[Idiot. Such an idiot. If Hikaru weren't breathtakingly brilliant otherwise, it would shame Akira to be in love with someone who's such an idiot. How can it be more convenient to call a pizza place, explain your order because they don't already know you perfectly well, and then wait and rely on a stranger to bring your food, dump it off, and take your money for it? —This is not a very charitable view to hold on pizza parlors, but Akira isn't feeling charitable. He feels convenient, better at dinner than a delivery boy, but if Hikaru can spare a couple thousand yen for that, Akira isn't here to give charity. Hikaru shall be sure to thank him properly.
And he doesn't have it in him to soften, either, not just yet, not even when Hikaru arrives with secret glasses and general obedience. The kitchen knife comes down hard against the cutting board, over and over and quickly, and Akira can feel Hikaru watching him, but he's too irritable to appreciate it in the moment. He's thick in a cloud of the desire for sleep, made worse by his hunger having roused him in the first place. Once the mushrooms are chopped, Akira pauses to rub his eyes with one of his wrists, and then he leans over to look at Hikaru's rice cooker. He looks at its timer, inhales, then exhales. First, he grabs the wine out of Hikaru's cupboard (red and white both, a bottle each). Then he officially starts dinner.
It's a matter of buttering the pan—letting that sizzle—and then cracking the two eggs into it. He scrambles them quickly, with severity, but doesn't dry them out. They're set off onto the edge of the cutting board, once they're cooked, and Akira pours a little of the white wine into the pan before the rest of its butter has a chance to fry away. It steams loudly, and louder still when he adds the mushrooms, until it all calms down and just simmers instead. It's been simmering for just a moment when the kettle whistles, and Akira is quick about turning off its flame and pouring its water into a teapot. He sets the tea to steeping right away. He stirs the mushrooms; the rice cooker whines; he serves the rice into two bowls. Egg is tucked against the side of each bowl, along with pickled ginger; each bowl also gets two pickled plums. The rice crackers, the sesame seeds—ah, the mushrooms must be done—all the wine has cooked away, and Akira spoons the mushrooms on top of all the rice.
He is his own kitchen knife in all of this, efficient and well-edged, and steely in the same way. His eyes haven't gotten less tired, and his wrists haven't gotten less sharp. This is a dinner cooked from the depths of fiercest instinct, both to eat food and to secure it for Hikaru. He sets a bowl of food down in front of Hikaru, too harshly just out of habit, and then pours steaming tea over it until it glistens. Finally, he drops bonito flakes on top, for savory promise, and... last of all, he sets down a glass before Hikaru, too, and brings the bottle of red wine with which to fill it.] Please enjoy, [he says, the sort of manners he was always taught, and though it's quiet, he's also hoarse. Then he repeats the process for himself—tea over rice, sizzling bonito, and a second glass of wine. To his credit, he doesn't guzzle that immediately in a fit of teenage rebellion. He's far more interested in his pickled plum.
He's about halfway through his bowl of rice when he starts to relax a little. His eyelids drop halfway, and after he swallows another warm bite, he sighs, really deeply, as if something is leaving his bones. He becomes a little more of himself, then. His hair is still blown straight out of sleep, a couple sprigs sticking out from what can't quite count as a bun, and Hikaru's t-shirt has a softening effect on his otherwise stern shoulders. The rest of him can start to soften bit by bit. He sets his elbow onto the table, and then rests his cheek in his hand, and finally, he's looking over at Hikaru. He can do that without glaring, now that he's warm and mostly sated.
He also can't resist being right. Not when it comes to Hikaru, at least.] You would have waited about that long for your pizza. [It would be much more convenient for Hikaru to have Akira making sure he eats real food every day. Hikaru wouldn't have to worry about it. Akira expects he makes that clear through the angling of his eyebrows, as he takes his glass to drink from for the first time. He's not daring Hikaru to say anything about the red wine, which is its own sort of challenge. It occurs to him that he neglected to take off the apron when he sat down to eat, just for sheer impatience, but he just purses his lips amidst his wine and then eats another mushroom.] I'll make you breakfast, too, but I have to go after that. Then you can fend for yourself with tomorrow's dinner. [As if Hikaru is asking otherwise! Go Weekly speaks of Touya Akira's confidence with hardly half an idea of him.]
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And he doesn't have it in him to soften, either, not just yet, not even when Hikaru arrives with secret glasses and general obedience. The kitchen knife comes down hard against the cutting board, over and over and quickly, and Akira can feel Hikaru watching him, but he's too irritable to appreciate it in the moment. He's thick in a cloud of the desire for sleep, made worse by his hunger having roused him in the first place. Once the mushrooms are chopped, Akira pauses to rub his eyes with one of his wrists, and then he leans over to look at Hikaru's rice cooker. He looks at its timer, inhales, then exhales. First, he grabs the wine out of Hikaru's cupboard (red and white both, a bottle each). Then he officially starts dinner.
It's a matter of buttering the pan—letting that sizzle—and then cracking the two eggs into it. He scrambles them quickly, with severity, but doesn't dry them out. They're set off onto the edge of the cutting board, once they're cooked, and Akira pours a little of the white wine into the pan before the rest of its butter has a chance to fry away. It steams loudly, and louder still when he adds the mushrooms, until it all calms down and just simmers instead. It's been simmering for just a moment when the kettle whistles, and Akira is quick about turning off its flame and pouring its water into a teapot. He sets the tea to steeping right away. He stirs the mushrooms; the rice cooker whines; he serves the rice into two bowls. Egg is tucked against the side of each bowl, along with pickled ginger; each bowl also gets two pickled plums. The rice crackers, the sesame seeds—ah, the mushrooms must be done—all the wine has cooked away, and Akira spoons the mushrooms on top of all the rice.
He is his own kitchen knife in all of this, efficient and well-edged, and steely in the same way. His eyes haven't gotten less tired, and his wrists haven't gotten less sharp. This is a dinner cooked from the depths of fiercest instinct, both to eat food and to secure it for Hikaru. He sets a bowl of food down in front of Hikaru, too harshly just out of habit, and then pours steaming tea over it until it glistens. Finally, he drops bonito flakes on top, for savory promise, and... last of all, he sets down a glass before Hikaru, too, and brings the bottle of red wine with which to fill it.] Please enjoy, [he says, the sort of manners he was always taught, and though it's quiet, he's also hoarse. Then he repeats the process for himself—tea over rice, sizzling bonito, and a second glass of wine. To his credit, he doesn't guzzle that immediately in a fit of teenage rebellion. He's far more interested in his pickled plum.
He's about halfway through his bowl of rice when he starts to relax a little. His eyelids drop halfway, and after he swallows another warm bite, he sighs, really deeply, as if something is leaving his bones. He becomes a little more of himself, then. His hair is still blown straight out of sleep, a couple sprigs sticking out from what can't quite count as a bun, and Hikaru's t-shirt has a softening effect on his otherwise stern shoulders. The rest of him can start to soften bit by bit. He sets his elbow onto the table, and then rests his cheek in his hand, and finally, he's looking over at Hikaru. He can do that without glaring, now that he's warm and mostly sated.
He also can't resist being right. Not when it comes to Hikaru, at least.] You would have waited about that long for your pizza. [It would be much more convenient for Hikaru to have Akira making sure he eats real food every day. Hikaru wouldn't have to worry about it. Akira expects he makes that clear through the angling of his eyebrows, as he takes his glass to drink from for the first time. He's not daring Hikaru to say anything about the red wine, which is its own sort of challenge. It occurs to him that he neglected to take off the apron when he sat down to eat, just for sheer impatience, but he just purses his lips amidst his wine and then eats another mushroom.] I'll make you breakfast, too, but I have to go after that. Then you can fend for yourself with tomorrow's dinner. [As if Hikaru is asking otherwise! Go Weekly speaks of Touya Akira's confidence with hardly half an idea of him.]