Work Text:
Come into the water
Do you wanna be my baby?
Are you waiting to touch me?
You look so good, but I keep my hands
'Til you come into the water
(Mitski, Come into the Water)
*
梅しそ混ぜご飯
Ume Shiso Mazegohan
(rice with umeboshi and shiso leaves)
Preparation:
Steam the rice. Discard the stem from the shiso (also known as perilla) leaves, roll them up, and cut them into thin julienned strips. Discard the pit from umeboshi (pickled plums) and chop it finely. Use a big bowl to mix rice, umeboshi, shiso leaves, and toasted sesame seeds.
Ume shiso rice can be served with grilled mackerel, miso soup, simmered kabocha, and tofu salad.
*
Osamu looks at him.
"What about you? What do you want to eat?"
Kiyoomi hesitates. It's not like he has much of an appetite.
Umeboshi, he thinks.
"Do you like umeboshi?" Osamu anticipates him, as if he’s read his mind. "I made them. I can prepare ume shiso rice, with grilled mackerel and miso soup. You don't have any food allergies, do you?"
Kiyoomi blinks, surprised. "No," he says. "But how did you know-
He interrupts himself. Osamu tilts his head. "How did I know what?"
"Nothing," Kiyoomi replies. "I'll have what you said. Thanks."
Osamu nods and disappears into the kitchen. Kiyoomi, staring at his back, wonders if he has just imagined it, that clever twinkle in his smile.
How strange, he thinks.
When Osamu hands him the bowls, Kiyoomi stops mulling over how Osamu guessed exactly what he wanted to eat. The colors of the food are so bright and harmonious, and the smell of the rice makes his stomach churn.
Kiyoomi thanks him and splits his chopsticks.
How strange, he thinks again. He detests crowded places. He hates stuffed bodies, crammed voices, skin against skin. He hates when breaths and shadows mingle like puzzle pieces forced together. Crowd means sharing, and sharing means exponentially reduced hygiene.
When Kiyoomi finds himself in crowded places, all he would like to do - besides throwing disinfectant at people like snowballs - is to disappear, become transparent, and then lift his body high into the air, inhaling fresh, immaculate oxygen. This is why he envies Shouyou, from time to time: he can jump and reach the cleanest place.
Osamu's restaurant looks like any other crowded place, therefore Kiyoomi should likewise repudiate it. Nevertheless, there’s something terse in that restaurant. There’s something that reminds him of Marseille soap, hidden in the music selection or in the hue of the interior. There’s something gold, embedded in the walls like a stone beneath the sand. It lingers around them. It tastes a little like saltiness, a little like the ocean, and seawater disinfects.
Kiyoomi tastes the rice.
It’s delicious.
*
お茶漬け
Ochazuke
Preparation:
Bake the salted salmon fillet. Remove the skin and bones, break up the salmon flesh into flakes, and set aside. Crush bubu arare (crispy puffed rice pellets) or rice crackers into small pieces. Prepare the green tea (you can use various kinds of green tea, such as Genmaicha, Sencha, Hojicha, Mugicha ) or Dashi broth (the original recipe calls for using tea, however, when you order ochazuke in restaurants, it is typically served with Dashi).
Place the cooked rice in the serving bowl. Place the flaked salmon on the rice and sprinkle the rice crackers and sesame seeds on top. Pour the green tea or Dashi broth into the bowl to cover half the rice. Add mitsuba (Japanese parsley) and wasabi.
*
Hinata is sitting next to him. Atsumu is sitting next to Hinata. Kiyoomi stares at them with a curiosity that amazes even himself.
It's just that they are so close at that moment. And Kiyoomi is not referring to physical closeness, but rather to something in their gazes, in the luminous expression on their faces, in the curve of their lips, indicating absolute participation. Unconditional, almost devoted attention. There’s no more Atsumu and there’s no more Hinata either, there are only the colors and shades they’re creating through that unique interaction.
For Kiyoomi, who has always been used to drawing a sharp line between himself and people, it’s an unimaginable process. It’s pure madness, a miracle. At that moment, Hinata and Atsumu ceased to exist as separate individuals. They set aside, at least for a while, their subjective consciousness. It’s as if, catalyzed by mutual gravity, they existed inside each other. And when you are so deep inside someone, your eyes shift and begin to resemble the eyes of the person you’re looking at.
It’s difficult to believe in the existence of people with whom you can achieve such a level of harmony. How do you slip so naturally into someone's ribs? What drives you to feel that kind of ineluctable attraction? What makes you gravitate around the soul of someone who is so different from you, imitating a bee around a flower, or a satellite around the planet? What makes you crave the touch, the crash, the collision, the caress?
It’s difficult to understand. How do people fall in love?
"What do you want to eat?"
Kiyoomi moves his gaze to Osamu. Then he points to his teammates. "You don't ask them first?"
"Are you kidding? The entire restaurant could collapse on their heads and they wouldn't even notice."
Kiyoomi snorts out a laugh. He's right. Atsumu and Shouyou are elsewhere.
"So? What can I cook for you?"
Kiyoomi reflects. He has no appetite, but he knows that as soon as Osamu places his dinner in front of him, his stomach will sing.
Something warm, he thinks. Something with salmon. Something that tastes like home.
"Ochazuke?" proposes Osamu, anticipating him again. "With salmon and dashi broth. Or green tea, if you prefer."
Kiyoomi parts his lips, interdicted. "Did you-
Then he shuts his mouth. Did you just read my mind? , he was about to ask. But it sounds ridiculous.
It must be a coincidence, like the last time.
"Dashi is fine," Kiyoomi replies. "Thank you."
Osamu disappears into the kitchen.
*
Kiyoomi hesitates before entering.
It’s just that he’s always been refractory to anything new. More than refractory, new things intimidate him. Willfully crushing the tepid and safe nest made of certainties and habits to pursue the unknown, is like doing a washing machine with a detergent made by a brand he’s never tried or heard of before. More than the newness, it’s the climate of confession that bothers him. Admitting to himself, in full awareness, that he is intrigued by another human being and accepting all the potentially disastrous consequences that interest, romantic or otherwise, drags along.
The truth is, Kiyoomi considers that interest sparked from who knows where unique, bizarre, incoherent, and even pretty alarming.
Maybe it's just a phase, he thinks. Maybe I'm just hungry. I want fried rice.
Regardless, for the first time, Kiyoomi enters the restaurant alone. For the first time, he’s accompanied by an extravagant excitement that makes the air around him quiver.
Osamu grins as soon as he sees him.
"I didn't think you’d come again today."
"Neither did I," Kiyoomi replies, sincerely. "But everything here tastes so good."
A bit later, without Kiyoomi saying anything to him, Osamu hands him a bowl of fried rice.
*
"How can you do that?"
Osamu arches his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"How do you read people's minds?"
Osamu stares at him with wide eyes. Kiyoomi is not intimidated - there is no other explanation. Then Osamu reclines his head back and bursts out laughing. His laugh is a little rough, haphazard like broken glass, but full of life. Kiyoomi glows. It’s pleasant. Satisfying. Usually people don't laugh when they talk to him.
"I'm serious," Kiyoomi insists. "The first time. You knew I wanted to eat umeboshi. And then the same thing happened with ochazuke. And then with fried rice. And then with kimchi gyoza nabe. And then with egg tofu. It can't be just a coincidence. You’re a mind reader. Or, you have the superpower to figure out what people want to eat."
At that, Osamu stops laughing. He curves his lips into an unusual expression. Almost sweet. Kiyoomi blinks. How many expressions can shape a person's face? How many expressions can shape Osamu's face? And did Kiyoomi’s face ever reveal anything other than coldness, and impassivity?
"The superpower to figure out what people want to eat, huh?" Osamu repeats, essaying the words as if they were powerful. Important. Priceless. Exquisite to eat. "Thank you."
*
梅酒
Umeshu
Plum Wine or Umeshu is a Japanese liqueur made by steeping fresh Japanese plum (ume) in shochu/white liquor and sugar. The sweet and sour flavors with the fruity aroma are very appealing and you can make many kinds of drinks with it!
*
Kiyoomi sips his umeshu and eats sautéed sweet potatoes. He looks at Osamu, intent on preparing onigiri for two customers seated to his right.
Osamu never smiles while cooking. It’s as if he’s always a little away, as if he’s not really there, as if he’s cooking in a secret, veiled place. His face is relaxed in a placid, wise expression. At the same time, though, there’s a perpetual and bright flicker in his gaze, and it becomes difficult to tell whether Osamu looks very old or looks like a child in wonder.
It’s rare to have the chance to intimately study someone while they’re doing something they love. Following Osamu's movements is as relaxing as the sound of the washing machine: slow, deep and rhythmic, but also therapeutic.
It is impossible not to be affected by the warmth that flows from his fingers. It's as if Osamu specializes in people's restoration, as well as recipe preparation. Kiyoomi always feels a little more intact when he's in that restaurant. A little more golden.
"Hey," Osamu says, refilling his glass. "Come tomorrow night."
"Aren’t you closed on Mondays?"
Osamu smiles. "Come anyway."
*
おにぎり
Onigiri
Preparation:
After preparing the steamed rice (it is recommended to use freshly cooked rice) and the onigiri fillings (such as tuna mayo, salted salmon, umeboshi), you need to wet both of your hands with water to prevent the rice from sticking, and rub salt on your palms. Scoop a handful of warm rice (about ⅓ cup), create a small well, and put the filling (about 1-2 tsp) inside. Then mold the rice to completely cover the filling.
Gently press the rice to form the characteristic triangular shape, being careful not to squeeze too tightly. Wrap the onigiri with a piece of nori seaweed.
*
Kiyoomi finds the door open and Osamu behind the counter. He has his apron tied around his waist.
"Hi," he says. "I wanna make onigiri."
Kiyoomi frowns. "You know I don't eat onigiri."
"You don't eat onigiri prepared by someone else. But I thought if you made them, with gloves and all, then it would be fine. How does that sound?"
Kiyoomi nods. It sounds nice, he thinks surprised. It sounds really nice. Maybe because he really likes Osamu.
Everything inside that place sings. Living is good, the counter and the walls and the tables seem to intone. Living tastes good. There’s always something flavorful. And when there’s not, then you’ll find someone here who will prepare it for you.
Osamu has so much to offer: hope, an alternative, a consolation, a reward, warmth. Into that restaurant, come people who drag the most disparate experiences under their skin. Nevertheless, they always leave satisfied, restored. Osamu sacrifices sixteen hours - minimum - every single day to prepare food for strangers. That is love. It’s pure, complete and visceral dedication. Osamu has made the same self-destructive pact that Kiyoomi has made with volleyball. But still, how lucky are they, to have found something they’re willing to sacrifice everything for?
Kiyoomi joins him behind the counter, and washes his hands.
"I've already prepared the rice," Osamu says, then gives him a package of disposable gloves. Kiyoomi thanks him and slips them on.
Osamu stares at his hands. Then he points to his sleeves and says: "May I?"
Kiyoomi reflects for a moment. He reflects to remember if he has ever allowed someone to be that close to him. But he doesn't remember, so the answer is probably no.
Kiyoomi shrugs in a stiff nod of assent, his voice trapped in his throat. Osamu begins to roll up his right shirt sleeve until it reaches elbow height, then switches to the other arm. Osamu's fingertips brush his wrists.
Kiyoomi looks at his forehead, the tip of his nose, his dark eyelashes quivering. He shivers, and not from the cold. He just hopes Osamu won’t notice, but of course he does, because his gaze lingers on his bare skin. Still, he says nothing.
"How do we fill them?" Osamu asks him, backing away a step when he's finished.
"Umeboshi," Kiyoomi replies, without hesitation. Osamu laughs.
"You're obsessed. I want them with salmon."
Osamu fills two small basins with water. He places one next to Kiyoomi, and the other next to himself. Then he takes two smaller bowls and pours salt into them. Kiyoomi knows the process of making the onigiri, but he copies Osamu as a baby duck would do with his mum: he moistens his hands with water when Osamu does it and puts salt on his fingers when Osamu does it. Then he begins to shape his first onigiri.
"You're squeezing too much," Osamu says, with a smile. "Be gentler. They’ll get the shape anyway."
Kiyoomi nods and softens his hands. It's starting to be fun. It's starting to be relaxing.
"Tsumu and Shouyou-kun," Osamu says. "Are they together now?"
"I think so," Kiyoomi replies. "Yesterday they went to the aquarium. It was a date for sure, because Atsumu couldn't shut up about it. Why are you asking me? Atsumu doesn’t talk to you?"
"Not about Shouyou. Which is completely useless, since I come to know everything anyway, because I'm-
"Psychic," Kiyoomi concludes for him.
"His brother," Osamu corrects him. "But also psychic, yes."
Kiyoomi curves his lips. Then he darkens. "I still don’t get them."
"Who?"
"Atsumu and Hinata. It's just that- I mean, how do people fall in love?"
Osamu's eyes go wide. Kiyoomi feels his ears flush. It’s a question too intimate, his heart flinches as if it wants to run away.
"I don't think there’s only one answer," Osamu says. "I fall in love with people by making them something. Like, dinner."
"But you make dinner for hundreds of clients."
"Well, that's true. In fact, I like them all. I'm more in love with people who come back often, though. I have a ranking with all my favorite customers."
"Who’s in first place?"
"My brother," Osamu replies. "But don't tell him. He doesn't even pay, that jackass."
"In second place?"
"Kita-san. Rice comes from his farms, did you know that?"
Kiyoomi nods. Of course he knows. Atsumu proudly shouts it in the face of every person he meets. "In third place?"
Osamu grins like a fox. "You're still squeezing too much."
They eat in silence. Kiyoomi basks in the fragrant and warm atmosphere. It’s as if someone is hugging him. He feels relief in his bones, a soul close to his.
To cook is to create. In every bowl there’s a piece of Osamu. Therefore, while it’s true that Osamu likes all the people he prepares dinner for, is also true the opposite: every customer is in love with him. Every customer swallows, consciously or unconsciously, something of the chef, and of whoever worked to serve that specific meal. It kind of grosses Kiyoomi out, yet at the same time he can't help but be fascinated by how varied are, the ways to get inside someone's body and heart.
"Hey," Kiyoomi says, turning to look at him. "How about I cook something for you next time?"
*
Kiyoomi regrets inviting him. He regrets it so much that he is one step away from calling him to cancel. Motoya, however, stops him.
"You can't cancel. You like him."
Does he really? Is it really that simple, for some people? So natural?
"What scares you so much?"
Intimacy, Kiyoomi thinks. The thinning distance. Because it feels like a giant wave rushing over me. There's water everywhere, swirling, getting into my nose, my ears, my throat, and I drink and I do not breathe and I just go down.
I have always existed behind a line. But when that line collapses, when my space stops being only mine because it also becomes someone else's, then I become afraid. And watching helplessly another person walking toward me and coming close, so close that they can touch me and see the precise color of my eyes, is terrifying. It’s not that I am afraid of what others might do to me, I am afraid of what I might give, and lose. As if, accidentally, parts of my body might crumble and end up inside someone else's mouth. How do I take them back, afterward?
Intimacy means that, not just receiving, but mostly giving, there’s that inescapable exchange that annihilates me, because I have always been used to being whole, and always, always being the same. Intimacy, however, changes you. Contaminates you. The contact with people implies a metamorphosis that can be evolution or involution, and I am afraid of becoming something different from what I know.
I am afraid to open my arms and feel on my back hands that are not mine. To feel on my cheeks lips that are not mine. To feel a soul knocking against my ribs that is different from mine. I am afraid of transformation. I am afraid of tearing myself open and allowing someone else to see inside me.
"Life sucks," Motoya says. Kiyoomi stops thinking and blinks. "But some people are wonderful. Let them in."
*
肉じゃが
Nikujaga
Preparation:
Cut the onions, the carrots, and the potatoes. Remove the sharp edges of the potatoes with a knife to create smooth corners (this cutting technique is called mentori , it prevents the potatoes from breaking into pieces during cooking). Soak them in water to remove the starch. Cut roughly the shirataki noodles in half and blanch them in a pot of boiling water for 1 minute, then drain well and set aside. Cut the beef into thin slices. Preheat a large pot, add oil and sauté the onion wedges, then add the meat and let it cook until no longer pink. Add the potatoes and coat them well with the cooking liquid. Add the carrot pieces and shirataki noodles and mix everything together. Add the dashi broth, making sure there is enough liquid to almost cover all the ingredients (if not, add water). Cover with a lid and continue to cook. Once boiling, add the sugar, sake, soy sauce and mirin. Mix everything together and place an otoshibuta (drop lid) to hold the ingredients in place (vegetables break easily when they bump into each other). Simmer on low heat for 12 to 14 minutes, then turn off the heat and let it rest (uncovered) for 30-60 minutes before serving.
*
The magic is not kept inside the restaurant, but inside Osamu. Obviously Kiyoomi knew, but he still feels strange when Osamu sits in front of him and suddenly the kitchen stops being his kitchen and becomes Onigiri Miya's. This time, though, Kiyoomi is the chef, Kiyoomi serves dinner. His wrist trembles as he hands Osamu the bowl.
Osamu thanks him.
"This is-
"Nikujaga," Kiyoomi anticipates him. He blushes as he says it.
"Why nikujaga?"
A painful weight sinks into his stomach. "You don't like it?"
"Of course I like it. I like everything. I was just curious."
Kiyoomi shrugs his shoulders. "It was the most useful recipe to make use of the ingredients I had at home."
Osamu nods. "Fair," he says. Then he picks up his chopsticks.
"Actually," Kiyoomi spits out hurriedly, and Osamu stops. "I made it because it's the recipe that makes me feel better in December. So I thought maybe it would make you feel better too. And it's the only thing I can prepare decently. You know, I don't really like cooking."
Shut up, a voice in his head hisses. Why are you telling him these things?
But he can't stop.
"I only cook because home-prepared food is healthier and more complete than prepackaged one, therefore it's better for my body, especially considering my training. But cooking bores me, I don't enjoy experimenting with new recipes, and I don't even put care into it. I just want to prepare something edible without setting the house on fire."
Osamu laughs. "Still fair," he repeats. Then he puts the first piece of meat in his mouth. Kiyoomi stares at Osamu anxiously as he chews and swallows. He wonders if the meat is soft enough. If the potatoes are salty enough.
"I think you put a lot of care into preparing this, though," Osamu says. "Because it tastes really good."
Kiyoomi glows. One day, I’m going to kiss you, he thinks shocked.
"Well, it's not like I could cook you something gross. I mean, you’re a great chef. I had to try my best."
"Food is never gross. Except when it's poisoned, but I don't think you want to poison me," Osamu winks, then turns serious again. "Did you find it any different? Cooking for someone, I mean."
Kiyoomi ponders. It was, indeed, different. He enjoyed it. Not cooking, but doing something for someone else. Putting something of himself, something warm, inside a pot. Giving. Transmitting.
Osamu smiles as if he’s just read his mind, and that’s probably what he has done. Osamu knows the language of cooking like his own fingers. Therefore, rather than being psychic, Osamu is good at understanding people by the way they eat and the way they prepare a meal for someone.
"Can I ask you a question?"
Kiyoomi nods.
"You don't like crowded places. You also don't like eating at restaurants. So why do you keep coming to mine?"
Kiyoomi stares at him.
Because everything in there tastes so good, he thinks. Because I like the colors of the walls. Because I feel safe. Because it smells nice. Because it feels like home. Because I really, really like you.
*
Osamu invites him again to his restaurant during the closing day.
"Look, it's a date," he specifies. "Let's eat and have a drink, and then we can- I don’t know, go to the cinema. Do you like the cinema? It’s too crowded, isn’t it? Wait, we can book an entire row just for us. Or, let's just walk around. Let's go through the hidden side streets and discover new places. It’s too cold, I know. Then let's go to my place and play Mario Kart. Or watch a series. Or we can stay at the restaurant and make ourselves something to eat again. Something sweet, like cheesecake. I love cheesecake."
Osamu blushes. It is inevitable. Kiyoomi looks at him a little bewildered. Then, slowly, he nods. And smiles. He looks so happy. Osamu dies.
Osamu likes to eat. He has a voracious and unquenchable appetite. And what he wants to do besides satiating people, paradoxically, is to arouse in them that same hunger, that burning desire for good things. Osamu wants to enthuse. Intrigue. Push people to experiment.
Osamu looks at Kiyoomi and wants to touch him. He wants to touch his hands, his tapered fingers, his long neck, the soft skin of his forearms, his cheeks, the moles on his forehead, his shiny black eyelashes. It's just that there’s so much magic in touching a body.
But he doesn't know if he can do it. Kiyoomi always seems a little far away, as if he were underwater. And Osamu doesn't want to scare him off with his impetuosity, so he waits, and while he waits he cooks, because that's what he does best. It’s the best thing he can do to communicate. He creates intimacy with the steam and the pots and pans and the steady sound of the knife as he slices potatoes, meat, carrots, fish, and onions. He creates intimacy with shared meals. Osamu nests, basting twigs with the golden color of sautéing, of dashi broth boiling.
That night, too, Kiyoomi helps him. He cuts the tofu while Osamu slices the cabbage.
When all the ingredients are in the big pot, Osamu pours the dashi broth, closes the lid, and waits.
Kiyoomi waits next to him. Osamu stares at his profile, the shape of his nose, his lips, and everything begins to sing and the urge to get closer becomes unbearable, it overflows. Isn't there a way, a loophole, that allows him to gently enter underwater and reach him? Without jumping, without splashing, isn't there a way to thin out like a sheet of paper and slip into the sea barely rippling the surface of the ocean - and then take Kiyoomi's hand, and squeeze it?
But Osamu is noisy. The only delicacy he knows is while cooking, yet when his hands stop holding ingredients or ladles or knives, he no longer knows where to place them, what to do with them, or how to move them.
Kiyoomi turns to look at him. And maybe he's a little psychic too, because he understands everything, because he first brushes his hand and then takes it, his ears red but his eyes steady, animated by a luminous curiosity. It's Kiyoomi who comes out of the water, and meets Osamu on the sand.