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Wednesday, September 2nd, is Yata's turn to take the garbage out.
He and Kammamoto have been sharing an apartment since the start of last semester, and it's nice. They split the bills, they study together when one of them is stuck (Yata is working towards a degree in Business Management, and Kammamoto is looking forward to a B.S in Marine Biology in the spring), and chores go by a lot faster when there are two people to do them.
When he walks around to the side of their building that night, he tosses the trash in, and turns away, and hears a muffled "FUCK!" emanate from the dumpster.
He turns back, wary. Was he hearing things? Did Kammamoto put something in the takeout?
If he wasn't so confused and/or concerned, he might have turned around and walked back into the apartment. But as it was, he stayed; long enough to watch two spindly hands emerge from the dumpster, then haul up a scrawny torso, and legs Yata could have broken with his pinkie finger.
The dark-haired dumpster-diver dropped down to the pavement. (With a plastic bag full of things?) and narrowed his eyes at Yata when he straightened up.
"Did you throw that bag on my head?"
Yata pauses. "I...guess?"
The glasses weirdo huffs. "You should be more careful when you throw your trash away."
"Huh? Was I supposed to know you were in there or something?!"
"It wouldn't hurt to check beforehand." He sounds more condescending by the second, his stupid long legs forcing Yata to look up at him, and he can feel the urge to punch this guy in the face tingling in both his arms.
"Keh, whatever." He shrugs instead, pivoting and walking back into the building. Man, wait until Kammamoto hears about this...
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The next time Yata sees Trashguy (as he's taken to calling him when he tells the story at parties) he's not covered in garbage. (He also does not look far too stunning in a suit.)
"What the hell are you doing here?!?" He splutters, ignoring a nervous-looking line chef holding a tub of onions. Trashguy smirks. (annoying. condescending. hot)
"Well, well, well. Look who shows up...Yata-chan?"
"The hell do you care?!?" Yata growls back, and the damn prick raises his nose even higher.
"Aah, did Kusanagi-san not tell you about the prodigy avant-garde artist he hired to help decorate this place?"
"What? Don't wave your credentials at me, Trashy-kun, I'm a goddamn sous chef at twenty-one, if you think that doesn't take talent and effort--"
"Yata-chan! Fushimi-chan!" They both freeze and turn to Kusanagi, smiling brightly. "Good, you two have met. I want to make sure you're both aware that you both will be assisting Mikoto with the dishes from now on." Oh, god. "Your areas of expertise are different, but do try to get along? Maintaining the image of a high-end restaurant is just as important as making sure the food put out is top quality." His teeth are blindingly bright, and Yata doesn't like the implication that hanging out with Trash; no, Fushimi-kun is going to become a regular part of his life. Yet, he notes with satisfaction, they both have to look up to look Kusanagi in the eye.
It's the little things, after all.
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Months pass. The fall semester ends; winter break is busy as hell at the restaurant, but some of Yata's favorite things to cook are thick stews and warm bread, so the overtime in the kitchen makes up for itself. He and Fushimi get along better now than they did before. It turns out that the trash he dug out of Yata's dumpster went into a sculpture that someone paid 85,000 yen for, which amuses Yata to no end, and with Mikoto mediating their battles over flavor versus flair, hanging out with him is almost fun. (Not that you could get him to admit that)
It's late, a day before New Year's eve. Akagi and Andy convince everyone in the kitchen that they should go out for drinks at a bar one of their girlfriends waitresses at. Yata is just happy he can finally legally take part in kitchen chill time; he has far too many memories of being left behind as a teenager.
They're gathered around a bunch of tables pushed together, laughing rowdily. Everyone is sharing stories; girlfriends, boyfriends, datemates, college escapades. Eric keep calling Yata a fucking chihuahua again, and before long Bandou is holding him back. "FUCK, you lightweight, you're gonna get us kicked out if you start an actual brawl---!"
"Of course you would be the cause of all this noise." The sharp observation freezes Yata in his spot, and before Bandou can grab him again he spins around.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was invited." Fushimi says, simply, and Yata knows the line chefs he's been talking to lately must have thought he would like to hang out with the rest of them.
Presentation is how they present themselves to the diners, after all.
Fushimi shrugs and pivots. "If I'm not wanted, I'll just leave."
Yata gulps, because Fuck that's not what I meant, and the way Fushimi said that; like he's used to it. It leaves Yata feeling like he swallowed a cannonball.
It's colder than the meat freezer outside without a jacket on, and his breath puffs around his cheeks as he runs to catch up with the other man, his shorter legs pumping faster.
"Oi! Wait up!"
Fushimi turns, eyes wide, but relaxes into his usual contemptuous stare. "What do you want?" Yata slows to a halt in front of him, narrowing his eyes.
The truth is, he doesn't know. He's pretty sure he wants Fushimi to come back to the bar, right? Plus he should like; apologize. Even though Fushimi was the one who misunderstood him in the first place. Or is it Yata's fault for sounding too hostile? Fuck, maybe it's Eric's fault for riling him up.
They stand there like that for a while, the beeps of traffic and laughs of people surrounding them like a fog. Yata's forehead wrinkles, trying to put words to the feeling in his stomach and why he ran after some random coworker in the middle of winter.
"Fuck...I dunno." He shifts, rolls his head, groans. "I didn't mean to...sound angry or whatever. It's just kinda how I sound most of the time. Yanno?"
Fushimi is quiet, hands deep in his pockets, watching him. Yata is still fidgeting with his feet, regretting leaving his coat behind.
"Man, will you just say something?" He finally bursts. "I never fuckin' know what's going on in your head! Do you hate me? What the hell??"
Fushimi is still silent when he takes off his scarf and offers it.
He takes it.
"There's..." His voice isn't sharp, or condescending; he sounds like a human being, finally.
"There was a nice-looking dark malt on the menu back at that bar." Fushimi is glancing to the side, now. Is the red on his cheeks from the cold, or is he blushing too?
"You like malts? I'm more of an lager guy."
"That figures."
"What? Why?
Fushimi is smirking- no, grinning -as he sweeps past him. "Well, it's a beer of the masses, isn't it?"
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?! You little--!"
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When spring rolls around, the items on the menu celebrate. Salads, vinaigrettes, early fish and vegetables. Fushimi loves plating these, making the chefs finishing them off scatter the cilantro or toasted walnuts or bean sprouts exactly right. Yata likes watching him wear an emotion that isn't neutral or annoyed.
He can feel Fushimi's eyes on him too, sometimes, when he's talking a new hire through julienning vegetables or creating the proper base for the proper soup.
When Kammamoto graduates, Yata's waiting with a bottle of champagne (that Fushimi helped him pick at a liquor store on the way back to their apartment.) He's happy for his friend! He can't stop kissing the cute girl on his arm or waving the damn scrap of paper around, and it looks like a dream come true. But Yata finds himself dreading the move out. It's not that he can't afford the rent; the restaurant has been doing well, and he just got a raise last week. It's that living with someone else has been so nice. He'll miss the shared dinners, the split chores; even fighting over which predictable action movie to watch.
The melancholy follows him to work, but as soon as he's standing over the soup pot, meticulously adjusting spices in a seafood stew, he feels at peace.
Maybe that's why he does something stupid.
Fushimi is hovering over the prep cooks; he recently decided that he wanted to do an abstract painting series on the contrast of 'polished steel and imperfect vegetables'.
"Yo, Fushimi."
"Hm? What do you need?"
"Come to dinner."
"Huh? I can't, I have a consult with Kusanagi-san about changing the lighting fixtures in the entry-"
"Not tonight!" Fushimi turns to face him, puzzled.
"What do you mean, then?"
"My next day off is Wednesday." Yata stares up at him defiantly, blessing the gap in his classes and the second sous Kusanagi finally hired. "Come to my place for dinner."
Fushimi keeps blinking at him like he doesn't quite understand what he means. "Why..."
"'Cause I wanna fuckin' go on a date with you!" Yata flushes, hand going to the back of his neck. "Damn..."
He's quiet. The rest of the kitchen is pointedly ignoring them.
"Does seven o'clock work?" Fushimi almost whispers.
"Hah?"
"If we're going on a date, we need to set a time." He drawls, more like his usual self. "It's generally agreed upon that for a date, two people need to be there, so a time needs to be set-"
"Seven is fine." Yata states flatly, before spinning back to his stew. He can feel the other's eyes burning into his back; fuck, the entire kitchen is staring at him, aren't they?
"Pah...Needs more red pepper."
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Yata makes his mom's standby curry. The presentation is sloppy, but Fushimi still mumbles "It's delicious" after the first few bites.
He feels like he could quarter and core the world.