Work Text:
Tuesday, November 17, 2020
The lunch crowd filtered out and with a sigh of relief Haruka turned the restaurant’s sign from open to closed, adding a second sign to the door: closed for private party. The small cafe in Iwatobi’s downtown had been open for six weeks, six long and frustrating and sleep-deprived weeks.
Haruka couldn’t be happier.
Tokyo and his final Olympics were behind him. At thirty, he had a small collection of medals, a vast collection of memories, and a sense of peace and completion. Rin had cracked open his tiny, sheltered, clamshell world, had shown him a sight he’d never seen: endless waters to feel, full of endless challenges. I only want to swim, I don’t care where, he told Makoto when the subject of the future came up, with no idea those words were truth and not the throwaway dismissal he intended.
Twelve years and three Olympics later, he’d had the chance to swim most everywhere, to win medals with Rin both in relays and head-to-head, to travel the world with Makoto beside him. Six of those years as lowest-ranking assistant swim coach and academic tutor for Team Japan fattened Makoto’s resume, not to mention the undying adulation of the girls’ gymnastics team, and when the winter term started he would take over a third-grade class and swim instructor duties at Iwatobi Elementary for a teacher retiring into motherhood. Her baby was due in January, but if it came early Makoto was ready to step in and finish the current term.
Haruka hoped it would be right on time or late, maybe two or three years late. Makoto deserved this break after supporting Haruka’s dream with him. You have taken care of me all through my Olympic training...and farther back than that. Let me take care of you for a while. If you can’t start teaching until spring, that’s fine, too. Those words were easier for Haruka to say now than they once were; while he would never be loquacious, time made him more able to communicate in words what was in his head, especially with Makoto.
The bento cafe started with capital from a pair of investors--Haruka’s parents, who became loyal fans of Team Japan--and while it wasn’t making much money yet it wasn’t in the red. The client base doubled in the past two weeks with the release of the app Rei designed, where people could book their bentos and track the weekly menu. (And if the app also encouraged users to submit photos of their beautiful lunches...well, that was to be expected.) Haruka had to admit that the app made planning and scheduling much easier on him. He finally carried his cell phone consistently, but for managing the app and making his ingredients inventory he preferred the iPad mini. Out of habit, he pulled up the shopping function Rei made for him, adding the items he would use tonight to the list. It wouldn’t do to run out of shallots and garlic due to carelessness.
Haruka returned to the kitchen, methodically washing and drying his hands. He had the entire meal preparation memorized, the dark chocolate ganache the first thing to make. It required at least an hour of refrigeration to set up properly, with intermittent stirring. Heavy cream, powdered sugar and salt went into his favorite saucepan, the gas flame quickly heating everything to a boil. He added chopped bittersweet chocolate, Belgian, about a handful at a time without stirring until nearly a pound of pure Makoto-bait filled the pot. He waited, watching the mixture and counting in his head each second of satisfaction that would cross Makoto’s face as he ate it. When he reached sixty, Haruka turned off the heat and dipped the whisk into the saucepan, combining the cream and chocolate with hypnotic, clockwise strokes. It didn’t take many to reach the right consistency, then Haruka covered the pan with foil and stashed it in the refrigerator. It would need occasional stirring but was safe to slot into kitchen multitasking now that it chilled.
He brushed his bangs back with one wrist, a whisper of a smile curling up the ends of his mouth. There was something so fulfilling about creating everything about this meal by hand. The only shortcut was buying rather than making the shrimp paste, but if he’d intended to ferment shrimp he needed space and time both, neither one easy to come by with Uchi up and running.
Haruka smiled again, spreading butter and dusting cocoa in the cake pans. Uchi, the name he chose for his restaurant, meant home...not the physical structure so much as the people, the sense of belonging, family. To Haruka, uchi meant two things: food and Makoto, which meant food for Makoto. The entire concept for his restaurant had been food for Makoto and others like him, those whose skills or available time did not allow them to cook, but who still needed a taste of home. In fact, in Haruka’s mind those were the people who most needed a taste of home. And what was more homemade than bento? While they’d lived in Tokyo, Haruka made all of Makoto’s bento; it was easier to cook for two than for one. The sense of relaxation and contentment he got from slicing, preparing and decorating bento for them had stuck with him, a steady current in the shifting tides of life. Like Makoto.
It always comes back to Makoto, doesn’t it? Haruka thought. All his life, Makoto had been a large part of his concept of home, as much as and often more than his own parents. They moved about and drifted in and out of daily contact with him, but Makoto was the unshakable constant for Haruka’s existence.
Haruka dropped the parchment paper circles in the bottom of the pans, shifting to the dry ingredients. He combined them quickly in one bowl, peering into the stand mixer to see if the butter was soft enough. Satisfied, he dumped brown sugar into the glass receptacle, switching the mixer on low. The rest of the ingredients had already been laid out in a line, in order, ready to add: eggs and extra yolks, room temperature; pure vanilla (imported from Mexico and worth every yen in customs charges); melted chocolate, then the bowl of the dry ingredients. Flour mixture, buttermilk, repeat, ending with flour. The mixer hummed a soft melody, blending everything into a smooth batter until Haruka switched it off. He lowered the bowl, taking it and a silicone spatula to the prepared pans.
Cake in the oven and timer set, Haruka gave the ganache a quick stir and left the refrigerator with curry ingredients. It would be faster to use the food processor, but this was Makoto’s curry, and he always smiled the most when Haruka took the time for the mortar and pestle. He chose a cutting board and his favorite santoku knife, making quick and neat work of the herbs, ginger, chilies, shallots and garlic. Into the mortar they went with the seasonings and sugar, methodically crushed bit by bit into a savory green paste. There was no rush, cooking was largely feel, something Haruka’s grandmother had imparted early in her instructions to him. Both the feel of combining the ingredients and the feelings of the person making them.
The oven timer rang, loud in the empty kitchen, and Haruka covered the mortar with foil before pulling the pans from the oven. They needed time to cool before he could frost, but cake could be tempermental about temperature. Obaa-san’s foolproof trick had been to use a fan on the cake pans and Haruka’s kitchen had one at the ready.
He whisked the foil off, going back to his mental recipe for green curry. Shrimp paste was added next, slowly blended into the mortar mixture until the green absorbed it. Fish sauce, coconut milk, and fresh squeezed lime juice, the curry paste grew smoother the more Haruka manipulated it. He dabbed a bit into a tasting dish, giving it a tentative lick. Just right, not too salty and not too spicy. Makoto liked it with a bit more heat but that was best added when the whole curry was made.
Haruka carefully removed the two cake layers and transferred them to the wire rack to cool, the fan eager to help. With the curry paste made, he ducked back into the fridge to stir the smooth, firming ganache one more time. It stuck to the spatula with the right amount of body, and Haruka scooped out and set aside a small portion. Next, he took out beef, eggplant, and green and red peppers before he bumped the refrigerator door shut. Haruka never put tomatoes in the fridge, the small cherry variety Makoto favored sat on the counter still on the vine. Green curry was a dish Haruka had made since he was eleven; it came as naturally as breathing to chop the vegetables to the proper size, slice the beef thin, drizzle oil in the wok and start stir frying the curry paste.
“That smells amazing.”
The chopsticks flipped end over end and clattered somewhere out of sight. Haruka scowled, pulling out a fast replacement lest the curry burn. That would spoil everything. “We’re closed. For a private party. Your party. That doesn’t start for…” Haruka glanced toward the iPad in its sound dock, faithfully providing ambient ocean noise for its master’s kitchen art, “twenty minutes. You’re early.”
Makoto tilted his head, smile blooming all over him. “I know, and I know you don’t really like me watching or sneaking in the back door. But I love to do it.” His tenor voice held the reverent wonder and adoration that even now made Haruka’s skin prickle. “Haru’s cooking...it’s like magic, but it’s real.”
“....don’t say such embarrassing things.” Haruka’s gaze cut to the side as he added stock, beef and vegetables, simmering in silence. The heat from the wok had nothing on the heat from his face. “How can you still make me feel fifteen and awkward?”
Makoto laughed and took a seat on a stool, his warmth spreading through the whole kitchen. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s because it’s when I first fell in love with you? You’re beautiful when you’re feeling self-conscious, Haru-chan~.”
Haruka ignored him, dumping coconut milk into the curry.
“Ah, I’ll give you a ‘get out of using -chan scolding’ free because it’s your birthday, but just one.”
“Makoto.” Haruka didn’t turn around, his eyes firmly on the green concoction in his wok. “Stop impersonating me and set the table.” Pause. “Please.”
“I’m on it.” The restaurant was largely take-out, but Haruka kept some spare place settings on hand for when he and Makoto wanted to eat together at the small table in the back. Chopsticks stirred in harmony with the clink of plates and flatware. “Is there wine? I can never remember which glasses go with which kind.”
“Gewürztraminer, so the ones that are narrower at the top but not super-round at the bottom.”
Makoto’s fingers walked along the shelf, taking down the correct glasses from the collection. “How do you know all this stuff, Haru?” Their wine glasses were acrylic rather than glass or crystal, much more forgiving if they were accidentally dropped. Neither one of them liked cleaning glass off the floor.
Haruka shrugged; it wasn’t a big deal and hardly worthy of Makoto’s implied compliment. “I’ve been on a lot of plane rides, and I don’t like watching movies on them. So I read. Lime leaves?”
“Here.” Makoto placed the three kaffir leaves in Haruka’s outstretched hand. “There’s also a couple of lemongrass stalks sitting by your cutting board.”
“Those, too. Thanks.” Into the curry they went, Haruka’s chopsticks whisking through the green as everything tightened. “Taste,” he said, holding a tasting dish towards Makoto.
Makoto slurped up his sample, tongue caressing the residual curry on his lips with something close to hedonistic pleasure. “It doesn’t need anything else,” he breathed, adoring gaze on Haruka. “It’s perfect.”
“No, it’s still missing one ingredient.” A flick of Haruka’s wrist shut off the burner and he placed the chopsticks on the rest. He looked up at his boyfriend, eyes soft as he stood on tiptoe, pressing warm lips to Makoto’s. “There. Now it’s perfect.”
“Whose turn is it to say embarrassing things?” Makoto put down the tasting dish and hooked his thumbs in the top of Haruka’s apron, tugging him closer.
“There’s a fine line between embarrassing and truth.” Haruka’s hands bumped up against Makoto’s chest as they drew together, corded strength and steady heartbeat beneath the touch. “But you make everything perfect for me.”
Before they could share another kiss, something banged on the glass door in the front of the restaurant. Makoto jumped, Haruka’s hands fisting in his shirt to prevent him from leaping far. “What was that?” he asked, eyes widening behind his glasses.
“Your birthday present.” Haruka frowned, unfurling his fingers. “You’re early or it would have been a surprise. Wait here.” He fumbled with the strings of his apron, untying it and slipping it off to hang up. “And don’t touch the cake. If you’ve got to have a taste, I saved you some ganache in that little bowl.”
The banging continued and Haruka escaped to the front, ignoring how quickly Makoto stuffed a comforting spoonful of chocolate nirvana in his mouth. He weaved his way through the few tables on fleet feet, throwing the lock and letting in two large shadows. “About time, Haru!” one of them said, burying him in a wind-chilled hug. “It’s cold as balls out there!”
“Rin,” Haruka sighed against his shoulder, hugging him back. “I’m glad you made it. You too, Yamazaki,” he added, slipping out of Rin’s embrace to sideways-clasp Sousuke on his good side. His right arm lay against his chest, immobilized by a post-surgery sling. His rotator cuff finally shattered during a substitute stint in the Tokyo Olympics relay, making medical repair an absolute necessity. The full rehab process could be a year or more, but with Rin to supervise Haruka felt certain it would not be rushed. “Is it tough to travel like that?”
“I’ve got to be careful on the train with people jostling around, but the airline let us preboard. Except somebody was so busy signing autographs he almost missed the boarding call.” Sousuke smirked, jerking a thumb in Rin’s direction.
“Hey! They were asking for yours, too, but you’re not supposed to do that much writing yet. Nothing to strain the shoulder,” Rin added for Haruka’s benefit. He and Makoto had left for Iwatobi shortly after the surgery, so most of the follow-up and hovering were Rin’s to do by proximity as well as right.
“Rin’s right. Let yourself heal this time, idiot.” Haruka knew the decision to swim had been Sousuke’s, but it was Haruka’s trust in him that ensured the rest of the relay team agreed with the substitution. Of all of Haruka’s medals, the Tokyo relay one was perhaps the most special to him. Not that he’d ever admit to it.
“Okay, Dad,” Sousuke retorted, fond grin softening his mocking tone. “So where’s Mom? We came all this way for his birthday.”
“Spoiling his dinner if we don’t hurry.” Gently, Haruka pushed them through the restaurant to the kitchen; there would be time for a tour later, but if they didn’t eat soon Makoto would start in on the cake, even in its unfrosted state.
“Surprise!” Rin and Sousuke shouted in tandem as they sailed into the kitchen. “Happy birthday, Makoto!”
“You guys!” Makoto beamed, lighting up to see them. “Oh, you nearly scared me to death earlier.” Rin wrapped him in a fierce embrace designed to put any fear far away. “I thought for sure there was some sort of Iwatobi Strangler on the loose.”
“Oi, you’re watching too much bad television, Mom,” Sousuke groused, accepting Makoto’s gentle hug. “Dad’s going to have to ground you.”
“When did I become your father again, Yamazaki?” Haruka bumped past Sousuke with a handful of long metal spatulas. “Can you two keep him occupied while I frost and clean up a bit?”
“Sure thing,” Rin replied for both of them, already pulling out his phone to show Makoto pictures of their Tokyo apartment, their cat, Sousuke in the hospital, the last few meals that hadn’t gone up on Instagram. Haruka listened with half an ear, smoothing thick ganache over the bottom layer with the narrow icing spatula. Once it was coated, he transferred the second layer on top of it, covering it as well and blending the two into a whole. The cake required no piping bag or fancy rosettes, its only accouterments a swirl of abstract chocolate peaks.
Satisfied, Haruka moved the cake stand to the table, adding two more place settings and wine glasses. It had been almost three months since the four of them had been together and Haruka was grateful their friends hadn’t hesitated to come despite rehab and busy training schedules. Rin refused to retire, determined to hold out for one more cycle, but Haruka secretly thought Sousuke’s recovery might shake up those plans. Four years was a long time, after all, and a lot could change in them.
Or, he allowed with an indulgent glance towards Makoto’s back, nothing could change in the most wonderful of ways.
Food plated, wine poured, and table fully set, Haruka called them to the table. Rin settled Sousuke in a chair before taking the next one for himself. Makoto’s place was closest to the cake, and beneath the table he slid his hand into Haruka’s with a gentle squeeze.
Rin plucked up his wineglass, suggesting a toast but deferring to Makoto as it was his celebration. “Ah…” Makoto said, glancing towards Haruka as always and his face softening with affection and pride. “To birthdays and to many more of them for each of us.” The soft light in the kitchen reflected in the wine, in Makoto’s glasses, lent a faint corona to Makoto’s fluffy hair. The hand in Haruka’s tightened, fingers nudging to interlock as they had since they were very small, yet another thing that never changed and always gave him warm feelings inside. “May we forever have friends to share them with. Kanpai.”
“Kanpai,” the others echoed, glasses clinking and Rin and Sousuke each racing to be the first one to down his wine.
Haruka rolled his eyes. “Grow up, you two.”
“Yes, Dad,” they answered in chorus, Makoto chuckling at their antics until the corners of his eyes crinkled with delight. It might be Makoto’s birthday, Haruka thought, but it always seemed that he received the best and most amazing gift of all: Makoto himself.
Haruka watched Makoto take the spoon in his left hand, ostensibly so Sousuke wouldn’t be alone in clumsy eating, but when his right remained twined with his Haruka felt the warm space beneath his ribs expand and grow even more.
“Let’s eat.”