina wants to cry.
It looks delicious.
As Chisato goes on to cook the rest of the egg, rambling on about how excited she is to eat, Takina’s thoughts begin to drift, coiling and curling in on themselves like the steam she’s idly watching.
And then she thinks about Mizuki.
There was something Mizuki said the other day, Takina remembers, when she was chugging her fifth can of Asahi Superdry.
“Augh!” she cried, literally on the verge of tears. “I want to grow old with somebody! Someone propose to me already, goddammit!”
Takina ignored her then. But…maybe….
“And—done!”
Takina blinks. She sees a plate of omurice and Chisato’s grin in front of her face.
“You like?” Chisato asks, childlike expectancy coloring her tone. Takina smiles, but when she glances at her food again, it wavers.
Written in ketchup, Chisato decorated Takina’s dish with her name written in hiragana and a heart.
たきな♥
Oh.
Oh.
Takina gets it now.
Something cuts through the air, a desperate growl dispersing her thoughts like a creature caught in streetlight. Takina blinks again and stares at Chisato; Chisato’s face glows like red Christmas tree lights.
“C-can we eat now?” Chisato mumbles, embarrassed. “I-I think I might pass out if we try to move to the table.”
Takina replies with a fit of giggles and a nod.
She grabs two spoons from the cutlery drawer, one for her and one for Chisato. They set their omurice down on the counter next to the stove. They slice off a bite of their omurice and take the first bite together. The tang of the ketchup hits first, the onion bringing a nice crunch to the fried rice. The seasoned chicken is moist and wonderfully savory, and the slightly runny egg is deliciously rich and light at the same time.
Chisato squeals in delight, galaxies sparkling in her eyes as she gushes about the food like a firecracker. She looks so beautiful, Takina thinks, standing in the garish white light of the kitchen, sunset sunlight filtering through the window above the sink, coloring her pale skin with strips of clementine.
And Takina gets it. She gets what Mizuki is talking about because excitement is soda-pop bubbling inside of her chest, fizzing over. Konpeito stars shoot off into the sky like fireworks. Sweetness feels like candy apples dripping with warm caramel and fluffy pancakes topped with fresh whipped cream, strawberry syrup, and candied blueberries. And gradually, warmth quietly arrives like cut fruit delivered on a plate in the middle of the day.
And it also feels like cooking then eating together. It feels like doing everything one day then nothing the next. It feels like learning the ins and outs of someone—to know their little habits and their preferences like lychee jelly or bigger chicken pieces in fried rice. It feels like home-cooked omurice.
Wanting to grow old with someone feels like this. Just sharing the delicious mundanity and simplicity of life.
Takina can’t take another bite; she feels so full of love she can barely eat.
Something warm brushes against her cheek. Takina looks, and it’s Chisato tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear.
“You okay?” Chisato asks.
Takina swallows past her knotted throat as she smiles. How ironic that someone without a heartbeat has the biggest heart of them all.
“I’m good.”