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Every Thursday, Ango makes curry.
He tells himself it’s because it’s practical.
Curry reheats easily. One pot means fewer dishes, less time wasted on domestic maintenance. The knife hits the cutting board in quiet steady taps, carrots sliced into careful, even slices. Outside, the evening traffic hums faintly through the window.
He adds the onions next. They sizzle when they hit the oil. Ango glances at the clock above the stove without meaning to.
7:12 PM.
He makes enough for four portions. Which, again, is practical. Cooking in larger batches conserves effort. There’s nothing strange about that. Ango stirs the pot, then checks the clock again.
7:24 PM.
Ridiculous.
He turns away and reaches into his cabinet for a bowl. He hesitates over the second one, lingering.
Then he takes only one, scoffing to himself.
Ango sits at the table with a stack of paperwork spread beside his place setting. Government reports. Field summaries. Half of them still need to be reviewed tonight.
Oda gets off at 7:30.
He reads three lines of the first page before he picks up his phone.
There’s no knock. Ango doesn’t look up.
“Take your shoes off,” he says flatly.
A pause. A rustle.
A moment later, Oda steps into the kitchen like he belongs there. He stops near the stove and peers into the pot.
“Curry again,” Oda observes.
Ango flips a page in the report, expression unchanged. “It’s efficient.”
Oda hums thoughtfully, as if this is a deeply philosophical answer rather than an obvious deflection. “Smells good.”
Ango sighs, pushes back his chair, and stands. Without comment, he walks to the cabinet and takes out the second bowl. When he sets it on the table across from his own, Oda sits down immediately.
“Thank you,” Oda says. “It’s my favorite.”
“I didn’t make it for you,” Ango replies automatically. “I just made too much.”
“Okay,” he mutters, as if that settles the matter completely, a smile on his face that irks Ango. He can't explain why.
Ango ladles the curry into both bowls. For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the quiet clink of spoons against ceramic.
Oda takes a bite.
Then another.
Across the table, Ango picks up his paperwork again, balancing the pages beside his bowl. He reads six lines, frowns faintly, and flips to the next page.
“You’re working while eating?” Oda asks. “That seems inefficient.”
Ango lowers the paper just enough to give him a look. “I’m being efficient.” He mutters.
“The curry is efficient,” Oda hums. “You are not.”
Ango exhales slowly through his nose.
Across from him, Oda finishes his bowl with steady focus, as if eating is a task worth giving his full attention. When he sets the spoon down, he glances toward the pot still sitting on the stove. Ango notices immediately.
“You’re not having seconds,” he says.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I often think about many things,” Oda muses, a teasing smile on his face.
Ango stares at him for a long moment. Then he stands, walks to the stove, and refills Oda’s bowl. He places it back on the table without comment.
Oda looks at the bowl, then up at Ango.
“Thank you.”
Ango sits down again and picks up his paperwork. “You’re welcome,” he mutters.
A few minutes pass in relative quiet. Oda eats. Ango reads, occasionally pausing to take a distracted bite of curry that has already begun to cool.
Halfway through the second bowl, Oda speaks again.
“You made more carrots this time.”
Ango doesn’t look up. “Vegetables are nutritionally advisable,” He says evenly.
“You didn’t put this many last week.”
Ango’s pen pauses over the page. “I make adjustments when needed.”
Oda hums softly, unconvinced, and continues eating. “Thank you.” He’s quieter, this time.
Ango pauses, the paper in his hand crumpling slightly. “...Anytime.”
Dazai joins them, sometimes. As an executive, he’s always, always busy. Too busy, he thinks. Maybe, when they’re all free, he can join them every week.
“Why Thursday?” Oda asks, one night.
He doesn't look up from the stove, stirring quietly. “Statistically, it’s the day you’re least likely to be working.”
Oda rocks back on his heels. “Ah.”
They fall into a content silence.
The curry simmers softly. Steam fogs the edge of Ango’s glasses. Behind him, Oda drifts around the kitchen with quiet curiosity, like a cat inspecting unfamiliar territory. He opens a cabinet, pauses, then closes it again.
“You reorganized,” Oda remarks.
Ango sighs. “Yes. Because someone keeps putting the bowls in the wrong place.”
“I see.”
A pause. Oda opens another cabinet. Ango turns, ladle still in hand, an attempt to be threatening. “That one is also not where the bowls go.”
“I wasn’t looking for bowls.”
“What were you looking for?”
Oda considers the question with complete seriousness. “I’m not sure.”
Ango stares at him for a moment before turning back to the stove.
“Sit down,” he says. Behind him, Oda pulls out a chair and sits, grumbling. The chair legs scrape quietly against the floor. Ango plates the rice, then ladles the curry over it. Two bowls. Always two, even before he realizes he’s done it. He sets them down on the table. Oda looks at the bowl, then up at him. There’s something…in the air, as Oda stares at him. Ango shifts on his feet.
“Odassakuuuu!” a voice wails dramatically. Ango steps back (when had he gotten so close?) and turned to face the boy who crouches on his window ledge.
Without invitation, Dazai drops into the third chair like he’s been expected all along. Oda takes his coat for him.
Ango looks at the pot on the stove.
Then at Dazai.
Then back at the pot.
“There’s curry on the stove…I made four portions,” he mutters.
Dazai beams. “You’re so thoughtful, Ango.” His eyes gleam with something distinctly smug.
He knows.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Ango says flatly.
“But I am pleased,” Dazai replies, propping his chin in his hand and tilting his head. “Every Thursday,” he contemplates. “Curry. Four servings. The door mysteriously unlocked around 7:30.”
Ango pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re creating a pattern to fit your hypothesis.”
“Really?” Dazai hums. “Then it’s pure coincidence that Oda gets off work around that time.”
Oda looks up slightly.
“I do.”
“See?” Dazai gestures with satisfaction. “Evidence.”
Ango rubs his head. “A schedule is not evidence. Have you been reading detective novels recently?”
“A schedule you memorized.”
“I did not–-”
“You even added more carrots,” Dazai continues cheerfully. “Oda likes carrots.”
“I do,” he confirms.
Ango feels bullied.
A moment passes.
Then Dazai leans forward, peering toward the stove. “I’m a growing boy,” he adds brightly, “so I should get a bowl.”
“No.” Ango replies, knowing he's already lost as he watches Oda stand. Without a word, he walks to the stove, takes a third bowl from the cabinet, and fills it with curry, setting it in front of Dazai. The boy beams, kicking his legs like he's 8 instead of 18.
The three of them eat quietly. Well, as quietly as they can, with the hum of Dazai’s new song (something about bleach–he doesn’t listen too closely) and the clink of utensils.
Oda leans slightly toward Ango. “You always know exactly how much to make,” he observes quietly.
Ango glances at him, expression neutral. “I have data.”
“Data,” Oda repeats, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips. He returns to his bowl, sharing a mischievous look with Dazai, who sighs dramatically.
Dazai leans back, spoon in hand. “I feel like an honored guest at a palace feast,” he says. “And yet, you barely glance up from your work.”
“I glance,” Ango replies dryly. “Occasionally.”
Dazai grins, still kicking his feet. “Youre almost as predictable as your curry, Ango.” He pauses, tapping his spoon against the bowl. “Though…if I ate this much every Thursday, I might just die happy.”
Ango says nothing, stirring the curry in his bowl with deliberate slowness. He notes, silently, that both Oda and Dazai are content, and that, despite the chaos of their lives, they always come back to this. Even if just for a moment.
In the background, the pot on the stove simmers quietly.
The night everything falls apart, Ango leaves the curry cooling on the stove. He had made it earlier that evening, out of habit. Carrots cut evenly, enough for four portions.
Ango stands in the doorway for a moment, his second phone buzzing.
There’s curry on the stove.
He looks at the clock, out of habit.
7:18 PM.
For a moment, he debates turning back, and then scoffs to himself, pushing his glasses up. The decision has already been made, the intel already given. It’s too late for thoughts like that. It will all be worth it.
There’s curry on the stove.
Oda will notice the unlocked door. He’ll take his shoes off, walk into the kitchen. He’ll see the pot, maybe still bubbling. Maybe he’ll wait. Maybe he’ll check to see if he was there.
And Dazai—if he comes, so busy, all the time—will notice. He always notices.
“There’s curry on the stove,” Ango mutters to an empty apartment, and shuts the door behind him. It sounds strange, out loud. Like an excuse.
By the time anyone arrives, it’ll be warm.
There’s curry on the stove.
Every Thursday, Ango makes curry.
Carrots cut in careful, even slices. Tap. Slide. Tap. Slide.
For a moment, Ango glances towards the door. He already knows it won’t open. No footsteps in the hallway, no rustles of movement. No childish noises of complaint. Just the bubble of the stove, as Ango stirs slowly.
He still makes four portions. It's practical. He ladles the rice and curry into a singular bowl, not even glancing at the other bowls. At least, that's what he tells himself.
The chairs are empty. He's not sure why he even has them. He never got close to any of his coworkers. Maybe it's a way to delude himself into thinking they’ll be filled, to delude himself into thinking that night never happened.
Dazai is big now. Grown. He’d probably request a second serving.
Not that he’d ever come.
Ango’s gaze slides back over to the door. The curry goes cold. He carries his leftovers to the fridge. Four containers. Same as always.
He looks at the empty kitchen.
“There’s curry on the stove.”
No one answers.
Next Thursday, he’ll make it again.