A/N: words in [ ] are spoken in italian. i didn't want to use google translate
Glaring stadium lights. Rows upon rows of spectators. A roar that of cheers that drowns out everything else.
Yet to Souma, every drip of the leaking tap, every sneeze, every thought, is clearer than ever before.
Almost as if time had stopped, and it was just him, the stage and the the scoreboard announcing the overbearing loss.
Three to zero, a complete shutdown.
He sucks in a shuddering breath, rips off the cloth sticking to his forehead. Eyes never leaving the scoreboard, as if his unwavering stare alone is capable of changing the score, of changing his fate.
Somehow, the startling clicks of heels enters his reverie, snaps him out of it.
"First seat belongs to me, now. Permanently." Erina says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Her voice lacks it's usual haughty bite, instead filled with a calm awe. "I expected nothing less from you, to challenge me to a Shokugeki for my seat days before our graduation. What a way to end this last year at Tootsuki. Still, it was a good match, Yukihira. You did well."
Her face splits into a grin, and she sticks out a hand for a shake.
Souma finally tears his gaze away from the glaring announcement of his loss, returns the grin despite feeling like his ribs are crushed by a weight, cracking inwards and piercing through his lungs. Maybe that's why it felt sort of hard to breathe.
He grasps Erina's hand.
"Congratulations, first seat."
Bitter defeat has never tasted worse in his mouth.
The weight of defeat isn't foreign to Souma.
Ever since a child, Souma has known defeat. (489 and counting.)
When he first witnesses a loss, his dishes half full, his father's scraped clean, Souma doesn't cry. He doesn't scream and shout or throw a fuss. Even at his age, Souma knows there is no point to any of that; none of that can retract a decision made. None of that can erase the feeling of letting someone down, letting yourself down. Only the will to change and change itself can.
So he simply pouts, puffs out his chest, announces a declaration to beat Jouichirou someday. But perhaps Jouichirou could sense Souma's hidden disappointment, hear the hollow echo of five year old Souma's uncertain challenge with a father's sixth sense, from the way Souma refused to meet his eyes.
'It's not the end, Souma .' His dad had said, ruffling the hair of the sullen child. 'Not until you decide it is.'
Defeat does not spell an end, Souma is taught. So he sharpens his determination, steels his resolve like knives on a chopping board.
But choices can, and choices will.
Gradually, Souma becomes careful with every choice presented to him, consciously or not. Like the careful measurements of flour and sugar. Unnecessary or excess ingredients would only serve to sabotage the overall product, mar and wreck it.
Likewise, unnecessary or excess emotions and opinions would only build up to an undesired outcome. So he brushes them off carefully from the top of the measuring cup, puts them on a scale against his heart, the impartial judge cold logic.
But Souma's emotions are ever changing, always overspilling and overbalancing his delicate scale. It never scared him, his passion for life never has - but a passion for another does.
An initial rush of twisted excitement and anger at the ocean eyed boy who crushes his foot, the spring tidal movements and words threatening to wash away everything Souma knows and believes - and it does.
Yet just as quickly, excitement and mild annoyance turns into admiration, admiration into warm affection, all happening as swiftly as breaking waves, as gradual as the washing tide.
Neap tides shyly lapping, yearning. Peaking Souma's curiousity, as he wades deeper, deeper into the body of water - every roll of wave taken as an invitation, every ebbing wave only enticing him further.
There's treasure to be found in this sea, akin to gold and priceless jewels, but not quite as tangible. It calls out to Souma, tugs his legs forward on, against the waves that have nearly pulled him over more than once.
For once, Souma isn't able to find something to weigh this endless ocean to.
Eventually, cold logic catches up to his romanticism, and he does.
It comes in the form of glaring lights and roaring cheers drowning him, a scoreboard with nothing to offer him but the hanging acknowledgment of not being good enough.
It comes in the form of cracking ribs, crushing weights and an inability to look at anyone in the eye.
A defeat does not spell the end, not if he works hard to never make it so.
But choices can decide an end - can decide a fate.
To have saltwater air densely packing his lungs, or to never have cruel bitterness ground thick on his tongue again.
It's a choice.
It's just a choice.
"What a weird sight," Souma grins, a hand on his hip.
"What is?" Takumi replies, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he watches Isami pull Megumi into a photo, the latter giggling childishly while striking a peace sign.
"This," Stretching an arm out to gesture to the wide courtyard the duo are standing in the middle of, Souma lets out a loud chuckle.
The venue is spacious, overly so perhaps, occupied by the few teachers that had time to drop by and bid their farewells to the fewer graduates. If not for the numerous sakura trees in the courtyard graciously bestowing the place with a carpet of pink petals, the venue would have looked rather solemn indeed. The only decoration being a banner that hangs across two sakura trees decorated with traditional paper flowers, proudly announcing, "Congratulations to the 92nd batch graduates!", their principal's trademark strokes sending a shot of pride straight through Souma's heart.
"I always imagined high school graduation as something more…eventful. Like, people cheering, throwing flowers, girls tearing at our uniforms for the buttons -" Takumi snorts, covering his mouth with a fist, "-but here we are."
"Life is full of disappointments, isn't it?" Takumi feigns a look of grief, patting Souma on the back. "You'll get used to it, second seat."
"Oh don't you know it best, third seat."
Where Takumi would once have flushed red with indignance and retorted hotly, he merely smiles, and with a glint in his eye, punches Souma in the chest.
"I'll beat you next time."
Souma doesn't respond, can't. He thinks of holding onto the fist that hit him, prying apart those fingers and slotting them between his own.
Then flashing lights glare his eyes, crushed bones pierce his lungs, and he chooses not to.
"That'll be a long time." Souma finally replies, shorter and curter than he'd have liked.
He looks far off into the distance, past the gates. Past the horizon, a shine in his golden eyes that screams of wanderlust nothing can contain, that no border can hope to withstand. A raw, yearning thirst to uncover possibilities yet found, to conquer mountains not yet even named.
"...I'm planning on travelling around the world to learn different cuisines. Kinda like my dad." Souma laughs self consciously, scratching the back of his head with his scroll holder. "I don't know when i'll be back."
"But you will, won't you?"
The question catches Souma off guard. He blinks, once, twice, presses the scroll holder harder against the back of his neck, hoping the pain will squash down the hope blooming in his heart.
Once a choice is made, it shouldn't be gone back on , he's always told himself. Wishy washiness brings one nowhere, you'll just let yourself down again.
But the feeling explodes in his chest when he chances a glance at Takumi and catches his eye - sees what he thinks are the same three words locked away, for reasons unknown, for reasons like letting down and being let down, seem that at the moment really, really stupid.
Unsaid confessions and untold feelings lie on the tip of Souma's tongue, salty sweet prominent against defeat's bitter aftertaste. On the verge of being blurted out, in the heat of the moment, scales tipping, measuring cups overflowing, spilling -
Then Isami calls, Takumi's attention is stolen, and the moment is broken, missed.
Ocean eyes sparkling with scattered sea stars torn from his gaze, Souma stares blindly at the blond hair swishing, tousled by the breeze and decorated with a haphazard crown of sakura petals. A sense of restrained longing and a clink of scales realigning fight, but Souma's breath catches in his throat, regardless.
Something sinks in his stomach, hot and heavy, a quiet voice urging him to clasp Takumi's shoulder and call his name and oh, this is it, this is the last chance he'll ever give himself.
His lips clash in a painfully gentle manner against Takumi's, and Souma tells himself, don't cry, this is what you chose, don't cry, not now, please,even though he's never been weak enough to cry when he wants. The words bubble into mind, regardless.
In the span of seconds, Souma tries to memorise the way Takumi's lips mash against his own, the soft shape, the velvety dry feeling; tries not to think about how first kisses aren't supposed to be meant as goodbyes and endings.
His choice comes with a bag slung on shoulder full of itineraries around the world, train ticket to the unconquered snug in his pocket.
But the kiss reminds him of the forsaken choice, of Takumi and everything he embodies, everything Souma wants. Everything that, in a heartbeat, Souma would give up the world for - but not his dreams, not his goal.
The kiss is chaste, weak, and short lived.
First loves always are, Souma finds himself thinking, heartstrings tugging as a sigh from the blond brushes past his lips. First loves always have to be.
So just as he feels Takumi's lashes fluttering close, he pulls back.
The feeling in his stomach doesn't go away, even as he yells a quick goodbye, even as he turns and makes a dash for the gates, Takumi's yell for him to write acknowledged with a half wave, face flushed and giddy from excitement, from the curling feeling in his gut.
.
Hours later, as the train clatters over rail tracks, Souma's head bobbing against the window glass, he realises, not with an alarming jolt, but with muted acknowledgment, 'It's fear.'
'It's fear.'
The year that follows breezes by in a swirl of different kitchens and a multitude of tastes, none of which are able to scrape off the thick layer of bitter defeat coating his mouth.
Neither does the next year, nor the next.
A promise to write, to return fades from mind. It fades readily and faster with every concocted recipe, with every dream of glaring stadium lights that he wakes up from in cold sweat.
Tonight is no different. Souma shoots up from bed, curses, rubs the nonexistent sting of artificial light from his eyes and marches to the kitchen.
Hands methodically chopping, slicing. Pantries opened and shut in smooth consecutive movements. The kitchen comes alive, but the cook's eyes stay dead, unable to meet any other in the eye.
(actions heavy, forced, automatic. ingredients losing their lustre before his eyes, product as flat and dull as he feels. it wasn't always this hard, was it? it used to be easier, so much easier. now everything is blanched, sopping with grey.)
(how did his hands move again? how wonderful was a plated dish supposed to look? how did the hours use to fly by, not slip like sludge through fingers? remember, yukihira, remember. remember, he can't forget - did he really forget, or was he just so blinded by those lights he can't move? either way, there's a place to go back to, and there's no way he can to face them like this.)
Souma wants to believe that forgetting is an unconscious action, wants to believe he isn't so cowardly to take such an easy path out - concocting excuses for his cracking confidence, pushing blame on shaking hands and unsteady legs, unwilling (unable) to face the root of the problem.
But he knows, that every action he takes, is a choice.
Born from courage or fear or a pure desire to not want to show this pathetically weak side to anyone, it's still a choice.
It's also his choice to ignore the fact that it is.
(but some things he forgets, like colours' vibrancy, refreshing tastes, laughing, and he can't remember how. it isn't his fault then.)
.
Dim glow of the phone, rain pattering against windows.
Souma lays on his bed, stomach flat on the mattress, staring at the screen of his phone listlessly. It reads 02:56. Since landing in Japan (even before) countless notifications of unopened messages and missed calls flood the lock screen.
The fourth anniversary of his graduation from Tootsuki less than six hours away, yet Souma can't bring himself to feel anything less than numb.
Unable to scrub the stain of bitter defeat off his mind, off his back. He's better now, isn't he? He isn't the same as he was four years ago.
But how good is his judgment, if that was exactly what causing him grief?
What if I hadn't left so fast, if i had told him before hand i would go, if I had stayed by his side, if i had kissed him longer, held his hand, maybe, maybe, maybe -
But life is not made of what ifs and maybes, it's shaped and constructed by decisions and regret and the irk of fear that comes with letting people down and a failure to succeed in something you love so much you'd given up something equally precious for.
On the anniversary of the fourth year of his graduation, Souma's feet lead him to the doorstep of SHINO's Tokyo, his back to the setting sun splashed in reds and oranges.
His casual dressing puts him at a stark contrast to the glitzy streets, but the coat is his favourite, and he'd brushed his hair today, so he can't really bring himself to dig around for an ounce of care.
Stock still outside the glamourous restaurant, Souma slowly lets out a breath of air; a broken record in his brain questions if he's making a right decision.
Even the Gods above must take pity, for the door abruptly swings open, and Souma finds himself face to face with the man he'd taken a six hour long train ride for.
"Shinomiya senpai," Souma says, voice not cracking, smile not wavering.
And despite the open disbelief scrawled all over Shinomiya's face, he just waves him in, without asking for an explanation for Souma's sudden arrival.
The restaurant is jam packed, another typical evening for the three star French restaurant. Souma thinks it must be a sight, for the customers to witness the famed chef inviting an unknown man without a reservation into the restaurant at such a busy hour.
But Shinomiya displays no such disturbance, pleasantly returning greetings and compliments with thanks, a charming smile etched on his face all the while, as if unaware of the alarmed stares sent to the underdressed stranger trailing behind him.
Souma finds himself lead to an abandoned corner seat, suspiciously vacant.
"I'll be free in another two hours or so, sit here and don't move." Shinomiya orders, pointing at the table. "Order if you want."
Without another word, Shinomiya briskly whisks back into the kitchen, barking orders Souma faintly catches. The familiarity of the senior's gruff attitude makes Souma's shoulders slack, smile coming easier. Picking up the menu before him, he lets his eyes aimlessly trail down list after list of Japanese underlined with French, before it comes to a surprised stop near the end of the second page.
{ Quail stuffed with Risotto and Eggs ~ Brazen Youngster Style ~ }
Souma heaves a surprised laugh. For a moment, what he came for slips from his mind as memories of the Stagaire six years ago comes flooding back.
But the memories meet his mind's eye with screeching static words and blurred out faces. Events melding, rearranging. Souma blinks lazily at the mild inconvenience he's gotten used to.
Then snaps upright when the memories unearth something just barely out of reach that makes his heart lose a beat (the awe of new horizons to explore unearthed, the curling excitement of promised growth). Souma snatches at it, but it phases out of the cracks in his self confidence.
Unaware, Souma's teeth grind, nails digging into the menu's leather cover. Verbal dismay threatening to slip out in the most uncouth ways, only thing acting as a stopper the low hum of conversation from the customers around.
"You'll damage that."
Souma visibly jolts at the sudden voice, looks up to see Shinomiya peering down, one hand grasping the neck of a wine bottle, two wine glasses dangling from the other. Then he looks down at the leather clad menu, drops it like it's on fire.
"Damn, sorry." Souma mutters, picking it up again to inspect the back for any indents.
Shinomiya seats across him, uncorks the bottle with practiced expertise. Fills both glasses half full, pushing one towards Souma. The younger male accepts the drink, swirls it and sniffs.
"I didn't know you were a sommelier, Shinomiya senpai," Souma says. Figures starting with small talk would be ideal for easing his way into why his mentor found him standing outside his restaurant with a look of a drenched puppy after years of little to no contact. He wonders vaguely what Shinomiya might have done with the two postcards he'd sent some time back.
"To be fair, anyone among my restaurant staff would know how to properly uncork a bottle. I'd skin them alive if they let my customers drink wine sprinkled with bark tissue. But I did get a basic certification three years ago. Hinako wouldn't stop making fun of me for not knowing the wines in my own restaurant." Shinomiya rolls his eyes, takes a sip.
Souma hums, still swirling the wine.
"I see you've cut your hair. About time." Shinomiya says with a nod of approval, and Souma raises a hand to his unkempt side mohawk.
"It was getting too long." Forced laugh. "Anyway, is it alright for you to be away from the kitchen now?"
"We finished dinner service faster than expected. Most guests are on their desserts now, and the kitchen staff are more than capable of handling that alone." Shinomiya says, a smirk of pride curling on his lips.
Souma returns the proud smile with a small one of his own, flicking his gaze up to match Shinomiya's, but drops his eyes back to the red liquid before him almost immediately after.
This garners a glimmer of concern to flit across Shinomiya's face that Souma misses.
"So, what are you doing here, Yukihira? Last I heard from Tadokoro, you were supposedly dead in South India. Then again, Nakiri has been harping a different story, something about you being abducted in East Asia with your organs being sold on the black market."
"You're in contact with Megumi and Erina?" Souma says incredulously. It was hard to imagine Shinomiya casually chatting with either girl, and even harder to imagine that they would communicate regularly with one another. Did they have late night calls? Or maybe exclusive private messages? Did they send each other stickers? Emojis?
Shinomiya snorts, shakes his head.
"Not Erina Nakiri, her cousin. It's not me who keeps in contact with them either. My wife. Hinako." At Souma's bug eyed look, Shinomiya fishes out a silver chain hidden behind his chef's coat, a simple golden band hanging from it. Insides catching the dim lighting above, slightly illuminating the "Hinako Inui" carved inside.
Shrugging, Shinomiya explains, "We got hitched about four years ago. Figured we'd been dancing around each other long enough,", a lopsided, fond smile on his face as he spoke.
"How."
"Mizuhara." Shinomiya says the name in a tormented voice, laced with grudging fondness.
At Souma's uncharacteristically quiet hum, Shinomiya's demeanor warps into something more perturbed, hard lines on his forehead creasing.
"But you're not here to talk about my marriage or fine wine, am I right, Yukihira?" Shinomiya continues on, as gently as he can, looking Souma straight in the eye. Souma's gaze involuntarily slides down.
The pause that follows is suffocating, almost painful.
"I regret everything i've ever done, Shinomiya senpai," Souma blurts. "And I don't know what to do."
Shinomiya, thankfully says nothing. There's no rush of assurances, no outraged scolds. Just a level stare and nod to continue.
"I couldn't get the first seat. And I thought, hey, it's fine. You know, room for improvement, it's not the end until you say it is and all. But somehow after that, the more I cook, the more frustrated I get. The plating doesn't go the way I want it, the course comes out slightly unbalanced, the taste never hitting the mark. Everyone says it's good, and I know it is, but it's just not good enough ."
Souma grips the neck of the glass. Hand trembling from - from.
"And then, at night it's the worse. There's nothing to occupy me and I just. Think about stupid things, you know? I gave up something I shouldn't have, to become a better chef. I think I shouldn't have done that but. At that point of time it felt right. Like I could balance everything, get my shit together and go back within a year or so but things just kept dragging on and it's been four years now, Shinomiya senpai. Four years.
"It's just. I feel like i've failed you, everyone. By not taking first seat." Souma ends lamely, scratching the back of his neck. "Like i've let everyone down. I-I was gunning for first seat and even till the end I couldn't - couldn't even brush my fingertips against it. What more, to attain a level of cooking close to that I left behind someone I never should have let go. And somehow, the more I think about it - what i could have done differently, what i should have done differently - the less fun cooking becomes. It's like a chore now, honestly."
Souma looks away. Embarrassed to admit such a flaw. Embarrassed that cool, arrogant Yukihira Souma could have such a vulnerable side. Thinks of downing the wine in one gulp choking on it and dying from mortification. He doesn't.
Souma half-expects Shinomiya to ask why he came to him, of all the people in the world, to consult for such a sensitive matter. The look in Shinomiya's eyes tells him, somehow, Shinomiya already seems to know why.
Shinomiya leans forward just slightly, carefully pushing his glass aside.
"It was a disappointment that you didn't attain first seat, Yukihira, but you are not a disappointment because of that." Shinomiya begins. "Like you said, it just means you can get better from there on. Right now, what's preventing you from doing that is your own inner conflict. A mental barrier, in a sense. Due to the nature of your cooking style, your doubts are reflected on every dish you present - thus the minute disparities between your visions of your cooking and the end product. It isn't that you aren't capable, but rather you are not able to present your full capabilities."
A reflective glint flashes in Shinomiya's eyes. Then he shakes himself of out it, continues.
"I cannot say for certain what is it that is holding you back unless you share details - but from what you've said, i'm assuming it's the feelings of having let people down, the doubt that stems from choices made in the past, as well as leaving behind that 'someone'."
Souma visibly flinches, but he doesn't argue against the statement.
"Firstly, Yukihira. I can't speak for everyone's feelings concerning you not attaining first seat, but I believe I damn well can when I say that your improvement was tremendous. Tremendous to the point of being scary. You haven't let anyone down in that aspect. After all, you've kept trying all this while, haven't you? Even during days when cooking seemed tedious and your knife felt as too heavy to lift, you never stopped. So no, you haven't let me down. Not as a person, not as a student, not as a chef. In fact, you're one of the few I respect as a chef, so I don't want you thinking so lightly of yourself, you hear me?"
Shinomiya's sharp snap at the end makes Souma's lips twitch into a little smile.
"Next. You made choices you thought were best at that point of time, and there is nothing wrong with that, Yukihira. In general, you were not wrong to have made a choice, even though it's brought you so much shit to deal with. That does not mean you cannot regret it." Shinomiya says calmly.
"Even if I do, what can I do? I can't take it back. I can't take anything i've done back." Souma interrupts, fists clenching on his lap. Words can't be taken back. Actions can't be taken back. But most of all, feelings - of love of loss of defeat and letting people down - can't be taken back. "There's no point regretting if I can't do anything."
"Then just make another choice to right it." Shinomiya's answer comes quick and clean, a brow raised. As if surprised such a direct answer never occurred to the straightforward boy.
"As long as you're able to take responsibility for all choices you make, you retain the freedom to make as many choices as you want, Yukihira. Choices are expandable, endless. So the question now isn't if you can make a choice, or if you can take back one, but whether you're ready to shoulder the responsibility of a choice in itself. Both those from the past, and those in the future.
"As for the 'someone'. There was absolutely nothing wrong with you choosing to focus on enhancing your skills, but since that's backfiring and making you so miserable - with it being built upon your bitterness of defeat and not your willingness to learn - and you feel so strongly about letting them go, just go get them back. There's nothing stopping you. You just have to stop obsessing over what you could have done. The past can't be changed, Yukihira, but the future can.
"Right now I think what you need most is to feel something again. Hell, not just for your cooking, but for yourself. And what'll help you is probably that someone. So stop wallowing in the past and your own cesspool of self pity and make a choice."
Shinomiya's solid monologue doesn't quite spell forgiveness (of course not, when the senior sees nothing to be forgiven for, something souma is slowly starting to realise as well) , but they spell different interpretations, different paths; they spell of kindness and understanding and not quite forgiveness that patches the cracks in his self confidence.
The silence that follows allows Souma to lapse into his own thoughts, drowning quite a few excess or unnecessary ones with his wine.
Souma thinks of shadows cast on walls, of dimly light phones. Of gasping breaths and cold sweat and the glare of lights. Of stoic hands and seeing double and clattering knives.
He thinks of responsibility and logic and scales and measuring cups that a single riptide swept away.
He thinks of ocean eyes and a haphazard sakura petal crown against gold.
He thinks of choices and the end and defeat and a boy who almost made bitter taste salty sweet.
Souma feels his muscles relax, tension sinking out of his body. There really was, no need to have thought so much about things so simple. If he wasn't happy, he just had to find another path that would lead him to it, didn't he?
At the clearing of Souma's frazzled expression, Shinomiya smiles.
"Seems like you've come to a decision while I washed my mouth with wine for spewing those shitty hippy quotes towards the end. I mean it, though. Just can't believe I said it."
Souma cracks a grin at that.
"Well. Hurry up and go then, before you change your mind again." Shinomiya says, returning Souma's grin.
"I won't." Souma replies, raw determination pushing forth the two words.
.
As Souma leaves SHINO's Tokyo, he gives a quick wave, a brilliant smile.
"Thanks, master! I'll see you again soon!"
Shinomiya breaks into an almost affectionate grin.
"Don't call me that, you lousy student!"
The skies outside are pitch black as Souma settles on an airport bench.
Lock screen finally clear, blinking at 10:13.
Megumi had chewed him out for not being in proper contact for so long - no, those few and far in between postcards are not counted, Souma-kun. The other numbers in his contacts didn't get through so he had no way to get in contact with anyone else, but Megumi had promised to inform everyone that he was alive with all his organs intact as soon as possible, her smile practically able to be heard even across the sea.
He leans back and shuts his eyes.
"Gate 93 to Florence, Italy is now open. Those boarding may now enter the gate. Gate 93 to Florence, Italy is now open."
His choice comes with a ticket stuck between the pages of a worn out passport and a promise to be reclaimed.
A broken record plays, again, "Is this the right choice?"
To which Souma answers, "I'll make it the right one."
Licking his lips, adjusting his tie, slicking his hair back one last time, Souma enters Trattoria Aldini, heart rattling in his chest.
A single chime announces his presence, barely heard amidst the chattering from the crowded restaurant.
Gesturing with a finger to indicate a single seat, he flashes the waitress a polite smile as she guides him to his table. It's easy to bend to the easygoing, homely atmosphere of the restaurant where every patron dines with a smile. Yet with every step he takes in his stiff leather shoes, he feels more and more out of place, out of line.
He tugs on the collar of his suit jacket, as he seats down, pretending to rearrange it.
["What would you like to order, sir?"]
Souma nearly jumps at the sudden question, so lost in his own thoughts he hadn't even noticed the waitress standing beside. Skimming over the foreign menu, he barely registers half the cursive letters, mind too preoccupied with scanning the area for a hopefully, open kitchen.
Seeing none, he switches his attention back to the menu.
["Today's special"] Souma says distractedly, a disappointed edge to the turn of his lips.
.
The dish arrives in no time. The plating is breathtaking, delicate, every part of the dish carefully mapped and designed. A crisp aroma surrounds the dish, sweet and fragrant.
Yet Souma can't find it in himself to do anything but simply stare at the dish, those few slices of duck lightly dressed with a thin drizzle of sauce, another dishful placed just beside, a cluster of tiny blooms decorating the corner of the plate.
"That's right. This is a Japanese styled aigamo grilled with spices. Bon appetit!"
An almost forgotten voice rings in Souma's head, accompanied by a smile filled with unparalleled confidence.
Souma's knife hesitates over the dish. Tells himself he can't bring himself to make a single move because of how beautiful the dish is, not because a dish shows a chef's face and he still isn't able to face this one's.
Still, he slices the duck apart expertly, silver spearing the duck, closing his eyes as he takes an experimental bite.
Flavours spread on Souma's tongue, caressing his tastebuds, filling his mouth.
It's a taste close to home, close to heart.
It's a taste that he used to love. That he still loves.
Souma swallows, breathes out.
Choking on an almost incredulous laugh, a trembling hand moves to cover eyes. Souma leans forward over the dish, looking at it through his fingers, vision swimming.
"So this is what you meant by a dish shows a chef's face, pops? I never took you as a literal man." Souma murmurs, a forlorn, shaking smile dragging its way up his face.
Eyes saltwater blue, luminescence besting any sea of stars.
"...It tastes good, Takumi."
["May I give my regards to the chef?"]
The waitress' embarrassed smile clearly declines. So with a reluctant hand, Souma reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope with the crisp, stark ink of "Challenge" printed atop.
"...Could you pass this to him, then? [Takumi Aldini]."
She frowns then, pushing a hand out, shaking her head in a firm "no". She says something in Italian, borderline fierce, and even with his broken Italian Souma can make out the repeated firm refusal.
He rubs the back of his neck, looking around the restaurant. Most tables have been vacated, the lone few still dining mainly quietly chatting or relishing their desserts.
Trying again, he leans forward, pressing the letter into her palms.
["Please. Important."] Then, pointing to himself, ["Yukihira Souma."] A finger towards the kitchen. ["Tell Takumi Aldini. Shokugeki. Important."]
Heavily accented Italian words fall unfamiliar from his mouth, heck, Souma doesn't even know if what he's saying matches what he desperately wants to convey. Gripping the waitress' wrist with one hand, insistently pressing the letter of challenge with the other.
["Please."]
Something must have gotten through to the waitress, as she takes his letter and nods. She says something in Italian yet again, a troubled expression on her face. Souma nods without understanding, simply wishing for her to hurry to the kitchen with his letter already.
When she finally leaves, Souma slumps into the chair, sucking in a deep breath of air. Then he pulls himself up, tightens his tie and steels his resolve.
["Chef Takumi? There's a man in the dining room with a letter for you. He's Japanese, I think? Yuki- Yuki something. Yuki So? This is - ah, yes. Yes, he said it was important."]
A clatter, a crash. Cutlery litters the floor, some still dripping with water.
["Chef - Chef! Are you okay? Someone get Chef Isami! Wha-What? Yes, the restaurant is nearly empty - Put out our close sign? But there's still half an hour - Erh no, i-i'll inform the guests we're closing early."]
Erratic footsteps enter the kitchen. Gabbled Japanese quickly exchanged. Paper ripping, crackling underneath knuckles white.
["Tell the man outside to wait, Allegra. Tell him, Takumi Aldini, accepts his -"]
["Shokugeki."]
Carefully pronounced, tongue rolling uncomfortably as the word tumbles gracelessly out of the waitress' mouth.
Yet to Souma's ears, it was an angel's song.
"Yes! [I mean, yes! Yes, wait. How long?"]
Her answer is a helpless shrug. Another customer raises his hand, calling for the bill. With a quick nod, she runs off to assist them.
Well. Takumi didn't fly out the kitchen to crush him in a hug. But neither did he come out with a nail-bat to bash his skull in. Souma's lips tug into a nervous smile at the imagery.
He deserves anything but goodwill right now, something Megumi had cheerfully pointed out when he'd called her at the airport after years of postcards. The blue haired chef had grown a tough backbone made of wit, and Souma blames Inui Hinako entirely.
Pulling a hand down his face, Souma huffs out a low laugh.
Maybe Takumi was preparing the oven to bake him in.
.
Mild shuffling, 'thank you's being exchanged, the tinkle of the bell overhead the door signalling the very last patron's leave.
Souma basks in the homely atmosphere of the empty restaurant, nothing but a dying candle and empty glass keeping him company. As he hears the door click shut, the waitress' heels leading into the back, he tucks his outstretched legs back in.
Licking his lips in nervous anticipation, he combs through his messy hair once more. Inwardly cursing at his habit, Souma gropes around for an unused soup spoon to check his appearance with.
Why did he decide to go with a side mohawk again? Oh, right, because it was cool, and his dad liked it, his bosses all liked it, hell, even Shinomiya senpai liked it, and yeah, he loved it! But right now, right goddamn now when it wouldn't spike up at all the right places, lying as listless as Souma felt inside, all not impressive and pathetic, he wishes it would just burn. Like how he probably would be in a few minutes, in the oven.
"Like a girl on her first date." He can already hear Megumi sighing dreamily, just a hint of mockery in her voice. Souma makes a mental note to talk to Shinomiya to take his wife into hand, Hinako really was proving to be a bad influence to sweet tempered Megumi.
Then the door to the kitchen opens.
Clean clicks of loafers against the polished floor of the restaurant rings resonate throughout the empty restaurant. Souma is almost afraid to look up.
But he does, and just like a girl on her first date, Souma finds his breath being stolen when his eyes lock with Takumi's.
For a second he thinks he actually sees flowers blooming around the blond.
But the illusion is quickly shattered when Takumi slams a hand down on the table, Shokugeki letter under his palm.
"Hi." Souma manages to squeeze out.
Takumi offers him an icy stare back.
"Get out of my restaurant if you lose, get it?" Takumi hisses through gritted teeth, eyes burning with an intense emotion Souma can't quite pin down.
"And if I win, an apprenticeship?" Souma meekly asks. The look in Takumi's eyes is already making him regret it.
"With Isami." The last word is stressed out heavily. Takumi's hand on the table tightens into a fist.
Takumi's scrunched brows, tight lips spell out his desire to say something. Instead, he turns and walks back towards the kitchen without another word more. Leaving Souma in his seat, a lone patron once more.
Sensing no one behind him, Takumi whips around.
"Are you going to come into the kitchen for the Shokugeki or not?"
Souma jumps up at the snappish tone, clumsily gathering his knife case by his side.
Takes in another deep breath, feels his muscles loosen.
Time to see where his choice was going to lead him.
"Yeah."
Rules quickly explained, judges hastily chosen, the Shokugeki begins not with a roar of cheers, but with terse silence, neither participant looking the other in the eye.
The way Takumi moves was exactly the way Souma had remembered. Swift, cutting actions, not a single wave or sweep of hand unwasted.
Razor sharp focus, nimble hands working rough ingredients into a delicate masterpiece.
Tongue running across lips - a nervous tick Takumi was never able to kick.
A timer dings, and Souma turns his head away, swallowing down the lump in his throat.
The silence in the kitchen is stifling.
["...I still find Chef Takumi's better."]
["The drizzle of honey to compliment the mint leaves was interesting, but the overall sweetness overpowered the light taste of the mint."]
["So do we have a conclusion?"]
All three nod, simultaneously pushing forward Takumi's dish.
Souma's shoulders slump. Whipping off the cloth around his forehead, Souma neatly ties it back on his wrist, barely able to keep himself from screaming aloud in anger and frustration. Still, he manages a smile, thanking the three odd judges - Trattoria Aldini's dishwasher, head chef, and a lady who had returned to pick up her forgotten umbrella.
Takumi strides forward, stops before Souma. His stance is tall and proud, the finger he points in Souma's direction unforgiving.
"As per the conditions, get out. Never show your face before me again."
Something in Souma stirs, yells at him to do something, anything. But he remains frozen, captured between Takumi's hard eyes and his own sudden inability to act, to think, to do anything.
Gears in his clever mind creaking to a stop, tongue lying in his mouth as dead as Takumi's gaze.
A Shokugeki's rules (words spoken, decisions made) are absolute, after all.
"Now, now, nii-chan, don't you think you're being too hasty?"
Isami's chirpy voice breaks through the tense situation, starts the rhythm of Souma's heart once more.
Takumi whirls around to stare at his twin in disbelief, finding Isami standing beside Souma's presented dish, a fork in hand, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"What are you talking about, Isami?"
"Well firstly, we aren't at Tootsuki anymore. So logically speaking, the rules of a Shokugeki don't have to be applied as strictly. Secondly," Isami pushes forth Souma's dish, serenely matching stares with Takumi. "I think you should try his dish."
Takumi turns away, folding his arms across his chest, an obstinate scowl scratched his face. Souma can't find it in him to breathe normally. What was Isami trying to do?
"I don't see the point."
Huffing out a sigh that almost sounds like a laugh, Isami speaks once more.
"Don't you think you're being too irrational, nii-chan?"
Takumi doesn't reply, but his hands tighten around his arms.
At his brother's lack of response, Isami's expression sombers, back straightening.
"Nii-chan. With Noelia away on maternity leave, you know the kitchen is going to need help. Yukihira is the best option we have at a replacement right now. With his level of skill, he'd no doubt be able to help manage the sauces as well as Noelia does."
Takumi's jaw tightens. A sign of his agreement, yet he continues to remain mute.
"...Besides, since the apprenticeship is with me, I believe I should have the last say as to whether he stays or leaves."
At the last sentence, Takumi's head snaps to glare at Isami, holding his twin's stare for a good minute. Souma can practically see the electricity that sparks from Takumi's blue eyes, fighting and clashing with Isami's own.
Sensing Isami's unwillingness to budge on his opposing decision, Takumi barks out a crude laugh, shaking his head.
"Do whatever you want."
With that, the blond stalks out the kitchen, steps loud and deliberate, door slamming heavily shut behind.
The rest of the kitchen is left in uneasy silence. Concerned murmuring starts up, but none dares to chase after the enraged chef, not even Souma. Isami sighs, eyes lingering in the direction Takumi has stormed off to for a moment.
["Alright everyone, show's over!"]
Isami claps twice to capture the kitchen's attention once more. ["Sorry about making all of you hang back so late. You're dismissed now!"] Isami says, posture relaxed, yet his voice commanding.
The remaining members of the diner hurriedly clear the kitchen, excited titters about the impromptu cook off following after them. Those with a little more courage dare curious glances at the redhead chef who made their level headed owner blow his fuse as they scuttle past him to the staff room.
Soon, Souma finds himself alone in the kitchen with Isami, who hasn't moved from his original position at all.
He nervously fidgets, a hand rubbing the back of his neck.
"Thanks for back there."
"I didn't do it for you." Isami's cutting tone chills Souma to the core, shakes him into cool, defensive nonchalance.
Souma isn't sure what he should say. Apologise? Explain himself? Beg for forgiveness? The only thing he's sure of is that if it wasn't for the counter separating them, Isami might have devoured him whole already, from what the look in his eyes is telling him.
As if aware of the turmoil going through Souma's mind, Isami holds out a hand, signalling for Souma to stop flapping his gums like a landed fish.
"You don't have to say anything. I don't want to know why you've been gone for so long." Isami begins. "To be exact, I think nii-chan should be the first to know."
Souma nods wordlessly, feeling an urge to slip his gaze to the floor, but keeps it fastened tightly to Isami's.
"I just want you to know one thing. I'm giving you this chance because I believe in you, Souma. I believe that you made a bad choice, that you've reflected on and regretted. That you're trying to make a change."
"But." Isami's tone shifts with the connector, head lowering, eyes narrowing. The Italian chef seems to settle, gain an actual, domineering presence in the room. For the first time, Souma finds himself aware of those few inches more on height Isami has over him.
"If you make my brother cry again, you won't be leaving this place intact."
That fiercely protective tone sends a pang through Souma's heart.
"I won't. I won't make you regret giving me this chance, Isami."
A sky painted in velvet purple and black hues, moon peeking out from beneath clumping clouds is the only slice of Italy's luscious views offered to Souma for the next few days.
Steadily, Souma slips earnestly into the Italian cuisine, working faster and harder than he ever had in all the previous restaurants he'd trained in. Muscle memory had been the only thing that had kept Souma fixedly chopping, slicing, dicing and mixing some days. When that had failed, the sight of Takumi's back spurred him on.
Isami never cut him any slack either, expecting from Souma as much as he would a veteran Italian chef. Strictly criticising his sauces and dishes, hammering recipes and dish names into Souma day after day. To make things worse, Isami would even address him in Italian at times. Misinterpretation was throwing him all the way back to his days of Stagiaire again.
Speaking of Stagiaire. Isami sure was running a tough competition with Shinomiya as to who demanded more from him as both a chef and a person.
Like Shinomiya, Isami's knowledge for his speciality cuisine was nothing to laugh at, especially when considering that the pâtissier chef's true speciality lay in confectionary, not the Italian cuisine's savoury foods.
In fact, it was clear that Isami was going out his way to train him, seeing from how he was constantly managing both the desserts course and Souma's training under general Italian cuisine, obviously Takumi's area of expertise. If Isami, being the other half of the eatery, hadn't stepped in that day of the competition, Souma had no doubt he would never have seen the insides of Trattoria Aldini ever again. Or even be within the fifty mile radius of it.
With that in mind, Souma worked ever harder, quickly catching up to the standard Isami could smile and nod satisfactorily at.
(eyes lighting up with every sauce mastered, every Italian phrase added to his vocabulary. a spring in every step, hands moving like the wind, hours flying by.
he never forgot.)
This of course, helped Souma polish his skills in the art of Italian cuisine, but it was doing nothing to help him in his main goal of catching Takumi's eye.
(but this is enough, for now. this small seed of courage, little step forward, is a victory in itself. now go for the leap of faith - and don't bite your tongue.
those words deserve to be said.)
Entering the warm diner bundled up in a thick scarf and winter coat, an involuntary shiver runs down Souma's spine. Moving to the staff room to drop off his bag and change, Souma spots the connecting door to the kitchen ajar, the sounds of a knife working its way to waking the kitchen up emitting from the other side.
Figuring it must be Isami preparing for the day ahead, Souma starts to chatter as he changes into his chef's coat.
" 'Morning Isami. It sure is turning cold, huh? Really gives a sense of Winter coming. Can't believe it's been a month already. Oh yeah, you mentioned a Winter menu the other day, right?" Souma pauses a second to pull his second shirt off.
' Huh, weird that Isami isn't answering', he thinks as he buttons his coat.
"Mind letting me have a - ," Souma stops dead in his question, when he pushes the door open to find not the younger twin looking back with a greeting, but instead the elder glaring at him.
Eloquently, Souma says, "Hello.".
Despite the numerous times he had spent imagining this miraculous scenario of being able to finally, finally, speak to Takumi alone, he finds himself unable to conjure a single line to say when finally faced with the opportunity. Funny how whenever he met Takumi nowadays his vocabulary shrinks right down to single word responses.
The phrase 'deer in the headlights' jumps to mind.
Upon meeting Souma's eye, Takumi clicks his tongue and turns his head back to the chopping board, resuming cutting up a stick of carrot with much more force than needed, in Souma's humble opinion.
"Isami's down today. The cold caught him off guard." Comes Takumi's clipped explanation. "And if you're done standing around like a useless idiot, come help me prep for today. Slice up the mushrooms and dice the tomatoes. When you're done with that, go prep the sauces."
A spark of hurt strikes Souma's heart - Takumi never looked back the whole time he gave those instructions at all.
Dourly giving a single nod, Souma replies, "Yes chef". Takumi doesn't react to that either.
For the next half an hour, the kitchen was devoid of any sound other than equipment hissing, knives thumping.
Souma wants to scream his lungs out to dispel the stiff tension that was slowly filling the room; scream till the raw aching in his chest faded, scream till he couldn't feel the throbbing pain in his heart anymore.
But most of all, he wanted so dearly to just be able to look at Takumi in the eye again, and apologise. Apologise until the high heavens about how Takumi deserved better than being weighed down with his feelings (did they still exist? oh, souma will pray to every god and devil for his selfish request that they still did) for some idiot like him, apologise until his mouth ran dry and he ran out of words. Apologise till the sky fell down, till the earth crumbled beneath their feet and all the stars burnt out.
Apologise till the sea stars in Takumi's ocean eyes sparkled with soft mirth once more.
It hurt. It hurt unimaginably to be so close to Takumi and not speak, not joke around and hear him laugh or shriek or pout or say a single word.
The flood of emotions overwhelms Souma, washing over him like a tidal wave, again and again and again, until he feels his face crumple and fold, until his shoulders lock, until he loses sight of the tomato before him, until -
"Fuck!"
The sudden yell echoes in the kitchen, barely concealing the cling of metal hitting tiled floor.
Takumi's knife work comes to a startled stop, the chef himself irritably turning to the source of the sound.
"What is it Yukihi- Oh my god!"
Blood flows freely from Souma's shaking finger, the uninjured hand clutching at the injured's wrist. Souma's face is pallid, dripping with cold sweat, eyes blown wide with shock.
He hadn't made such a newbie mistake in years . Not even back in his days at Tootsuki.
"Stay still! Don't touch anything, just don't move!" Takumi yells, slamming his own knife down on the chopping board to dash into the back room.
No problem, that's the easiest instruction i've gotten since entering this kitchen, Souma wants to answer, but he finds himself unable to speak for an entirely new reason now, simply gaping at his bleeding finger. Wow. He hadn't known fingers could bleed so much.
Takumi rushes back with a first aid box in his arms, brows scrunching with worry, lips drawing into a distressed frown.
Setting the box on a nearby counter, Takumi quickly finds gauze, of which he immediately presses onto Souma's bleeding cut. Too forcefully, much to Souma's chagrin, and he expresses that with a pained hiss.
Sucking his bottom lip into his teeth, Takumi recoils at Souma's hiss, muttering a soft apology. The gauze is soon drenched with blood; Takumi curses vehemently in Italian, grabbing more gauze to press onto the wound.
"Fuck, Yukihira, how did you cut yourself so badly? You're a professional cook, aren't you? Professional cooks don't make such amateurish mistakes like this! Hands are practically the lifeblood of a chef, look at what you've done to yours! Now the blood isn't stopping - what if you can't ever cook again, you idiot!" Takumi rants, voice growing progressively in both volume and aggression, yet he's unable to cover up the worry that curls into every word he utters.
"God damn it , Yukihira. Stop making me worry like this, take better fucking care of yourself."
Takumi's Japanese becomes more heavily accented as he continues, every syllabus weighing heavy, reminding Souma of a stormcloud before a huge downpour.
"Don't cry, Takumi. I'll be fine." Souma rasps, finally finding his voice. "I'll be fine."
The hand pressing onto Souma's wound tightens, making the redhead wince. He's about to comment about it when he notices Takumi's trembling, pale hands.
Fed up, Takumi pushes his face into Souma, shouting, "You'll be fine? You're injured, and you're telling me you'll be fine? [Are you stupid , Souma]?". Takumi's chest heaves with the effort of containing his anger, eyes blazing furiously.
At the face of Takumi's unexpected outburst, Souma finds himself lost for words once again. Unable to do anything but blink.
Takumi speaking to him, yelling at him for his antics. Takumi being so close to him, touching him, holding him. The familiarity of it all breaks Souma's weak, flimsy facade of strength, of being able to hold anything together at all.
"I'm sorry, Takumi." Souma says, weakly, quietly. "I'm sorry."
The apology seems to ground Takumi to the gravity of his own words, and his eyes drop to the floor, grip not as tight, not as desperate anymore.
"Whatever." Takumi's voice returns to its original flatness once more, as he rips off the gauze to rummage through the first aid kit for bandages. Acquiring a clean roll, he hands it to Souma.
"Here. Bandage it yourself."
Under Takumi's distant gaze, Souma wavers, apologies choking on despair that's stuck in his throat, his arteries.
"I'm sorry Takumi, I really am! I'm sorry for leaving you, i'm sorry for never being in contact, i - "
"Stop it, Yukihira." Takumi cuts him off, eyes weary and flat as his voice. "Just, stop it. I don't want to hear it anymore. I don't want to hear your apologies, I don't want to hear your excuses."
"Takumi, please, i'm sorry. Please just let me explain, i'm so so sorry - "
The crystalline moment begins cracking at the edges, splintering like Takumi's calm.
"Enough!" Takumi yells, hands balling into fists. "Enough, Yukihira! There's no point in your apologies anymore! I don't want to hear them! I'm sick of this! I'm sick of waiting for you, i'm sick of seeing you again after all these years and hearing you speak and laugh! I'm sick of feeling like...like...like this!"
Takumi gestures angrily at himself, a hand raking through his hair, tightly fisting it. A dam broken, tears begin streaming from his burning cerulean eyes, cheeks painted firetruck red from overexertion. He drops his head in defeat.
There's something so oddly wrong about this scene, about Takumi looking so grieved and dejected, behaving like a living dead, that makes Souma's already torn heart break even further.
"I'm tired, Yukihira. Please, just go."
"Takumi - " Souma reaches a hapless arm out, every fibre in his body screaming at him to do something for making the blond cry so pitifully, for ever giving Takumi a reason to look so devastatingly sad.
Snapping from the pressure, Takumi flings his head up, screams at the top of his lungs, ["Get out!"]
The force of Takumi's yell makes Souma take a step backwards, reeling with hurt and unease. Unsure of what action to take would be appropriate. Unsure of whether or not he should let go of possibly, his only chance at ever redeeming himself. Unsure of how selfish he could afford to be anymore.
A flying bowl in his direction makes the choice for him.
"Get out!" Takumi screams through his sobs once more, this time in barely coherent Japanese, poising a colander above his head, tossing it when Souma makes no immediate movement.
Souma backs away from the flying kitchenware, his back eventually hitting the back door of the diner. His head barely dodges a copper pan, hand frantically feeling for a knob to the door he throws open the moment he knob twists.
Takumi's wails and panicked voices of others from the morning shift entering the kitchen are the last things Souma's ears catch as he flings the door close, barely sparing it another glance before he tears down deeper into the alley.
.
Panting, gripping his chest, palm pressed flat against bricks of an unrecognised alley, Souma bends over, heaving out nothing.
Still, he splutters and coughs, salty tears he hadn't realised were falling slipping into his mouth, snot stuffing up his nose, clogging his throat and windpipe.
Souma gasps, but nothing fills his lungs.
Falling into a heap against the abandoned alley, Souma releases a scream he's been bottling for years into the early morning sky, startling crows that squawk and screech from way above on the telephone lines.
The scream teeters off into an anguished whimper. Forehead pressed against his knees, arms wrapping around his head.
Was it - Was it the right choice in the end? Should he have ran? Maybe he should have stayed, done something else instead of fucking run like an idiot.
Souma groans, stomach lurching, head throbbing. Pain from his finger forgotten, overridden by the straining, unyielding pain numbing him from inside out. Hanging off a cliff's edge, with nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Unknowing what to do, what to do, what to do -
Measuring cups over spilling, with the excess and unnecessary.
'I won't' rings clear in his mind.
A loud crack of flesh meeting flesh echoes in the alley. Souma shakes his head roughly, rubs his stinging cheeks with his equally stinging palms. Takes a deep breath, wills his clattering ribs and pounding heart to settle.
"Don't think about that. You've decided to take responsibility, haven't you? So don't think, just act. You made a choice, Yukihira Souma. Now see it through." Souma grit out, harshing wiping the tears away with the back of his arm. "Change the goddamn future, already."
Now Souma wishes he had wine to wash down the aftertaste of that phrase.
(faith is something decided by the unknown laws of the universe, that requires blind trust. unproven, untrustworthy, illogical.
he jumps anyway.)
Seven concerned passersby and a policeman later, Souma finds himself squatting outside the back door of Trattoria Aldini, and face to face to the man who'd thrown him out seventeen hours ago.
"Hey." Souma raises a shivering arm. His teeth chatter. The little ball he'd curled himself into was obviously doing a terrible job at preserving body warmth. It had even numbed his bloody finger. Souma wonders if hypothermia could set in so fast.
"How long have you been out here." Takumi asks tonelessly, hand still on the knob, door half open.
"...Couple hours, maybe? I couldn't stay at the police station all day after all, no matter how warm it was."
Speaking of warmth. Souma tries not to look too longingly into the kitchen. He hadn't come for warmth after all. He'd come to talk to Takumi. He'd willingly freeze his ass off if that gave him an opportunity to talk to Takumi. Wait. He'd already done that.
"The what ."
Souma shrugs, crooked smile growing sheepish. Takumi stiffens, and he makes half turn to go back.
"Wait! Takumi!"
Jumping up, a bone chilling wind crushes into Souma's body. But he doesn't stop. He can't. Not now.
"I just want to talk. I promise. Please just hear me out. If you want to kick me out again, punch me, hit me, you can. But please, do it after you listen to what I have to say. If you do i'll even leave Italy and never come back if that's what you want. I just...Please."
The words sounded lame even to Souma's own ears. But they rang out with pure earnesty he hadn't felt in a very long time; he just hopes Takumi can tell.
"...Wait here."
Then the door closes. Souma isn't quite sure how to feel. He remains standing, unsure of whether to enter the kitchen or not. Takumi wouldn't be so cold as to leave Souma here and go home, would he? Souma is mildly concerned at how he doesn't put that past Takumi to do.
Thankfully, the door clicks open mere minutes later, a windbreaker being the first to exit, thrust in Souma's direction. Fumbling to catch the familiar article he recognises as his own, Souma sighs in relief as he pulls on the warm material over his frozen body.
Takumi is the next to appear, his arms laden full of Souma's belongings and his own. Mutely passing over Souma's things, Takumi proceeds to sweep off the little step at their backdoor. He sits upon it, messenger bag tucked by his side.
"I'm listening."
Hesitating for a second, Souma plops down next to the blond. He rubs the nape of his neck, dropping his head low. Stomach twisting, guts clenching. Now or never, huh.
"I made a mistake, Takumi." Souma begins quietly, looking down at his hands. Clenching and unclenching them. "I ran away from myself. That day during graduation, taking second seat I - I was glad, you know? To even graduate, to have survived Tootsuki, to have met you . I was really happy. But something about not reaching my goal - the first seat - it made me think a lot of unnecessary things. Doubt a lot of things. Mainly myself. I don't think i've ever done that since I was five, wow.
"It was so pathetic. I felt pathetic and disgusting and I - I couldn't let anyone know. Especially not you. I felt like i'd be letting you down, somehow, if you knew about this. I don't know, it's stupid, I know. I felt like I let everyone down, actually. Everyone expected so much - and they weren't wrong to have - and here I was, not the best. I guess it bogged me down too much. I ended up not being able to cook well for a really long time. I mean, when you can't hold a knife steady and you're seeing double, it's pretty hard to cook well. Nightmares and all too.
"And it frustrated me so much. I love cooking, so much, yet nothing I made would come out right. It was just so frustrating to feel like I was failing in the one thing I love so much. Especially when I gave you up for it, when I love and treasure you as much as I do cooking. I was so frustrated and angry and tired and I didn't want anyone to know. Because it felt like I couldn't show anyone this side. I guess I was - scared. Scared that you guys would find out and be disappointed. Disappointing myself is one thing, disappointing others...it's a whole other ballgame. And, I don't know, I felt like disappointing people who'd placed such high hopes on me was something I couldn't face. So I tried not to contact anyone. I wanted to get better, become someone I could be proud of, you could be proud of before I did. Then four years just...whizzed by, and I went no where.
"In the end, it was Shinomiya senpai who got me out this hellhole i managed to dig myself into. Never knew he was that good at pep talks, heh. That's when i decided I should come back, apologise. But I lost my nerve somewhere along the line too. I'm sorry."
Souma lets out a breathless laugh, tilting his head up to look at the clear expanse of sky stretching far and wide from the strip of open air between the buildings, dotted with stars. It's weak and more full of air than sound, but with the air that leaves his lungs, it feels like it's taking the fog that was draped across his eyes, stifling his heart, along with it.
"You must be so disillusioned now, huh? I'm sorry. I'm not great or anything, but I still love you. I love you a lot, Takumi. I'm sorry I didn't realise this earlier and put you through so much. I'm sorr- "
Suddenly, Takumi throws his arms around Souma, muffling his voice, cutting off his apology.
"Don't apologise anymore." Takumi says, voice thick. "I swear, if you say sorry one more time, i'll deck you." He heaves what sounds like a stifled sob. "I'm not disillusioned or anything, i've always known you were an idiot, you idiot."
"Wow, savage." Souma breathes, but traitorous tears are welling up in his eyes, tears he can't wipe away because he doesn't want to move from Takumi's embrace.
"Shut up, Souma. Don't make light of your feelings. It's okay to feel that way. You're human too, aren't you?"
His arms tighten around Souma, one hand clumsily clutching the back of Souma's head, the other grasping at jacket on his back, burying his face into Souma's shoulder. Meanwhile, Souma tilts his head up to rest his chin on Takumi's shoulder, arms still lax by his side.
"You're not infallible or anything. You didn't have to deal with all that alone. You shouldn't have. I'm sorry I couldn't notice you were suffering. I'm sorry you had to suffer so much alone." Takumi's voice holds steady, but trips up at the end, stuttering over the last word.
"Why are you apologising, Takumi?" Souma asks, a cracked smile glued to his face, but tears are rolling down his cheeks, drenching Takumi's jacket.
"I'm sorry Souma. I'm sorry."
"Stop it, Takumi," But the tears don't stop, instead they fall even more freely, making his voice crack and break and splinter into pieces.
Takumi's hold never falters, not like the occasional break in his voice. If anything, it grows stronger, more comforting and warm with every passing second.
"It's okay now. You didn't disappoint me. You made me sad, and really, really, angry, but never disappointed. So it's okay ."
Takumi grips Souma's back, as if his hug had enough power to turn those words into enough strength to hug all those awful feelings away.
Tears freely slide down Souma's face, as he breathes shallowly in and out. He doesn't scream or shout, at this age he knows that does nothing to fix anything, can change nothing.
Even if he wanted to, he can't seem to conjure a single sound. All the words trapped in him already emptied out, with no hollow spaces to be filled.
But he cries. Silently, with his eyes shut and head resting against Takumi's. Letting his tears simply overflow and spill. Lips barely parted, breaths coming uneven yet steady.
Slowly, Souma lifts his arms to curl them around Takumi, ineptly curling fingers into Takumi's jacket loosely.
Upon Souma returning the hug, Takumi makes a wet sniffle, plucks his head off Souma's shoulder to painfully knock his forehead into Souma's, hands moving to clasp Souma's cheeks tenderly.
Beads of tears bud in the corner of Takumi's eyes, barely held back. He glares at Souma for a good minute, and Souma marvels at how Takumi's eyes shine even more when covered with a watery sheen.
"Don't go anywhere without telling me anymore, got it?" Takumi brusquely demands, voice fierce, with tears finally slipping down, dripping onto starched pants.
"Yeah. I got it." Souma breathes, his arms pulling Takumi closer. Takumi hiccups, but it sounds strangely happy - and he breaks into a smile so breathtaking and pure and alive despite the tears still streaming down.
Ocean eyes with glittering sea stars, and Souma thinks he might just drown, with saltwater air and water alike densely packing his lungs. Maybe that's why his chest felt so tight, yet so light at the same time.
Takumi's thumbs run over Souma's tear stained cheeks, pressing a kiss on both, smile so wide his cheeks must ache, and Souma's heartstrings thrum a symphony at the sight.
"It's a promise." Takumi murmurs, all incredulity and hope, lips mere inches away from Souma's own. "It's a promise, Souma. And you better not break this one."
His choice comes with saltwater kisses, a promise, and a boy he wouldn't give up his dreams for.
"I won't."
This time, as Souma leans in to capture Takumi's lips, he hopes it'll be nothing close to chaste, weak or short lived.
.
(it isn't.)
A/N: this is the longest thing i've ever written, leave a review please ;v;
also: i never want to see the word choice again