Work Text:
Three golden, beaten eggs gently sizzle in the stainless steel pan. The edges crackle a little bit as Yamato flicks his wrist, settling quickly as he keeps the mixture moving to prevent burning. These omelets have to be perfect.
He can’t give either of them less than perfect.
Yamato’s lips curl and he swirls the silicone spatula in the mixture and the gold slowly lightens. He treats cooking as seriously as he treats fighting, and if anyone were to know how serious he takes both of those things, it’s Takiishi and Sakura.
They lie piled onto the sofa, entwined and half asleep, talking quietly enough that Yamato can’t hear what they’re saying, but loud enough that he knows it’s not an argument. Good. There’s always time for that later.
It’s taken a bit of time for Takiishi to get comfortable and open up around Sakura, at least while they’re not throwing punches, but now that he has? Takiishi can’t shut up. He speaks every thought on his mind and Sakura listens carefully—occasionally throwing in one of his personal anecdotes—until they fall back into comfortable silence.
As someone that has lived in Takiishi’s uncomfortable silence for years, this is much preferred.
Yamato hums happily, and with a careful motion, lets the perfectly silken omelet tumble onto a bed of fried rice; not a tear or scorch mark in sight. Nice.
With a plate in hand, he pads over to the microwave to grab Takiishi’s dish, carrying them both over to the counter by the fridge. He opens the door and pulls out the ketchup and the Kewpie—for Sakura and Takiishi respectively—squeezing designs onto the tops of both of their meals with way too much precision for a garnish.
Worth it, though. More than worth it.
He fishes a spoon and a pair of chopsticks out from a drawer, tosses a dish rag over his shoulder, then carefully carries the plates over the threshold and out of the kitchen.
They’re still talking, still quiet, but Sakura’s nose perks up as the smell of his favorite food wafts into their space.
He sniffs and sniffs, then asks, “Omurice?” with almost a sparkle in his eyes. It makes Yamato very proud, and he’s going to be annoying about it.
“Of course, Sakuraaaa,” he says, “It is your favorite, isn’t it?”
Sakura nods, a bit of drool pools in the corner of his mouth, and he pulls himself to his knees on the sofa. Yamato sets the plate onto his lap and hands him a spoon.
Takiishi says nothing, as always, simply stares and waits for his own breakfast. Yamato wants to tease him, but to be honest, the thought of him retaliating and slapping his perfect omurice to the floor makes him a little sad.
Wordlessly, Yamato hands over the second plate to Takiishi, along with the chopsticks, then bows quickly. He smiles, happy to hear Sakura already shoveling food into his mouth, then turns on his heel to go clean up the mess he made.
He only makes it a couple of steps.
“Thank you, Yamato.” Takiishi says softly.
“Yeah—gnarf—thanks for the food, Endou.” Sakura follows.
Sakura mumbles something about the food being ‘really good’, Takiishi hums in response, and a fat, ugly tear wells up in one of Yamato’s eyes. He swipes it away and clears his throat, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Anything for you. ” He says honestly, his voice betraying him once again.
He’s going to cook every meal for them until the day he dies.