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Awakening to a cold feel wasn’t a foreign experience for Rosho. Sometimes, he’d wake up earlier than usual, during the chillier hour of the morning, or wake up without a blanket draped over him because he had passed out from exhaustion the previous day. Either way, they’re both cold situations.
Around god-knows-what-time in the morning, when Rosho woke up with a slightly sore body and freezing from head to toe, he realized there wasn’t a blanket enveloping him in warmth. Instead, he found a pair of arms wrapped around him. There was a leg sprawled over his legs, and Rosho felt the mass this other thing had put on him. He realized how tight these arms had held him, thus restricting his movements, and how they could only belong to one particular person he had in mind.
Well, he was more shocked to find himself shirtless—and that his missing shirt was not on the ground but instead worn by this koala that latched onto him like he was a treasure, and Rosho let out a grumpy groan. He tried to wriggle himself out of the grip, but to no avail; the grip was not an iron grip or something like that, but it was comical how it could hold him down.
A loud pounding surged in Rosho’s head all of a sudden. His (barely) free hand quickly pressed itself to his temple and tried to suppress at least enough pain away to be able to get himself out and up. He groaned; he was annoyed.
Whatever happened yesterday was a blur. Rosho barely remembered much besides the part where he and Sasara played in the rain and when they ate snacks beforehand. He thought to himself, trying to recall anything he could know, but the headache was as irritating as the bear hug-giving koala that held him in place.
His glasses were on the bedside table of a room he’s gradually remembering. Even with squinted eyes, he could barely make out the alarm clock on the floor, let alone the exact time. It took him a quick stretch to grab his glasses, then wore them, and saw that it was six in the morning.
He was surprised that after what he reluctantly assumed was a drinking night with Sasara, he could still wake up at six. He’s impressed at how early it was. He still doesn’t remember what happened, why he isn’t wearing a shirt, or why Sasara was wearing his shirt. Hell, why was he on Sasara’s bed? And why wasn’t this deep-sleeping koala being a good host and giving him the blanket?
Instead of thinking about all of those, Rosho decided he should get out of bed. And put on a shirt. He elbow-jabbed Sasara’s stomach as a last resort attempt, and while he was sorry about how cruel that might’ve been, he was glad the koala let go of his grasp and allowed him to escape swiftly. Since he didn’t have a spare shirt, nor was there a shirt on the floor, Rosho opened Sasara’s colorful closet. He opted to “borrow” the first shirt he could spot (a clean, weirdly striped shirt) and wore it. Perfect, let’s get the day started.
Inhale, exhale. Rosho huffed out a heavy, tired gasp, and he could smell a faint scent of alcohol. Beer, probably. From yesterday. He wondered how strongly they had drank the night away. The curtains were closed in the dark bedroom, and Rosho didn’t dare open them when he saw how comfortable Sasara was while sleeping. He looked cozy. Ridiculously cozy , at least for someone who had played in the rain the previous day while claiming he wanted it to stop.
He tip-toed out of the bedroom, flinching when the door creaked rather loudly, and instinctively held his breath. He looked at Sasara, who was still asleep, and relief washed over him. Once it shut back, he exhaled as he began to head toward the kitchen.
It’s a clean kitchen, lest a few parts here and there that Sasara uses often. Rosho understood that he was a busy guy, so it was natural to have only a few dirty areas. He’ll remind himself to clean up for him. He opened Sasara’s rice cooker and was put at ease when he found enough cold rice for two servings.
Ignoring that this rice could be around 15 hours old (maybe more), Rosho took enough out of the cooker and set them aside. Next was the toppings he could use and some other spices that Sasara hopefully had in his refrigerator. The cool air hit his face, along with the revelation of how oddly expensive-looking and good quality Sasara’s refrigerator was. Also, he was at a loss over how little it had in store. There were chicken, seafood, leftovers, canned food, and half a cake. That’s about it at a glance. Rosho hoped there could be more.
His pained smile grew when he found only one egg and two sausages had remained. Incredible. Rosho never knew someone could live like this. Does Sasara eat out that often? At least he could be at ease again after he had found some vegetables in the bottom drawer.
Regardless, he took out the egg, sausages, vegetables, chicken, and seafood and placed them all on the counter. Sasara had garlic, scallions, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Standing there with his hands on his hips, Rosho tilted his head in trying to figure out what he could do. Hopefully, something simple would suffice because Rosho wasn’t a renowned chef, nor was he overly confident with his skills in the kitchen; he’s simply a math teacher who sometimes overhears home economics class.
Rosho began by chopping a few cloves of garlic on a cutting board. It went well, despite the scent jabbing his nose. The pan and oil had already begun to heat up, and Rosho quickly threw the chopped garlic inside. He stirred it around a little as he moved the chopping board closer to the stove to lessen his movements.
He chopped up the scallions, praying he didn’t overdo it, before moving on and shredding the chicken. He wasn’t sure what to use shrimps for, though. Would the flavor even work if he were to put them together? Not to mention the egg and the sausases.
He prayed for the best and cracked the egg once he could smell a distinctive, cooked garlic scent through the room. It sizzled for a while until Rosho scrambled it around. Not long after, he added the rest of the toppings, lest the scallions. A smile formed on his face; it was going well.
Next was the rice and the sauces. Soy sauce was a must, but along with it, Rosho found oyster sauce and teriyaki sauce in Sasara’s cupboard. He took both, of course, because they both tasted good. He’s never mixed both, but maybe, it wouldn’t taste so bad.
If it didn’t? He’ll just say it’s revenge for leaving him out freezing in the morning.
After Rosho had finished stirring around the rice, mixing it with the other ingredients well, he added the soy sauce. A sweet scent filled the room again, and Rosho nodded excitedly. He continued with the oyster sauce and the teriyaki sauce together, with each type at half the amount one type would usually be. He mixed them all carefully, all to not spill them.
As he hummed one of his group songs, he felt something tug on his waist. It yanked the shirt he wore a few times before wrapping itself around in a warm hug. Rosho jumped in surprise, nearly smacking the spatula he was using on the poor guy.
“Wha—What are you doing?!” Rosho shouted.
“What are you doing?!” Sasara said through his pout. “This is my kitchen!”
Rosho fell silent, frowning. “You were sleeping like a log. I don’t think I could wake you up even if I tried,” he said, eyes returning to the dish. “I got hungry. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah,” Sasara answered. He sat down, burying his face in Rosho’s waist. “Gimme a serving.”
“Then how about you get the table ready,” Rosho requested.
“Later,” Sasara replied, stubbornly holding Rosho in place. “I’m still sleepy.”
Rosho doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t push the clingy guy off him. For some reason, he’s excellent company for him; the kitchen feels less lonely now. Strange, though, because this wasn’t even his kitchen—to begin with, this wasn’t even his house . He doesn’t come here often either, only once in a while, and if compared to how often Sasara crashed in his place, it was child’s play.
Sasara clung tighter, and Rosho realized he didn’t mind Sasara clinging to him. He enjoys seeing the different side of him: a more quiet and reserved, but still exudes the warmth and energy he always does. As annoying and uncontrollable as Sasara can get, as ridiculous as he can be, there was something of him that Rosho won’t trade for even the entire world. He hasn’t gotten the big image yet, but he’s getting there.
“Do you want food or not,” Rosho hits Sasara’s forehead with the end of the spatula, lightly. “Get the table ready.”
“Okay! Okay! Come out when I tell you it’s the time!”
Sasara disappeared out of the kitchen in a rush, laughing to himself boisterously. Rosho shook his head and heaved a sigh. He turned the stove off and grabbed two clean plates. Then he evenly served each portion, garnishing them with chopped scallions. He took a whiff of the hot, sweet, and salty scent, which was enough for him to be sure that it was ready. Now all that’s left is to hope Sasara likes it.
"Sasara," Rosho called from the kitchen, "you done yet?"
"Hold on—one second!" Loud thumping noises were coming from outside. Sasara must be rushing. "A little bit—okay!"
Rosho’s head peered out the doorway with two plates set in his hand. He’s surprised at how clean and neat the table was despite Sasara running around trying to finish it quickly. And Sasara was already seated with a big grin, like a child anticipating his mother’s deliciously home-cooked meal.
“I don’t know if it’ll taste good because I used whatever’s in your deserted refrigerator, but,” Rosho placed each plate down, “I hope it’s to your liking.”
“I’m sure it’ll taste good!” Sasara brightly answered.
“But say,” he continued, “are fried rice meant to be this… dark?”
Rosho, nervous about cooking, finally looked at his dish: a dark—almost black, even—fried rice with unevenly cooked spots. He could barely hold his smile, blinking several times in disbelief that he could mess up such a simple dish.
“S-sorry,” Rosho quickly apologized, lowering his head. “I must’ve added too much of the sauce on accident….”
“No! No, no—look!” Sasara scooped a spoonful and shoved it into his mouth. He took his time chewing, letting the flavor settle on his tongue before proudly swallowing everything. “It’s—it’s not that bad. It’s pretty good, Rosho!”
Rosho’s eyes flickered upwards. “You’re not saying that out of pity?”
“I don’t have a reason to do that, do I?”
“Okay,” Rosho exhaled and began to eat as well.
They ate in peace, accompanied by the mess from the previous night scatted all over the floor and the bright morning sun that beamed through the open curtains. A lingering alcohol scent danced in the air. Rosho found it funny how it added flavor to his dish.
There was a sense of domesticity (? He wasn’t sure) from them—for Rosho, at least. As if he had belonged in the seat he was sitting in all along. An odd feeling, but welcomed, despite the sea of beer cans, disastrously presented food, and—a rock?
“What is this rock doing on the table?” Rosho asked.
As if he got offended by the question, Sasara dropped his spoon on his plate, causing a loud noise in the room. “Rosho!” he shouted dramatically, both hands on his mouth. “That is our son!”
“...pardon? Am I missing the joke?”
“This is our son, Rosho!” Sasara stated, again. “Our beloved son, Azalea!”
Rosho blinked. “It seems I’m not following, but,” Rosho puts his spoon down, “are you still drunk? Do you need me to grab you water?”
Sasara took the rock in his hands and embraced it. He gave it light pets and kisses and held it close to his face. Rosho thought he needed a bit more sleep.
“How could you say that?!” his tone was surprisingly fitting for a role of a betrayed wife. “I’ve raised him alone for so long, and yet, when you finally meet him, this is how you act?! I’m ashamed!”
Rosho squinted his eyes and rubbed his forehead, followed by him pinching Sasara’s nose. “I’m borrowing your couch after this. I think I need a few more hours of sleep….”
Sasara broke into a fit of laughter, and Rosho could only watch with a smile of forfeit. “What?” he asked, “I woke up at six.”
“It’s only almost seven, y’know. Six forty!” Sasara exclaimed. “And haven’t you been told that it’s not good to lay down and sleep after you finish eating?”
“I have, but your absurdity’s making me digest my food faster.”
“I’m just doing my job, teach!”
In an attempt to ignore Sasara’s remarks, Rosho ate another spoonful.
It was a quiet meal again. Azalea sat on Sasara’s side of the table. Rosho took a glance, and oddly, he felt like a pair of rock eyes were staring at him, sending shivers down his spine. A rock, he reminded himself, that’s a rock.
“Say, Rosho,” Sasara was the first to break the silence. Their plates were nearly clean. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could do this every day?”
“You’re asking too much from me,” Rosho answered.
“But,” he continued, “you’re right. It’d be nice.”
Sasara perked up. “Whaddya think of living here one day?”
“Hm?"
At this point, Rosho was too busy trying to finish his meal. He’s starting to taste the uneven flavor of his cooking. There was oyster sauce in one; in another, it was teriyaki with an atrocious amount of soy sauce (so that’s where the soy sauce in one of Sasara’s spoonfuls went). Maybe he should learn how to cook more. If he were to do that, then Sasara would enjoy his food.
Wait.
Rosho’s movements came to a sudden halt, his hand barely reaching his mouth. His head shot up, mouth hanging open in disbelief. He blinked a few times, and Rosho thought his brain just went through a forced reboot. Could he be growing old faster than other people his age? Because he swore that he had misheard.
“What did you say?”
“I asked if you want to live here.”
Rosho knew very well that he was making a funny face. It’s probably his smile being wonky and awkward, but hey, it’s justified because what the fuck . Sasara didn’t even show a single look of hesitation saying that—which ultimately made Rosho extra flustered.
“What?! Why would you ask that?!” Rosho let his spoon fall. “I—I mean, well…?! I d-don’t know?!”
Sasara broke into another laughing fit. “Y-your face!” he cried, “that’s priceless! Oh, I’m so glad to be alive!”
“Sasara,” Rosho hissed. He lowered his face to hide it. “Why would you ask that…”
“Well, Rosho,” Sasara smiled with his chin resting on his hands. “I want to eat more of your fried rice!”
“That’s not some—”
“And then I wanna laze around while bothering you grade your student’s grades. I also want to nap after eating your cooking. I also want to play in the rain with you again. And then sleep while you hug me—sorry, I sound weird.”
Rosho suddenly got up to his feet and walked towards Sasara. He stopped briefly, and suddenly he enveloped him in a tight hug.
“D-don’t look at my face, but listen to me,” he said and inhaled, “I’d… love to live with you, but not now. Give me a bit more time, please.”
Sasara, in shock, exhaled and smiled, resting his head on Rosho’s body. “Okay,” he nodded, “I’ll wait. Take your time. But please come home to me this time, yeah?”
Truthfully, Rosho is afraid of how long it’ll take him. He’s scared of leaving Sasara, and he’s sure Sasara is as well. He takes in another deep breath, arms still tightly holding the comedian.
“Yeah, okay,” Rosho forfeits. Unwillingly, he had to let go of the hug. He took a glance at Sasara’s clean plate and chuckled.
“I didn’t know you ate fast.”
“When you hop from studio to studio, you’ve got to be able to chomp from food to food.”
Rosho picked up the plate, then his, and looked at Sasara. “Are you free today?”
Sasara nodded.
“Good, take me to the place where you found Azalea. Let’s go sightseeing today,” Rosho invited. “Oh, but clean up this mess first. I’m going to do the dishes.”
And just like a bribed child, Sasara jumped to his feet with a big grin. He giggled and cheered, running to the living room to pick up the scattered trash. Rosho snorted as he made his way to the kitchen. There was going to be a lot of cleaning.
The television flickered on with one press of a button. Before Sasara could change the channel to an entertainment one he frequents, he listened to the airing news. Turns out today’s weather was going to be bright and sunny.