Daiba is best boy. Also, forewarning, he's kind of gay in this, but I always write him like that, so who is surprised?
I didn't look up when my door opened or when the sound of plates clinking onto the table reached me. I knew the intruder by the sound of his muttering, even if I couldn't make out what he said. As he began rifling through my wine cabinet, I chose to speak.
"I would prefer you knock before entering."
"Sorry," he grumbled before pulling out a bottle. I bothered to glance up from our status reports then. It looked like he'd chosen a rose, though it was hard to tell which from my desk.
"What are you doing?" I asked when it became apparent he wouldn't say.
"I was trying to figure out what wine to have with dinner."
Looking to my table, I found two plates atop it. Even from my desk, I could tell they held Japanese-style omelets garnished with ketchup. I could also tell they were a bit overdone, dried out in spots. They were definitely not Masu's handiwork. Masu knew I didn't care for ketchup.
"I can't say I'd know which wine to pair with that," I said, but he seemed to accept the bottle in his hand. With a shrug, he brought it over to the table. As he brought it closer, I realized he likely couldn't read the label.
"I figure you like all the wines, so it's fine," he said. He brought two glasses over with him as well and poured them both half-full. A glance back over his shoulder revealed his furrowed brow and anxious eyes. "Come here and eat, okay?"
With no other choice, I stood on stiff legs and strode to the table. I tended to eat at my desk or in the galley on occasion. The table was a formality, really, in case of parlay. It tended to go unused.
Daiba took a sip of wine from his glass, his nose scrunching against it in an instant. "Nevermind," he mumbled, pouring his glass into what must have been mine. "It's all yours."
"I have sweeter wines, you know. You picked an awfully dry one."
With a quick shake of his head, he plucked my glass up and set it near the plate at the head of the table. "They're all gross," he said.
"Then I could get you some water-"
"It's fine! Just sit."
I still had no clue what was going on, but he looked as stressed as a new recruit. His hands flitted, messing his hair, and his cheeks shone pink. Maybe he was sick. In any case, I took my seat to ease his concerns. He plopped himself down at the opposite end and set to poking at his food.
It looked even worse up-close. The heat had clearly been on too high. I was a notoriously terrible cook myself, but I liked to imagine I knew how to make eggs at the very least. "Well," I began, hoping he might continue for me. I was certain there had to be some reason for this that he would blurt out at any moment.
But he simply nodded before shoving a bite in his mouth, his eyes down.
"Did you make this?" I asked as I set to work cutting through the flakey bits.
He nodded again, looking very small in the tall-backed chair so far down the table.
"Were you helping Masu with the cooking?"
This time he shook his head. "Made it for you," he mumbled.
"Oh." That answered absolutely nothing. "I appreciate it. Well, was there something you wanted to talk about?"
"Sure," he said, and that was all. Silence followed until I broke it.
"What did you want to talk about?"
"Whatever."
I was getting nowhere fast. It felt like an impossible game, trying to pry answers out of teenagers. This must have been my punishment for being such an annoying teen myself.
"Are you feeling alright?"
"Yeah."
"Are you mad at me?"
His chin jerked up, his eyes wide. "What? No, why would I be mad."
"I don't know," I said with a sigh. "I was hoping you could tell me."
One of his brows quirked up in confusion. "Is there some reason I should be mad?"
"It's possible."
"I don't think so."
"Well, that's good."
Silence greeted us again, and I was left with no choice but to choke down the food. It wasn't inedible by any means, just…not good. I didn't let it show, years of practice allowing me to keep my expression even. The wine helped, especially with how much Daiba had given me. For his part, he seemed fine with the food, excepting his constant wriggling in the chair.
"So," he said once we were finished.
"So?" I prompted.
"So that was fun, but uh, would you mind helping me with dishes?"
"Very well," I said to avoid asking what about that had been fun.
I regretted my decision upon seeing the stacks of pans with burnt crusts of egg stuck to them. "Did you made dinner for everyone?" I asked.
He toed at the floor, grumbling. "No, I just made two. It was real hard."
I had to admire his tenacity at the very least, though I was certain Masu wasn't a fan. "Well," I sighed, rolling up my sleeves. "Let's get started. I'll wash if you dry."
Getting the easier job made him perk up a bit, and he smiled as he nodded. Masu arrived when I was at about the fifth pan down in the endless chasm of the sink. My fingers were already starting to prune from all the water and soap and scrubbing. The steel wool bit into my knuckles. I had half a mind to throw them all out and buy new pans. At my side, Daiba rocked from his heels to his toes and toyed with the towel in his hands.
"Getting him to do all the hard work eh?" Masu asked.
"I'm helping!" Daiba whined, but she waved him off.
"While you're at it, Captain, you're welcome to do the dishes from dinner too."
Saying no would have been rude, but I didn't hate myself enough to say yes, so I made a non-committal sound instead.
She must have been joking because she turned back to Daiba with a smirk. I was allowed to be relieved for half a moment until she spoke. "So how'd the date go?"
My head jerked up. "What?"
"I think it went well," Daiba said, nodding.
"The what?" I pressed, but it seemed they couldn't see me any longer.
"Then you actually got him to eat that?"
"Of course!"
"He must really love you then."
Daiba slapped his hands to his cheeks and nodded, his whole face pink with a blush. He looked happier than I'd seen him in a while, and damn my manners, I went back to scrubbing pans.
He had made me dinner, after all. Honestly, it hadn't been as bad as it looked. By the looks of his many attempts, it could have been much worse.
Look, Harlock, omelets are hard to make.