Chapter Text
Being invited by a friend to the capital seemed like an opportunity to strengthen the bond. At least to Minoura. When one Friday evening he got sent a letter by his old friend— Michio Moroto— asking him out to talk somewhere without an additional familiar audience to listen in, Minoura thought about it the whole evening. Saturday morning, he made up his mind and went out.
Both of them used to be rather close— old roommates back in high-school. Some of their friends whispered how they were too close and too strange to be simply amiable. Their relationship from a different perspective seemed intimate rather than friendly, but that was a topic Minoura didn’t want to think about when his friend only wanted to talk. Nothing more.
What was important was that they didn’t keep in touch. At least not until Minoura found out it was Michio who kept asking Higuchi’s mother for her daughter’s hand in marriage. That was something Minoura needed to discuss— considering Michio’s specific relationship towards all women.
Tokyo, Suehirocho Sation.
It was the middle of the day when Minoura arrived at the train station. It was busy, the subway was new, and opened in 1930. He didn’t need to see his old friend before he heard his voice.
“Minoura!” It was Michio— the sound went off the same as he remembered from back when he was only 17 years old. Moroto approached him. “I’m so glad to see you.” The man added. His hand moved— to reach out? Or to shake his hand? Maybe pull him into a tight hug, embracing how much he missed him? The meaning of the gesture remained unknown— just to let his hand fall back to his side with hesitation.
“Glad to see you too.” Minoura answered. His tone seemed honest, after all, it was an old friend standing in front of him right now, yet it held a tinge of uncertainty to it. Though maybe that was only the cause of trains moving in the underground subway which hushed his voice.
Unlike Moroto, he did not have the urge to shift closer or even raise a hand. The man stood still except for his clothes and hair being ruffled by the light wind around them.
“I was starting to worry that you wouldn’t show up. You used to be such a quiet mouse before.” Michio teased, but the smile on his face said otherwise. It was faint, but somewhat comforting after the mock. Before Minoura could reply, Moroto spoke again. “I prepared a couple places we can go to as we talk. Only to not get suffocated by the crowd outside.”
Minoura nodded, his eyes taking in how relaxed Moroto seemed with him— as if it wasn’t him who was complicating his relationship with his fiance. And yet, for a reason, he knew he wasn’t exactly in danger of his love falling apart. “Right… so, what’s the first stop?” Minoura asked, this time quicker to not get interrupted.
Moroto hummed— though that wasn’t audible in the crowd— and stepped closer to his friend. His hand found Minoura’s shoulder and he lightly pressed on it, emphasizing the direction he should look, he stepped close enough to grab the attention, however, it wasn’t stuffy. Minoura’s back tensed for a brief second before relaxing a moment later. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but unexpected.
“A little to the left of the new yatai,” Moroto pointed with his free hand, facing the same way as Minoura.
“There’s a beautiful park. The flowers are perfectly bloomed and even has a small river we can cross over. Recently they built a wooden bridge over it.” His expression serioused as he explained, he was trying to remember every detail from the back of his head. “That bridge will be our way to the bar we used to visit. Great tea and alcohol.”
Minoura’s gaze followed the motion of his friend's finger.
“Unless…” He continued, his eyes peered at the man beside him as he spoke. “You want to stop by the yatai first?” The bright look on his face widened for a fleeting moment.
“The yatai?” He questioned as his attention shifted towards the newly open place. A booth made of bamboo wood. The idea of eating fresh noodles made his stomach grumble— or maybe it was only his imagination? There were some people eating already, sitting on wooden stools with pillows on top of them. It was nicely decorated— hanging Noren curtains, those were illuminated with paper lanterns, the so-called Chōchin. The construction was framed at the entrance with a simple wooden arch resembling a Torii gate.
“Sure.” Minoura agreed after consideration.
With the positive answer, Moroto— satisfied— let his hand fall back to his side and stepped away. “Well then, we shall get going.” He began walking through the crowd, avoiding unnecessary bumping into people or objects at the station.
His footsteps were slow— enough for Minoura to catch up. They together passed the busy street, standing side by side as they did. During this whole walk, the two men stayed silent. Minoura had a lot of questions to ask, but didn’t. It was not the right time. Michio looked more focused, his smile nowhere to be seen, but not to the point of appearing upset or uninterested. Minoura was met instead with an affectionate gleam in his eyes. The same one he stared at his best friend with. Especially amid his high-school years, as they were both at that restaurant, and after that, at Minoura’s place following that they’ve had a couple of drinks.
Minoura tried to keep his focus on the buildings, on the passerby with unfamiliar and different faces, sometimes vehicles— older models of Mitsubishi, some out of date, pulled jinrikishas with people comfortably sitting on them. Yet occasionally, he couldn’t help but peek at Moroto, trailed his clothes, and the side of his face— the only recognizable face in this otherwise packed city. The intimate features stood out to him, especially particularly the beauty mark on his right cheek which he first paid attention to during that explicit night. Even after being drunk, he remembered that image well…
Both Moroto and Minoura reached the yatai. The smell of just done Japanese curry, Takoyaki and Ramen lifted in the air. The scent itself could gather many customers around it. The warm atmosphere only added to the pleasurable feelings coming from here. The visuals of the booth were captivating— the tones were natural, wooden, desaturated. Showed off were calligraphy and origami works (white cranes, rabbits, also colourful lotuses) which stood out in the otherwise washed-out place. It made great contrast which forced the eyes to inspect the presentations closer before sitting down or walking away.
First, Moroto took a seat, sliding the stool closer to the counter to take a better look at everything displayed. Shokuhin sampuru were exposed behind thin transparent material to the view behind the single worker who was in the middle of creating artfully looking dishes.
Minoura sat down beside him, taking in the look of this place before his eyes found the menu board in front of them. Mostly it was all different ramens with related ingredients to one another.
A minute, then another passed as both men decided on what to order before the worker called out.
“What can I get you?” The elder man spoke to both of them as he wiped his hands in a clean towel— it was logical considering they came here together. His voice carried itself lightly and energetic, like this job was something that brought him endless happiness. He had a wide smile on his wrinkly face, slightly covered by a white beard.
“I’ll get something light today, so let it be a simple Shio ramen, please.” Moroto stated.
“A takoyaki for me, please.” Minoura added to the order.
The chef nodded his head and stepped away, but remained in eye-sight. Everything was prepared in front of the costumers— it was a tactic to gain one’s trust and make them return the next day.
“... And, Minoura,” Moroto started, turning his neck to face his friend. “Don’t worry about paying, I’ve got you covered.” He reassured him. It was a simple act of kindness and hospitality, but to Minoura, it was too kind, although he didn’t protest, as if in his mind there was no point in doing so. He was the guest— Moroto invited him— it remained logical for both parties that the host of the meeting would pay.
And yet he had his doubts.
“Thank you.” —was all he said.
After this— rather awkward— conversation, they stayed silent again. It wasn’t like there wasn’t anything to talk about, but there was a quiet tension between them. At least on Minoura’s side. He constantly kept his eyes away to not make accidental eye contact with Moroto like that would cause unwanted emotions.
All of this passed when the food arrived— including free glasses of water. The employee walked away just as quickly as he passed them their dishes and necessary cutlery. Minoura dug in his food first, grabbing the chopsticks and putting the food into his mouth. Moroto picked up his Renge for his ramen, but he didn’t eat it yet. His eyes peered at Minoura sitting beside him, observing how his old roommate enjoyed the still hot meal. How the mouth moved and the throat jumped with each deliberate swallow of delicacy.
“...Beautiful.” Moroto muttered under his breath as his gaze remembered every second of the view.
That caught Minoura’s attention. He raised his head and lifted an eyebrow, silently asking what that word meant— or if he heard that right. Moroto— still with a casual expression— pointed at the food on Minoura’s plate with his spoon, but his eyes bored into Minoura’s this whole time. “The food looks good.” He corrected his words.
Minoura nodded as an agreement, his mouth still filled with takoyaki, the octopus flavour melted in his mouth. It did look well made, like done by a professional.
He swallowed his bite. “It tastes just as good.” A smile tugged at his lips as he pointed on the plate. Moroto smiled back at Minoura and turned away and began eating his own meal, sipping on the soup with alkaline noodles.
For the next few minutes all the noises around them were slurping on wet noodles and chopsticks hitting against the dish from time to time. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable around them. The meals were delicious and still warm. They both tried their best to eat everything before it cools down.
One time, Moroto peeked at Minoura who was savouring his food, intrinsically inhaling the crab pieces. Suddenly, his arm for a napkin folded at the counter where his bowl was placed and in the next second his other arm extended enough to gently guide Minoura’s face by his jaw and under his chin to look in his direction so he could take a better look at it.
It was slightly dirty— just as he guessed. Some of the thick brown takoyaki sauce stained the corner of his mouth and a small stain was on his left cheek. Minoura paused all his movements as that happened. His hand with the chopsticks between his fingers froze in the air with a piece of food still being held by those two wooden sticks. Moroto stretched his arm enough for the napkin to touch his skin. His eyes were stuck on that stubborn brown spot before he made it disappear with a swipe or two with the paper napery.
“There you go.” Muttered words left his agape mouth. “Now you look less like ragamuffin.”
“A ragamuffin?” Minoura enquired, taken aback by the comparison. His cheeks started to dust with a pink colour that he didn’t even realise was creeping up on his face.
“You make it sound like I eat similarly to some scruffy child.”
“Partially that’s not wrong.” Moroto never gave a reason as to why he thought so. He hummed and pulled away, crumpled the tissue in his hand. His eyes looked around to find any trash bin he could throw the napery away, but to his surprise, there was not a single one of those nearby. With a quiet sigh under his nose he shoved it into the pocket of his jacket.
Minoura’s eyes were stuck on his friend for a good few seconds. He felt as if he didn’t get enough time to process anything. The cogs were turning in his head— somehow he could feel that very clearly.
How come something so simple as wiping one’s face could fluster him so much— it was like being taken care of as a child, like when his mother used to do so when he was still learning how to use utensils. But this did not have the same atmosphere to it like care-taking.
The piece of takoyaki out of nowhere slipped from between his chopsticks and slumped onto the plate, some droplets of the sauce dirtied the perfectly clean white plate.
And then— a snap of fingers right in front of the man’s face. “Are you with us, Minoura?” Moroto’s voice sounded with sarcasm laced in it. He waved his hand in front of the younger’s face to get his attention. Minoura’s eyes focused on the fingers in front of him, the background blurred and the limb sharpened in his vision.
“Y-yeah, just…”
His words trailed off and his warm face turned enough to look away and make itself less visible under the sharp eyes of his old roommate. “...Thought about something.” Minoura chuckled— though more or less awkwardly only to make this situation less dense.
He absolutely needed to go to social meetings more than sit in his office everyday.
“I see, well you better stop thinking so much— unless you want your food to get cold.”
Minoura sighed and went back to focusing on his lunch. He took the cup of water and took a sip. “Moroto” Minoura said carefully, setting his mug down, “this feels suspiciously like… a date.”
Beside him at the small booth, Moroto smiled as though the thought pleased him.
“My dear Minoura,” he replied, raising his glass “that would imply you’ve only just noticed.”