Work Text:
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Ramen Night at Hiiro's
The phone rings three times.
On the other end, wind, distant shouting, and that sharp pop-pop-pop.
"Moshi-moshi, Taiga-san! I was wondering if you would like to have—"
Emu doesn't get to finish. Taiga is shouting away from the receiver.
"THEN SAY YOUR HIT YOU BAKANERO!"
He always makes his team smaller on purpose. Two versus six. Three versus eight. Gives the kids more targets, gives himself less cover. Then he owns them. The adults always win. The kids always complain after — it's hardly fair, having to play against a former doctor recon with less targets.
"What are you doing?" Emu manages.
Gunfire stops. A breath. When Taiga comes back, the venom is completely gone. Like a different person picked up the phone.
"Airsofting," he says, tired in a softer way. "Maybe another day, kid?"
Click.
Emu stands in the genkan with his phone still warm against his ear.
---
Hiiro's apartment, 7pm.
It smells like bleach and pork bone. It smells like Hiiro.
He's been up since five. The broth is milky white, thick enough to coat the back of a spoon and not fall. He measured the salt with a pipette. There are two bowls on the counter. No — three. Three bowls, perfectly aligned. Three pairs of chopsticks. Three glasses of water filled to exactly the same line.
Emu knows immediately who the third bowl is for.
Hiiro doesn't explain. He just says, "Sit."
They sit. Emu and Hiiro. Across from each other. The third chair empty. The third bowl steaming.
Emu eats too fast. He always does when it's quiet. "Oishii! Hiiro-san, oishii!" Too loud. Too bright.
Hiiro hums. He eats correctly, posture perfect, but he keeps looking at the third bowl. The fat is starting to form a skin on top as it cools. His ramen is meant to be eaten at 74 degrees. Not 60. Not 50.
Twenty minutes of just clinking.
Hiiro finally checks his phone. No message.
Emu looks at the third bowl, then at Hiiro's face, which is doing its best to be nothing.
"Oh come on," Emu sighs. It's not an angry sigh. It's the sigh he uses at CR when a patient won't take their medicine.
Then, practical again: "Then I'll take it in a flask for work tomorrow. He's always forgetting to eat."
Hiiro's shoulders drop, maybe a millimeter. Maybe Emu imagines it.
"If you take it, keep it above sixty-three degrees. Bacteria. And reheat to a full simmer. Do not microwave."
Emu pours. The broth clings. Warming, hearty. The kind of soup that sticks to your ribs and stays there for hours. Hiiro's love language.
---
CR, 7:12 AM.
Taiga's office. Dark. Blinds half-shut. Airsoft bag dumped in the corner, still half-zipped, a few yellow pellets on the floor by his boots.
Emu knocks and enters without waiting.
"Taiga-san! Hiiro-san made—"
Taiga's hand shoots out. Quick. Before Emu can even finish.
He takes the flask. So quickly.
Emu knows Taiga isn't one for pleasantries. But the fact he takes the flask so quickly the next day with a smile is proof he is not throwing that away.
It's barely a smile. 0.2 seconds. Crooked and gone when he turns his face away to unscrew the cap. But Emu sees it. Emu always sees it.
"Tch. Baka. I didn't ask for this," he mutters.
Emu leaves him alone. He knows when to leave.
Taiga does eat it in his office. Door closed.
It's still warming, clinging, hearty. He eats it slowly, which is rare for him. He leans back in his chair and the empty bunker office feels, for about ten minutes, less empty.
Later, Emu finds the flask on his desk. Washed. Perfectly clean. Bone dry. Placed with a soft clunk.
No note. No thank you.
Emu takes a picture and texts Hiiro.
[Emu 7:58 AM] He finished it!!
[Hiiro 7:59 AM] Naturally.