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When he was a kid, Uruha didn’t care all that much for food.
He ate, of course, when his parents told him to at home and later when Samura or Shirakai told him to at the dojo, but he didn’t think all that much about it. He wasn’t the kind of kid who would beg for sweets or takeout. He liked some foods more than others – rich, savoury things like omurice or sticky teriyaki sauces – but he wasn’t clamouring for them at every meal. He was just too energetic; food was something for him to shovel down so he could get on with the next thing. He had a busy schedule!
Shirakai found this hilarious. He bellowed with laugher when Uruha inhaled his food, barely chewing, and slapped his big hands on his thighs.
“Let him go!” he would say when Uruha looked expectantly across the table at his teacher and his teacher’s teacher. “More time for him to study!”
“It took me ages to cook that,” Samura complained. It wasn’t always the same complaint, but Samura was sensitive about his cooking because he was trying to impress some girl who apparently cared about that sort of thing, so usually he liked Shirakai and Uruha to be his test subjects. Whatever. Uruha didn’t mind, though he thought it was gross when Samura got all moony about some lady, like she was more interesting than Iai White Purity Style.
Meals were just something that he had to get through, in essence. His day didn’t revolve around them. They revolved around the sword, and his footwork, and learning.
He had bigger concerns than food.
When he got older, this didn’t change.
Uruha was seventeen when Kunishige Rokuhira handed him Kumeyuri. He told him that it suited him, and looked at him with such a fierce conviction that Uruha felt spellbound. When he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword he told himself that he had something to fight for now; he wasn’t just trying to be the best, chasing after Samura and getting left behind as he surged ahead of him with his skills. Now he could fight for Rokuhira, and he would fight for him until the end.
Once again, meals became something of an inconvenience that got in the way of everything else he had to do.
This time, though, there was a lot less innocence to it. They were at war, after all.
Uruha didn’t understand how the other soldiers had an appetite. Other soldiers, he thought of them as, even though they would throw themselves into the line of fire to protect him and be replaced the next day. He didn’t even know most of their names, the ones who were in the unit assigned to him. They briskly set up camps and made meals of military rations. When Uruha ate, everything was tasteless. It was like cardboard on his tongue, and it seemed to take him forever to finish anything.
The others, though, ate like it was the last meal they would ever have. It was the last meal, for some of them. They would eat their meagre, disappointing little portions and they would go on and die the next day. It was sickening, and the only reason Uruha ate was because he knew that he needed to keep up his strength in order to fight at his best.
Food was fuel, in wartime.
Uruha supposed that it could be something more. When they would stay at the military bases, there would be chances for proper meals. Not good meals, but better than the rations that they ate on the road. At these meals Uruha would watch everyone eating and smiling, joking and laughing with each other, making an event of it. It was a way to snatch little pieces of happiness from the twisted, barbed terror of the reality they all lived in, but he couldn’t find it in himself to enjoy it the way they all did.
He preferred to take meals alone, when he could. If they were at a base then he would take a plate and steal off to come darkened, cobwebbed corner where he could chew and chew and chew (and chew and chew and chew) as his meat went cold and his rice turned gluey. It wasn’t nice food, but Uruha ate it anyway, because he had to. He knew that if he didn’t then he wouldn’t be able to swing his sword, or pour his reserves of spirit energy into Kumeyuri, or melt into the shadows to creep behind enemy lines for a sneak attack.
Uruha wasn’t sure how the others fared when it came to this, the other wielders. They weren’t often deployed alongside each other; the battlefield was wide, and they were only six. They had different skillsets, too. Kumeyuri wasn’t Tobimune and Tobimune wasn’t Kuregumo. None of them were Magatsumi, and if Uruha was being honest with himself he didn’t think he even wanted to be near Magatsumi. Sometimes he wondered if Samura was still sensitive about his cooking, if he was thinking about his wife while he picked at the flavourless rations every night, if he was thinking about the comforting, warm, rich meals she would make for him when he finally came home.
Once, he met someone who understood. He was at a military base – one of the nameless, unrecognisable places he was shuttled to on the way to go and unleash Play or Banquet on the enemy troops – and he was eating a sandwich made with slightly stale bread and plasticky ham, standing outside under the light of the moon. He was leaning against the wall, feeling the cool night air on his skin and chewing his tasteless food into paste, when he saw someone he recognised.
“Executioner,” he said.
Soshiro Azami turned and scowled at him. Uruha winced; maybe that nickname wasn’t one he welcomed. He didn’t know Azami well, but he’d met him, and he knew of him. Mostly his impression of him was of someone with a terrifying reputation, but also someone who was Rokuhira’s friend. He was still starstruck enough by Rokuhira that he wanted to associate with absolutely anyone who was in his orbit.
“Yoji Uruha,” Azami said, strolling over to him with his black robes billowing. He was only around Uruha’s age, yet he was a colonel. Most people found him intimidating; it wasn’t uncommon to hear young new recruits talking in hushed whispers about what the Executioner would do if you stepped out of line.
“Sorry,” Uruha said with a grimace.
“Why are you out here?” said Azami. He folded his arms and stood before Uruha, and the shadow of the wall that fell on him painted his face in darkness. Creepy. Uruha shivered.
“I don’t like eating with everyone.” Uruha looked down at the half-eaten sandwich in his hand. The ham glistened unpleasantly in the dim light, fleshy and pink. It was protein, that was what Uruha told himself, and he needed protein to stay strong. He wrinkled his nose and took another bite, chewing slowly as Azami watched with his head tilted.
“I get it, you know,” he said. He nodded to the sandwich and scowled. “Sort of loses its appeal when you spend each day up to your elbows in blood.”
Uruha swallowed. The sandwich went down slowly; he could feel it sliding down his oesophagus and into his stomach, sitting heavy there like lead. “Any tips?” he asked.
“Nope,” Azami said, shrugging and smiling sadly. “You’ll just have to deal with it.”
He walked away before Uruha could so much as think of a response to that. With his dark hair and dark clothes, he melted into the shadows. Uruha wondered if he would actually go and get himself anything to eat, or if he would head straight to the showers, to wash off the blood that Uruha hadn’t actually seen but was certain was there.
The rest of the sandwich went down, eventually.
And Uruha went back to war.
The weeks went by, and then the months. The days all seemed to blend into one, long and grey and eternal, though in reality the end came in less than a year.
After that?
After the war ended, Uruha returned to an ordinary life.
Or, something that resembled an ordinary life. He wanted to fight for Rokuhira, but now that was over. He gave Kumeyuri back to its maker and he went to go and live in the city. It wasn’t so bad. He definitely let his skills slip; he barely trained anymore. It didn’t seem important; it was as though his whole life had been spent getting ready for Seitei, and now it was over he was at a loose end.
Subaru opened up a restaurant. Uruha went there sometimes, mostly because Subaru invited him. He would present him with simple dishes, emphasising the quality of the ingredients he used. Uruha ate them and made exaggerated faces to show him how delicious it was. Subaru laughed and told him to take acting classes.
So, Uruha did.
He took acting classes, then he joined a theatre, and all of a sudden he had something to do with his time. He had friends and a community, though it often felt like he was standing in shallow, ankle deep water with them. They would never know him, the way that Samura and Subaru and Rokuhira did. But they were nice, and he liked them well enough. He liked this life well enough.
But whenever it was Uruha’s turn to pick the restaurant they went to, he chose one at random. Sometimes his friends would laugh at that; they thought he was adventurous.
The truth was that the few preferences Uruha had had when he was young had simply never come back after the war. He didn’t care what he ate. It was all military rations to him.
Oh well. Everyone lost something.
And fifteen years later, Kunishige Rokuhira was lost, too.
Uruha almost didn’t believe it when they told him. A blonde Kamunabi agent sat across from him with a stern expression on his youthful face and said something about the Hishaku and a murder and how Uruha had worked hard to protect his country. Uruha shook his head. It couldn’t be true. But they would only be telling him this if it was true, and he collapsed on the tabletop and knocked over his cup of tea which might as well have just been hot water.
The Kamunabi agent – Fushimi, he’d said his name was – told Uruha that he would protect him. This time, he would protect him, the way Uruha had protected the country, or so he said.
Uruha barely heard him. When he was done being talked at he went to bed, and he stayed there.
He hadn’t had much of an appetite before, but Uruha had always made sure to eat healthily. Taking care of himself was important, so he ate a balanced diet of regular meals.
Now, though?
Now it didn’t matter at all.
Fushimi asked him if he wanted to eat with him and the other guards. Uruha said no. He brought him some food in his room, a bowl of what the others had had. It was rice and curry, with pickled vegetables and an egg. Uruha ate one bite of rice which stuck to the roof of his mouth and pushed the rest of it away.
The next day, Fushimi didn’t ask him if he wanted to join the men. Instead he brought him an orange for breakfast, which Uruha took and put next to his futon. He rolled it around as he lay there, and when Fushimi returned a few hours later to check on him, he picked it up and peeled it. Uruha ate several segments. It was good, but he didn’t say so.
Later that day, Fushimi brought him lunch, then dinner. For both meals he brought the same thing, a bowl of clear broth. Nourishing and easy on the stomach. The sort of food that sick people eat. He watched as Uruha slurped it down and took the bowl away.
It was strange. Uruha wasn’t used to being cared for.
Fushimi kept at it, too. Every morning he would bring him fruit – not always oranges, sometimes apples or bananas – and for lunch and dinner he would bring him soup. Sometimes the soups were different, but they were always salty and fragrant, and they didn’t bother his stomach. He didn’t need much energy, because he wasn’t doing anything, but he supposed it was a good thing that he wasn’t going to waste away. He had to stay alive for the sake of the sword, at least.
Being taken care of was strange for Uruha, but then something even stranger happened.
He started to enjoy his meals.
It was a slow thing. So slow, in fact, that he didn’t even realise it was happening for months. He’d grown so used to not tasting anything at all that he didn’t pay attention to what was he was putting in his mouth. He didn’t notice the sweetness of the oranges or the tartness of the apples. He didn’t notice that the chicken in the soup was lightly spiced or that the spring onions had a bite to them. He didn’t notice, and then one day he did notice.
Fushimi had brought him some chicken soup, and the chicken had been marinated in something that was savoury and rich and just a little bit sweet, and when he sipped the first spoonful he raised his eyebrows and said, “Mm, that’s pretty good.”
“Yeah?” Fushimi paused at the door, a hand on the frame, and grinned. “I made it myself, y’know.”
“That’s your job?” asked Uruha. “You’re the cook?”
Fushimi winked at him. “Sure am,” he said, and walked off.
Uruha knew he was joking, and it made him smile. It made him feel warm inside, or maybe that was just the soup. It was nice, though, and the next day Uruha bit the bullet and finally decided to eat with the men instead of in his room.
Fushimi hadn’t cooked that meal. One of the actual onsen staff had. It was rice and curry again, like that first day when Uruha hadn’t eaten, but this time he savoured every bite. The sauce was thick and spicy. The meat was tender and juicy. The vegetables still had a crunch to them. The rice was fluffy and light, not the sticky, claggy mush it had seemed to be before. There was fragrant pickled ginger and tangy pickled radish. It was good. Really good. So good that he ate two helpings, and when he finished Fushimi beamed at him.
He ate with the men every day after that. He was a bit of a pig, if he was being honest with himself. He couldn’t remember having enjoyed food like this, and he wondered why all of a sudden, now his appetite had decided to return.
“Let’s order takeout,” Fushimi said one day. Uruha had taken to hanging out with him regularly, having become used to his presence every day. They’d become friends, and that was another thing he hadn’t realised was happening.
“Dinner’s already cooked,” Uruha said. He could smell it. “Why do you want takeout?”
“I miss takeout,” Fushimi complained, slumping against the back of the couch they were both sitting on. “I miss fried food.”
“Tomorrow, spar with me,” Uruha said suddenly, surprising himself with his own words. Where had that come from? He hadn’t even been to the training room in Kokugoku Fortress once since he’d come here, and he’d been practising only rarely before that. “You can earn the takeout.”
Fushimi grinned and Uruha smiled back. He liked seeing Fushimi grin; he had such a bright smile, the kind of smile that made you want to smile back. Everything about him was bright; his hair, his eyes, just him. It was what made him such a good captain; all of his men trusted him absolutely and completely.
But more than that, he was true to himself. Uruha hadn’t voiced this aloud to him, but he knew it deep down. He’d had his doubts when Fushimi had sworn to protect him on that first day, thinking that he would abandon him to his grief and the thick, heavy weight of it keeping him chained in his room, but he hadn’t. He could have done; all he was really hired to do was the bare minimum, but he hadn’t. He’d brought him food and he’d made sure that he was okay. He’d taken care of him. He’d smiled at him and asked him how he was and when Uruha didn’t answer he gave him little updates. Nonsense things, things that didn’t matter, like the state of the fences and what the guard schedule was.
Their conversations had become a little deeper and a lot less one sided when Uruha had finally come out of his room. Uruha had learned that Fushimi had escaped much of the violence of the war, and had come out of it with shining ideals and a dream of being a hero, just like the wielders. Uruha had held his tongue at that, because he wanted to hear about Fushimi’s time in the Kamunabi. He’d risen high and quickly, despite being a sorcerer of only middling skill, which was by his own admission. He’d said it with a laugh, not insecure in the slightest. Uruha admired that.
And now he was learning that Fushimi liked takeout, and he wanted to eat it with him.
When they sparred the next day, it ended in a draw. Uruha was out of practise but had a lifetime of training; Fushimi trained regularly but had never flown high. They were evenly matched. Uruha was embarrassed and Fushimi thought it was funny.
“I want pizza,” he declared.
“We’ll get pizza, then,” groaned Uruha. “After the hot springs.”
Later, they ate their pizza outside, sitting on the deck in just their robes. Fushimi ate with no manners and talked with his mouth full, and for some reason Uruha found this utterly endearing. There was a smear of pizza sauce at the corner of his mouth and he wanted to wipe it off.
“What’re you staring at?” Fushimi asked.
“You have sauce on your face,” said Uruha, pointing.
Fushimi wiped it off with the back of his hand. “Azami used to make fun of me back at headquarters,” he said. “Because I used to get lunch at my desk, and one time I came to a meeting with sauce on my chin.”
Uruha laughed; he could just picture it, young Fushimi with his wide eyes and his easy grin, marching into a conference room full of the crotchety higher-ups, and disgusting them with his lack of table manners. He knew the higher-ups, and he could imagine all of their faces perfectly. No wonder Azami had made fun of him.
“I knew him,” he said. “Azami.”
“He’s not a bad boss,” said Fushimi, taking a bite of pizza and chewing it exactly twice before swallowing.
“I met him during the war, once,” he said. “He was nice.”
“Ah, the Executioner,” said Fushimi, grimacing. “He wasn’t scary?”
Uruha remembered him swallowed by the shadows, his one dark eye boring into him. “No,” he said. “I didn’t have much of an appetite then, and neither did he,” he added. “It was nice, not being the only one.”
“Even then, you didn’t eat?”
Uruha shook his head. “I never really cared about food,” he said.
Fushimi nodded, then tilted the pizza box towards him. “What about now?”
“Now?” Uruha took a piece of pizza, the last piece, and gave Fushimi his best attempt at a bright smile of his own. “Things are a little different.”
Fushimi leaned back against the wall and watched him eat with half lidded eyes and a soft smile, and when Uruha was finished he leaned over and wiped a smear of sauce from his lips with his thumb. Uruha grabbed his wrist and held it there. His breathing quickened; his heart began to race. He’d never cared about food before and yet now he did; what else had he not cared about before which had crept up on him, in the form of this young agent, this man who was so full of life and light that Uruha was finally in the sun?
He waited for a moment. He waited for Fushimi to pull away, to say something, to object.
And when he didn’t – when his eyes brightened and his smile widened – Uruha kissed him. He parted his lips and he slid his tongue into his mouth and he tasted him, and he thought that as good as food had been, this was a thousand times better.
At first, Uruha had thought of Kokugoku Fortress as a kind of prison.
He ended up with a freedom he hadn’t even known he wanted.
Every day, he ate with Fushimi. Three meals a day. Most of them they also ate with the men, but sometimes they would sneak off and eat together instead, just the two of them. Dates, Fushimi called them, which gave Uruha butterflies in his stomach.
They trained together, too, and gradually Uruha began to recover his skills. He’d never lost them, after all; they’d lain dormant within him, waiting for someone to draw them out. That someone was Fushimi, apparently, someone who was skilled enough to give him a challenge but not so skilled he didn’t think that eventually he would be able to beat him. As the months went on and Uruha’s skills grew sharper, Fushimi resorted to dirtier and dirtier tactics, such as grabbing his face and kissing him as a distraction.
It often worked. More often than not, actually, but Uruha figured that he wouldn’t have to worry about it in a real fight, so he let it slide.
It was nice, being with Fushimi, finding enjoyment in things he’d long ago forgotten that he could enjoy, but Uruha was no fool.
He knew that it couldn’t last forever.
Which was why, years later, he found himself surprised yet again.
The adrenaline had been carrying him through, but beyond that he’d resigned himself to the fact that soon the darkness of despair would sink its claws into him. He was waiting for it, knowing that it was hunting him like prey. He would forget the taste of food and the satisfaction of being full. He would forget the richness of flavour and the pleasure of eating.
When the adrenaline wore off, he would be left hollow.
But then the medic pushed open the door and showed him into the room he’d been told he should visit, and Uruha’s breath caught in his throat when he saw blonde hair sticking out from beneath bandages, and a bright smile he’d thought would be nothing more than a memory.
“Uruha!” Fushimi said delightedly. Uruha gaped at him, eyes swimming with tears, and Fushimi pointed at the abandoned plate of food resting on his lap. “The food’s pretty bad here, isn’t it?”
Uruha knocked the plate onto the floor when he leapt on the bed to hug him. Fushimi laughed and Uruha buried his face in the crook of his neck. The hospital food probably was bad, but that didn’t matter even a little bit when they had the rest of their lives to eat all the food they wanted.