Work Text:
Sugar, flour, pondwater. Thick-cut toast slathered with jam. A carrot sent flying. A cigarette. Food is precious; he ate everything and anything, not a morsel to be wasted. The red blocks of tupperware stacked in his fridge. A birthday cake drowned in blood. Nothing for it, no such thing as a free lunch. How many times has he learned this lesson? He remembered that Aki liked fried chicken best, liked the way its crisp crust gave way to soft thigh meat. Half with lemon, half without, for Power. He opened the fridge and found soy sauce, ginger, and sake, found potato starch, flour, and oil. A way forward then, brick by bloody brick. He knew his way around the kitchen like he had been born into it, hands moving unimpeded.
He plated what used to be the thighs he rested his head on atop a fluffy bed of gleaming white rice, a bed of its own. He remembered eating white rice for the first time, surprised by its sweetness compared to the seeds he scavenged in his youth. His and Pochita’s dream, dredged in flour and fried in oil.
“Thank you for the meal”
He placed the chopsticks on the lip of the bowl, just like Aki taught him. He pushes the tang of blood and iron out of his mind.