Helping Hands
By Dreaming of Everything, betaed by the amazing Stariceling
Warnings: UST (unresolved sexual tension) primarily for Komatsu/Coco and Toriko/Komatsu, and poly hints (that is, multiple partners, but this might be mostly in my own head—or not, since I ship it (all) like burning). Potential spoilers (nothing too major) through chapter 140ish, but not compliant (on a small detail) with chapters 142 onward.
Notice 3/13/2014: all further Toriko fics will be posted only on Archive Of Our Own. Look up AO3 for my recent Toriko fics.
It began with a call from Toriko.
Which was not unusual in and of itself. Coco had a premonition as his hand touched the phone. It wasn't much, just a sense of Toriko, not unusual for someone as vibrant as him. He could usually tell if Sani was calling just by the ringing of the phone.
They'd been keeping in touch, more so lately—still irregularly, which was only natural considering what they did and where they went, although their calls and letters were more frequent now that Coco had gone back to becoming a bishoku-ya, or at least become more active. He hadn't fully come out of retirement, but he'd never formally retired, either. Just (more or less) settled down quietly.
The calls themselves were newer, but convenient. Before, they'd stopped in to visit each other once in a blue moon, usually when Toriko went to visit Coco, since the blue-haired man was so rarely at home, and they'd traded New Year's cards, even if they weren't sent or received around the new year at all. In fact, Coco was pretty sure that he was the only person who ever sent Toriko a card at all, or received one from him, apart from maybe Sani (it was no doubt a beautiful card) and maybe their master. Coco himself got considerably more letters, even if the requests for ingredients had slowed down to a trickle instead of a flood. A lot of his New Year's cards came came from women in the village, which continued to be slightly distressing. He just didn't know how to react.
"Hello?" he said, picking up the phone, holding it to his ear as he spoke. The lack of a name in his greeting was, of course, a formality, but he was used to at least half-hiding his eccentricities by now.
"Coco!" The line was staticky, but he was pretty sure that Toriko sounded worried. "I have to go soon, I'm—"
Coco assumed that he said "breaking up," but it fuzzed out too badly for him to tell for certain. Maybe Zebra would be able to, but he didn't have Zebra's ears.
"It's Komatsu. I can't—"
Coco froze, hand tightening around his own phone hard enough that the casing creaked. Then he forced himself to relax. He wasn't usually that out of control.
"I haven't been able to get in touch with him. I've been trying for a few weeks now. It's this shitty phone—"
It went garbled again, nothing but white noise and a few disconnected words. Coco caught something about snails, eating the phone lines. Or maybe eating electricity. He wasn't sure. He did catch that the snails tasted bad.
Coco knew Toriko very well. If he was worried...
"—so that's about it. Thanks, Coco, but I gotta go! Bye."
"Goodbye," he replied, but he wasn't sure that Toriko heard it before the line dissolved into static again. And he put his own phone back in the cradle—not cracked at all, he realized with a certain amount of satisfaction—and realized that he'd been asked for a favor. The conversation had been an oblique request. Toriko was worried, and he'd known that Coco would also be worried, and in a better place to look into the matter...
It was abnormal. As a general rule, the Four Kings don't ask favors of each other—maybe once in a while Sani would, to annoy Toriko; the rest of the time, if a favor was asked, it was often of Coco, or it was Toriko asking—and he'd always been the most outgoing (well; Sani was outgoing, but... differently), the friendliest, the most open out of all of them, and confident enough in his own abilities to easily and comfortably make requests. He was too much of a hedonist, and not proud enough, to stick entirely to himself.
Other people did not make requests of the Four Heavenly Kings. The closest outsiders ever came was to set up business deals: a job, a deadline, a price. And usually the four of them did not concern themselves with outsiders. Even if Coco did look after the town. Toriko's—relationship? Association? Partnership? He wasn't sure what to call it—with Komatsu was unexpected; an outlier, unusual.
Komatsu was unusual. Not like they were, not like the four of them, but he was going to be a chef in a rank of his own. He had already surpassed Gourmet National Treasure Setsuno's Century Soup, after all. Given time, even if he didn't keep improving at leaps and bounds the way he had (the way Toriko had), he would be peerless.
And Coco would do a lot for him. Not because he was such an incredible chef, although he was. Coco rather thought that it was Komatsu's nature that made him such a chef. He was courageous, generous of heart, too brash and excitable, true, but it could be almost endearing, that enthusiasm. Was it any surprise that ingredients spoke to them? Komatsu had managed to draw the attention—and the appreciation, even friendship—of all of the Four Heavenly Kings, bishoku-ya so famous they were almost legendary. Even from Zebra, he'd heard. If anyone could, it would of course be Komatsu.
Pretty impressive for a chef at a restaurant with only (it was still an underestimation, Coco thought) six stars, for a person who stood thirty-two centimeters shorter than the shortest person in their group (Sani, assuming he wasn't floating). Coco thought that Sani had, at first at least, been slightly disturbed by the aesthetics of Komatsu, especially next to Toriko.
Coco was going to go check on Komatsu. Because he tended to do favors when any of the Four asked for them; because he, too, was worried about Komatsu, and had been determined to protect him ever since he'd first seen the death sign over him, even though that was long gone, and he had only become more determined when he had seen that core of strength, of giving, that made Komatsu something extraordinary; because he needed to go, now that he knew that Komatsu might be in trouble. Because it was Komatsu.
It was—surprising.
Now was not the time, though. He called for Kiss, and gathered a few quick supplies—nothing too much, although he packed extra bottles of water. Not that he expected fighting, but...
But Toriko inevitably ended up in more trouble than you expected, and Komatsu spent a lot of time with Toriko. It just seemed like a good idea. Not a premonition or any sort of fortune-telling, but something to keep in mind.
Then he went to find Komatsu, for Toriko. (For Komatsu. For himself.)
Kiss got left outside town, or more probably above it. He could more than take care of himself.
Coco made his way to Hotel Gourmet. He realized, a little shame-faced, that he hadn't thought to ask for a home address for Komatsu, even though he knew that Toriko probably didn't know it either. Part of the problem was that it just seemed natural to think of Komatsu and Hotel Gourmet; not as natural as Komatsu following Toriko towards unimaginable danger and delicious food, but his restaurant was one of the places where Komatsu belonged.
He headed there anyway, just in case the whole situation was a mistake. It was a little past ten when he arrived and the doors were unlocked despite the closed sign on the front. The restaurant was deserted, no doubt because of the hour, except for a waiter laying out place settings and a—manager? Or host—who was preparing for the day.
Which made him an easy target to approach with a small, polite smile, asking for help. That casual politeness, the hint of mystery that people seemed to see in him, and introducing himself as a bishoku-ya looking for Komatsu-san (since here, to Komatsu's staff, people he was in charge of, Coco wouldn't think of asking for Komatsu-kun) had the host nodding, smiling politely and bowing, calling out for a surprised-looking waiter to bring him back to the kitchens instead of kicking him out until business hours started. Possibly he had been recognized; he'd been to Hotel Gourmet several times, of course, often in memorable company (more memorable than he'd prefer, sometimes; at least Zebra had never visited—as far as he knew, and he probably would have heard about it, if only because it would make the news if he ever entered a city), and he did stand out some himself. Less so here than he would have back home, thankfully. He never had been good at handling a lot of attention.
The kitchen smelled delicious—soups starting up, dough being worked on, preparations for later on in the day when the rush began. His entrance was clearly an intrusion: momentarily, the work ground to a halt before an exhausted-looking man waved them back to it, wiping his hands on his apron as he approached Coco, eying him a little warily, looking up to meet his gaze. He wasn't as short as Komatsu, but Coco was an imposing figure (unless you were comparing him to, say, Toriko. Or Zebra,) nonetheless.
"Nori," he introduced himself, perfunctorily. Not very polite, Coco thought, hiding a frown. "I'm the sous chef. Can I help you?"
"My name is Coco. I'm looking for Komatsu-san," Coco replied, face carefully empty. The frown on Nori's face in response to that wasn't feigned, he thought. He didn't have Zebra's skill with determining truth, but he didn't think the chef was hiding anything.
Nori sighed, slumping slightly before he replied, his voice definitely tired, like he was stretched thin. He clearly lacked Komatsu's inner strength; but that was to be expected. "Komatsu-sensei is sick. It's been about a week—it's a full week now, right? Or just under. And we're out of Century Soup—I thought there'd be a riot—and we had to install a second sous chef, temporarily, since I can't do it all myself. Can I take a message?"
This time Coco was the one who frowned slightly, serious face darkening a little. Sick? And for so long... "A message won't be necessary," he said. "I won't bother you further. Ah, I seem to have misplaced his home address—is there any chance that...?"
There was a blank moment. The workers near them were watching them again, not very subtly. Coco bit back a sigh of his own. After a second, one the women near him cutting vegetables put her knife down, looking over at him. "I've got it," she said, putting her potatoes—crab-potatoes, he thought, looking at the shell-like peel, cut for pommes souffles, which sounded intriguing—into a bowl of water, drying her own hands off. There was an almost-immediate murmur of interest. It seemed that the ones who weren't watching were still listening.
The cook continued, blushing a little, hurrying to explain herself more fully, tone defensive. "Komatsu-sensei asked me to bring him some spices from the restaurant a few weeks ago, that's all." She trotted out of the kitchen, returning just a moment later with a scrap of paper. "Here you go," she added, handing it over to him.
"Thank you," Coco replied, nodding solemnly. Her blush and almost-giggle at the gesture, as disturbingly familiar as the interested gleam in her eyes, were only a reminder that it was definitely time to go.
Komatsu's home, of course, was close to the restaurant, although off on a rather quiet side street. The apartment building was plain, well-kept but not new, closer to old but not quite that, either. It was mostly unassuming, which did fit Komatsu, even if he could be too loud and direct sometimes, natural enthusiasm not always tempered enough.
The hallway was quiet, and Coco didn't start truly worrying until he knocked a second time. He could see a person inside the house, with his special vision, and—
He was knocking for a third time, starting to plan his next move, when the door swung open.
"Komatsu-kun!"
"...Coco-san?" Komatsu sounded as unreservedly happy to see him as he always did, life-or-death situations or no, which (as it always did) warmed something in Coco. It was tempered by concern: labored breath, flushed face, a jacket wrapped around his small shoulders even though it was a warm day and the house was hot, and Komatsu seemed to be supporting himself against the doorway. "Is there anything wrong?"
Of course that would be Komatsu's first thought, seeing Coco on his doorstep; even if they were friends, the bishoku-ya didn't visit often, he had never been to his house before, and it wasn't like Coco to stop by unannounced and without an invitation. There was concern—bone-deep worry—in Komatsu's eyes, and he rushed to allay it.
"No, nothing! I was in the area and—"
He paused. "Toriko was concerned he hadn't been able to get in touch with you. ...Komatsu-kun, are you feeling alright?"
"You came all this way?" Komatsu said, looking honestly startled. "Oh! I'm being rude—please, come in, Coco-san." He stood out of the way, shuffling slightly, moving slowly, uncomfortably. Poison, was Coco's first, immediate thought, uncontrollable and chilling. But Komatsu was showing him to the tiny living space—it was a modest apartment, and sparely furnished—and then bustling into the (comparatively much larger) kitchen, fiddling with getting tea and snacks ready. Although he wasn't moving with the usual sure grace he showed in the kitchen, or with food at all, really—his fingers had none of the confidence that had captured even Sani.
"Komatsu-kun?" Coco said, raising his voice slightly over the growing noise of the heating kettle. "You didn't say—how do you feel?"
"I'm fine," Komatsu managed before he coughed, deep and painful, muffling it in an elbow as he supported himself against the counter, which did nothing to put Coco at ease. "I didn't mean to make you or Toriko-san worry. ...Just a small cold. Er, flu," he amended, taking a step away before his face went surprised and his legs went out from under him, Coco blurring into motion as it happened, half instinct and half intuition.
"I'm sick," Komatsu concluded, and managed to right himself, with Coco's help. When he put a hand on his forehead—forward of him, maybe, but Komatsu had always seemed a particularly tactile person, and the chef was already leaning against him, a warm and surprisingly solid weight against Coco's side. Not heavy, but very—present.
Coco felt his forehead, smoothing back the hair. Komatsu's expression was remarkably dazed, unfocused.
"You're burning up!" he said, shocked, pulling away slightly. (Still careful to keep a hand on Komatsu's shoulder, anchoring him.)
"Really sick," Komatsu added, and Coco picked him up bodily and carried him into the bedroom, despite a few weak complaints, undermined when Komatsu slid gratefully under rumpled covers, not taking off the jacket he was wrapped in. Still, he protested. "The tea! At least get the tea."
Because Komatsu was shaky and weak, shivering underneath it all, badly feverish, Coco stood to get the tea—the kettle was whistling—because otherwise Komatsu was going to get out of bed to get it himself. He poured it, then hurried back to Komatsu's bedroom.
"Komatsu-kun, I—"
He looked miserable. Coughing again, and curled up, face flushed and sweaty. Coco stopped, watching, disturbed by the scene.
"Coco-san?" Komatsu ask, breath ragged, after the fit had subsided.
"I was wondering if you had a thermometer," he said, politely, calmly. If he was Sani he'd already know, but he wasn't. He was thinking about which of his poison-treatments, if any, could potentially be applied. Something to draw the poison of the infection out of Komatsu's system...
"...Like for meat?" Komatsu said, apparently confused. Coco wasn't sure whether to bite back a smile or frown or—some other expression. "I—might have one somewhere..."
Coco had known that Komatsu was far too in tune with any meat he was cooking to need mechanical aid like that. But... "No, for you. I'm—worried about you."
There was that expression of honest, open bafflement again. Like he just didn't understand.
"Bathroom cabinet," Komatsu replied, but his face was slightly shuttered, as he thought something over. Coco waited, not sure what was going to be said. "Coco-san, I'm sorry I'm not being a better host—I really would like to cook for you again!—and I'm taking up your time..."
Coco shook his head. "Komatsu-kun, Toriko is worried about you. I'm worried about you."
"Oh," Komatsu said. "It really is just the flu, you know. I'm—less in danger than I usually am, I figure." But, Coco realized, a lot more alone than he usually was when his life was in peril, because then he had Toriko. Sometimes he had Coco himself, Sani, depending on who was there to help him, and even Zebra had apparently saved his life. Multiple times, which was baffling.
After a moment, as Coco thought quietly—brooded, Sani would call it—Komatsu spoke again. "I did go to the doctor," he added. "It is just a flu. I wanted to make sure I hadn't picked up something weird."
"I'm glad to hear that, Komatsu-kun," Coco added, relieved it wasn't anything more complicated, more potentially deadly (considering where Komatsu had been, "weird" was entirely believable), and then he went to get the thermometer, the tea—and it was a bad sign that Komatsu appeared to have forgotten about it—and a cloth with a bowl of cool water. The least he could do was take care of him.
When he came back, Komatsu had fallen into a fitful doze, although he woke up when Coco put a careful hand on his shoulder, eyes sliding open. He opened his mouth obediently for the thermometer, face working slightly as he tucked it under his tongue, eyes drifting closed again although he did turn to focus on Coco's face for a moment when he touched the damp rag to his face, wiping away some of the sweat—carefully, delicately—before he re-folded it and put it on his forehead, trying to cool the raging fever.
40 degrees. Coco frowned. Not dangerous, but miserable even for him, with his gourmet cells to take the edge off, his own body's response to—well, not disease; none of them really seemed to get sick—but to poisons, in that initial response before his body began producing antibodies in sufficient levels to quell the poison completely. It was significantly less painful for him than for others, he thought.
It was eerily quiet, except for Komatsu's labored breathing. Uncomfortable with the thick silence, his own helplessness in this situation, the wrongness of seeing Komatsu so still and so—diminished, looking so frail as he slept, moving fitfully, Coco went into the living room to call Toriko.
Ring. Ring. Rii— "Hello?"
"Toriko," Coco said, purposefully pitching his voice low, to try and keep from disturbing Komatsu. And because if he sounded worried, Toriko might panic.
"Coco! It's you! —Komatsu. How is Komatsu?"
"He has the flu," Coco said, too upset to consider saying that he was just sick. "Komatsu-kun will be fine, but for now—"
"Sick?" The urgency in Toriko's voice stopped Coco cold.
"Fever, coughing. I'm not sure he's been eating." That, on reflection, was the wrong thing to say, because food has so much importance to Toriko, to all of them, really—even if Komatsu didn't eat as much as them, and if none of them ate as much as Toriko or, especially, Zebra.
There was a loud crashing noise. Toriko had probably punched a wall, Coco thought. "Damn it," Toriko said, helpless, and Coco could understand.
So he said, "I'm going to stay here and take care of him. He's been to a doctor, it really is just a flu. I think he's miserable but not in danger."
"I'll be there soon," Toriko said, and hung up, but what Coco heard was 'I wasn't there, I'm not there,' and all the self-recrimination those words held.
Komatsu slept most of the afternoon. Coco kept an eye on him; he drank his tea, then drank Komatsu's tea, too (he didn't want it to go to waste, and while he thought that he had over-steeped it a little, it was delicious), got himself something to eat. He cooked up a thin soup, which felt—wrong, with Komatsu just in the other room. But he was clearly in no shape to cook anything, and Coco didn't have Toriko's appetite, but he did need to eat. (More than was normal.) Maybe it was presumptuous to assume that Komatsu would want to cook for him, if he'd been better, but...
He was generous of spirit. And always happy to cook. And seemed to care for them all; he was Toriko's partner, of course, so indomitable that he could keep up, and would keep up, with one of them, with Toriko. But he had showed that kindness to Coco, even before they had really known each other, before he had any reason to extend that kindness; had won over Sani; had won over Toriko, for what it was worth, Toriko who liked everyone but also tended to leave everyone behind. And Zebra, somehow, although Zebra wasn't exactly the sort to appreciate Komatsu's kind of, as Sani put it, beauty, or his strength: he certainly wouldn't be interesting in a fight, which was how Zebra related to Toriko—who was still his only friend, Coco thought. He still hadn't figured out what about Komatsu had appealed to Zebra's better nature, which was spectacularly limited; but Komatsu was his own type of extraordinary.
Komatsu would want to cook for him. Had always wanted to cook for him, felt honored to cook for him, for all of them. Just because they were who they are, and he respected them—not because they were the Kings, it was deeper than that.
Unusual.
Coco made a quick, clear soup, did his best to make it delicious but lightly flavored, nourishing but not anything that would upset a (currently) delicate stomach. He made fresh rice, and kept the small meal warm while he waited for Komatsu to wake up, to see if he could coax him into eating something. Taking care of Komatsu was one of those things that felt right. Then he cleaned up the dishes left in the sink—just a few, but that felt wrong, too, Komatsu too much of a chef to leave the washing-up for later if he had the time to do it immediately.
The rest of the kitchen was impeccably clean, as was the rest of the house, but it felt much more lived-in than the other spaces. The living room was almost sterile in feel, with furniture and a small table, a TV, but there was something about the blank walls, the lack of wear on the furniture, the lack of personal touches that kept it generic, nothing to label it as Komatsu's at all. The bedroom was equally empty, except for Komatsu himself, with a small dresser, a few personal items, nothing much at all.
It was the kitchen that felt warm, inviting. Most of the ingredients were kept in the cabinets, the tableware also tucked away, but there were signs of wear, the little details: a slight burn on the floor, a few scratches in the counter top, a chip in the enamel of the sink, the highly personal (it probably wouldn't make perfect sense to anyone but Komatsu himself) arrangement of tools and pans in the many drawers and cabinets. Komatsu's cherished kitchen knife, of course, was placed carefully on the table. There was a whole wall, a little ways back, devoted to shelves filled with cook-books, some still pristine looking, others (the most-used ones, most-loved because it was Komatsu) more worn, filled with little slips of paper marking certain recipes, marginalia detailing changes that worked or didn't, suggestions for wine pairings, adjustments, new recipes that drew inspiration from them. The oldest-looking book, the pages slightly yellowed, the cover imprinted with a burn shaped like the bottom of a saucepan, a few stains on the pages from accidental drips, had notes in handwriting other than Komatsu's—an heirloom, Coco thought.
The place felt like Komatsu. That was it. Coco was sensitive to that sort of thing.
He had brought some reading to keep himself occupied, just reports from the IGO, which had been a good idea. It was quiet. He'd settled down in the hallway, outside Komatsu's bedroom, the door half-open. The living room had felt too far away, uncomfortably so. At the same time, he wouldn't intrude to the extent where he'd sit by the other man's bedside, watching over him. True, it felt right, but it would be taking liberties. Toriko, sure, would be by his side when he arrived—soon, he hoped, not because he wanted to leave, but because Toriko needed to be there. Not for any real, immediate reason, but because he protected Komatsu, looked after him, and it would be hard for him, to not be able to do that for his partner now. Komatsu could only draw comfort from his partner's presence, the sort of care that Toriko reserved for him.
Coco himself, though, wasn't as close to Komatsu as Toriko was, and it would be inappropriate for him to show that much familiarity. He was also the sort of person who worried about propriety, unlike Toriko. Komatsu was—well, more normal, more aware of social standards and respect and what was appropriate, and was unlikely to appreciate any hovering from Coco. Even if he was sometimes startlingly forward. Of course, it was that forwardness, matched with his unsullied, unselfish kindness, that made him do things like try and comfort a powerful bishoku-ya he barely knew, one of the Four Kings no less. Most people wouldn't have tried, even if they themselves weren't afraid (Komatsu had his own kind of bravery, even when he was quaking with fear and helpless); most people would have assumed that he wouldn't have needed comforting at all.
He didn't need it. But it was so—strange, not unpleasant, to have someone (weak) try and protect him. And succeed.
That first time, his contact had been a conscious decision, an attempt to put Coco at ease. His later hugs, irrepressible and spur-of-the-moment and enthusiastic, were anything but—just Komatsu being himself. It was usually Toriko, just as enthusiastic, but Coco had been on the receiving end of a few. That was even more precious. Komatsu was aware of Coco's poison, but really didn't seem to care; not unaware of the danger, but accepting it. Trusting him, unconsciously.
There was a stirring inside the bedroom, and Coco looked up, then stood lightly, knocking briefly before he walked into the room. Komatsu, eyes open and face flushed again—the damp cloth had been knocked away, and was leaving a damp patch on the sheets—seemed to be looking around, confused.
"Komatsu-kun?"
"Coco-san? Ah... I kind of wondered if I had dreamed you." Fever dreams, of course, he should have expected that. He wasn't particularly lucid right now. "I'm glad I didn't." His smile was honest, completely unfiltered, hazy with fever as he was.
"Would you like something to eat, Komatsu-kun?" Coco reclaimed the rag, wringing it out in the bowl of cool water and re-folding it before he smoothed it back over Komatsu's forehead as he lay back again, apparently comforted, somehow soothed, by the other man's presence.
He paused to consider that, which Coco didn't consider a good sign. "Maybe," he concluded finally. "Nothing really sounds good..."
"I made some soup," and Komatsu looked surprised, and then touched. Honestly touched, like it meant something to him.
"Thank you, Coco-san! I would love to try your soup." He even managed to look enthusiastic about it. "I think I am feeling better, too, so maybe it won't..." he trailed off, looking slightly sick, and Coco winced, realizing that he'd been nauseous, throwing up earlier in the week, and all alone in the house...
Then paled, realizing that that meant that this was Komatsu when he was doing better.
"Feeling better?" he asked, worried.
"I'm not having any more dreams with monsters in them," Komatsu said, with a measure of relief but matter-of-fact about it, and oh. Of course. Komatsu was probably familiar with more beasts, monsters and creatures than anyone who wasn't a top-level chef (and even a lot of those) or a bishoku-ya (and even then, he'd probably met more of them face-to-face than most could ever dream of seeing). "I think I'm still having fever dreams, but my bones don't ache as badly. And I'm not feeling...as sick to my stomach anymore."
"I'll go get the soup," Coco said, and left the room. He came back quickly.
Komatsu had positioned himself mostly upright, and managed to feed himself, the bowl nestled into the blankets over his lap, which Coco found a great relief. Not because he objected to feeding Komatsu, but it was good to see that he had at least that much strength still left, little as it was. Just because Komatsu never seemed to resent the physical aid he required in the extreme situations he ended up in—that wasn't any reason to think that he never would, that it wouldn't wear on him, being rescued. It wasn't emasculating, not really, it was simply that they were differently skilled, just as it didn't bother Coco that Komatsu, in the kitchen, had probably surpassed him in cooking ability in his younger teens. He would never be the cook Komatsu was, he didn't have the inherent ability, just as Komatsu wasn't going to end up a poisonous human, or able to punch out monsters that would make a grown man weep.
But did he see it like that?
He certainly didn't seem to resent any of them. But he could at least feed himself, for now. He managed half a bowl before turning his head away.
"Thank you very much for the soup," he said, and his appetite was certainly reduced (Coco guessed that he'd only eaten this much because he wanted to show his appreciation, and because he probably knew he had to, to gain back his strength, to fight off the illness attacking his body) but his smile was full of contentment, emotional satiation. "Thank you for cooking for me, Coco-san."
"It was a pleasure, Komatsu-kun," Coco replied, and that was true, even if he wished that the situation was different. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, even if I'm a poor cook indeed, compared to you."
Komatsu shook his head, silently protesting, which was a nice gesture, even if that was all that it was. Coco laughed slightly, low and easy and a little self-deprecating; friendly. He didn't argue the point, though, instead taking the last of the soup, bringing it back out the kitchen. At least Komatsu had eaten.
Komatsu was halfway asleep when he came back out. "Sorry..." he said, eyes slipping inexorably closed.
"You don't have anything to be sorry for," Coco said, worried, halfway reaching a hand out, but—
"You're a guest. I should be cooking for you..."
Then he was asleep, and Coco shook his head. Komatsu.
The couch was far too short for Coco (who didn't appreciate his height in every-day life, although it was sometimes useful in a fight; unlike Sani, who reveled in it, and Toriko, who for the most part seemed oblivious to the fact that he was head-and-shoulders above the rest of the world), but he found a futon in the hall closet, otherwise empty except for a change of sheets for the western-style bed Komatsu slept in. When all set up it took up most of the postage-stamp sized living room, but that was fine. It was still a little too short for him, but he slept well enough, was comfortable enough, especially once Kiss settled himself on the postage-stamp sized balcony.
Coco woke early, made himself a good breakfast (easy to do with Komatsu's kitchen; maybe the ingredients were more willing simply by virtue of being his? Just a fancy, a silly thought, but one that appealed to him, somewhat) and then prepared a tray for Komatsu himself.
He was slightly surprised to see Komatsu awake, chewing distractedly on his lip as he flipped through a cookbook, a pad of paper next to him. He was writing something down, and as he finished he looked up. "Coco-san, good morning!"
"Good morning, Komatsu-kun. How are you feeling?" He put the tray down on the bedside table, hesitating just for a brief second before he sat down on the bed, which dipped slightly under his weight. Komatsu slid a little bit at the rearrangement, until his knee brushed against Coco's side.
Not thinking, Coco leaned forward and put a hand on his forehead: too forward of him, especially now that Komatsu was slightly more lucid. He hesitated, but Komatsu merely smiled sleepily, blinked, and Coco relaxed again. Of course he didn't mind; he was surprisingly tactile, after all. What was checking his forehead for fever, when Komatsu was so generous with his touches? Mostly with Toriko, of course, but...
Still hot. Not any cooler, that he could tell, but he got the thermometer anyway.
"I guess you're still not a fever dream," Komatsu said, idly crossing something off the piece of paper he was writing on, and Coco frowned. They had already had this conversation.
"How are you feeling?" Coco repeated.
"Oh," he replied, looking up, frowning slightly, brow furrowing. "...Dizzy? I... a drink of water sounds good, if you'd help me up..."
"I brought a glass with me," Coco said, a little insulted that Komatsu thought that he would make him walk to get his own glass of water. Maybe it was misplaced pride appearing. "Let me take your temperature first."
Komatsu flipped through a few more pages of his book as the two of them silently waited for the thermometer. A cook book, of course. He didn't seem particularly interested in the contents, and Coco agreed: none of it seemed particularly inspired, or anything other than mediocre. Although doubtlessly Komatsu could make anything delicious—if he tweaked it the way only he could, used the sort of finesse that seemed to coax such incredible flavors out of the food he cooked with.
His fever was still high although lower, hovering right around 39.5 degrees. It was a little bit cooler, nothing too significant and still far too high, but it was at least something. Komatsu seemed to have trouble focusing his eyes right, and there was the vague, half-aware sleepiness that came hand-in-hand with fever dreams, reality blurring in and out a little. Not quite hallucinations, Coco thought, but...
"I'm really blurry-feeling," Komatsu said, frustrated, and Coco helped him with a glass of water. The first drink was an unrestrained gulp, the relief of water on a parched, no-doubt painful throat that had to feel like ground glass after the hacking coughs he'd heard all night. After that, Komatsu sipped more slowly, carefully.
After the water, Coco was able to coax Komatsu into eating some okayu, a rice porridge, a few bites and then a few more after a short break. Mostly, there was a half-companionable, half-worried (Coco couldn't help himself) silence.
"My mother used to make me okayu like this when I was sick," Komatsu said after a while, smiling at Coco. Then he laughed a little, shaking his head. "Other than that, you're nothing alike. I think she'd like you, though."
Coco smiled silently at him in response, warmed but unsure what to say. He hadn't exactly had a... traditional childhood. It was also strange, this sort of reminder that Komatsu lived in two worlds, with the restaurant bridging the gap in-between. There was the Komatsu who had tracked Century Soup down to the source, braving the bishoku-kai and the elements and the beasts; then there was the Komatsu who had grown up—somewhere, with a mother who made him rice porridge with egg and green onion when he was sick. The Komatsu who got the flu, and had a small, tidy apartment that got good morning sun, even though the view wasn't very nice. Right now, Coco was experiencing that side of Komatsu's world, the part he didn't fit into, and...
He somehow did. He didn't feel out of place—not too badly. Although it was strange to think of the connections that Komatsu must have, the ones they didn't know about, didn't see—because he felt like one of them, and for the most part (before Komatsu) they'd been a relatively insular group, the gourmet cells providing a clear-cut distinction between them and the rest of the world. One Komatsu seemed to ignore in a way that made it clear that it simply wasn't an issue for him.
What sort of family had produced a man like Komatsu? Apparently one with a mother who made a more-than-passable but far-from-gourmet okayu. A competent cook, but certainly not the world-class chef Komatsu was.
"I would like to hear more about your childhood sometime," Coco found himself saying, but Komatsu had already drifted back to sleep, and he just murmured something indistinct in response to the words, turning over a little.
Instead, Coco waited a little while, then took the dishes back into the kitchen to do some cleaning up. He reclaimed his own reading material, along with a book about the specific challenges of cooking different classes of reptiles—he didn't think Komatsu would mind—but instead of gravitating to the hallway, he ended up sitting in Komatsu's room, listening to his breathing, wincing at the occasional cough.
Toriko didn't answer his phone that afternoon, but that wasn't anything unusual. He was often in ridiculous places without any sort of telephone service at all, or maybe it had been crushed against a rock, or under a foot, or eaten by a monster, or been thrown into a river, or—with Toriko, you never knew.
That afternoon, Komatsu woke up too feverish to concentrate on anything serious. The attention he'd mustered that morning to work on what looked like a menu was long-gone now, even if his fever hadn't changed much. Coco ended up playing a few games of cards with him—it was probably embarrassing, their clear lack of any ability or skill, Komatsu at least with every reason to be hindered. It was still hugely enjoyable, even if Coco wished that the other man was feeling better. At least Komatsu ate a little bit more, then sipped at a sweet ginger tea over the course of the afternoon, the hot liquid soothing his throat slightly. Still, the talking took him from hoarse to nearly-voiceless, and finally Coco withdrew, insisting that he lay back down.
He was asleep again almost immediately. It was starting to worry Coco. He tried calling Toriko again, but there still wasn't an answer.
Coco was already in motion, poison dripping off the tips of his fingers, before he recognized Komatsu and froze, relaxing himself as the man looked at him with clear confusion, fuzzy sleepiness, the lingering fever dulling his normally sharp expression.
He couldn't even remember waking up—just the sudden, instinctual blur into movement as he'd recognized footsteps other than his. Belatedly, he put his hand down at his side, half-hiding the digits now stained dark with the toxin that filled him. "Komatsu-kun?" he said out loud, concern coloring his voice—if something was wrong, or...
"Yes, Coco-san?" Komatsu replied, somewhat bemusedly. "I'm sorry if I, ah, woke you up..." That trailed off almost into a question, and Coco shook his head, already protesting. It was abnormal to, well, seek to defend someone (Komatsu) against hugely powerful beasts, more so in such a domestic setting, where the biggest animals were probably common rats or maybe pigeons—he really didn't fit in here, even if he was better at hiding it than Toriko, who blended in with absolutely nothing, or even Sani, who didn't so much participate in the world as float slightly above it, sometimes literally, and occasionally deign to involve himself.
And Zebra made the news, considering that he was, essentially, a natural disaster on legs. With an appetite. He didn't count.
"Komatsu-kun, there is absolutely nothing for you to apologize for," Coco said, reaching forward, putting a hand on Komatsu's shoulder. It provided a little more support for the still-slightly-wobbly man, even though he was at least moving—was everything okay? Coco's nerves were still singing at him, all threat and panic and worry.
He clearly didn't need the extra support Coco had provided in any great capacity, but he left it there, companionably, as he finished making his way into the kitchen, before easing his way into a chair with a sigh. "I didn't mean to startle you," he did add. "I hadn't realized you were asleep, either—Coco-san, have you been sleeping well?"
He was—honestly concerned, Coco realized. Even though it was Komatsu who was sick, even though Komatsu was the one who was feverish, aching, struggling to stay awake for even a few hours at a time, barely eating, not cooking, which in some ways was most worrying. He took pride in his skill, had every right to (and then some, considering that Zebra was well-acquainted with that pride and had yet to even try to kill him for cockiness, not that any thinking person would ever apply that word to Komatsu), and loved to cook, even for the rather harsh audience that the four of them could present. Not that he'd ever disappointed them, in any way.
"Komatsu-kun, I've been very comfortable," he found himself saying, putting Komatsu's concerns to rest as best as he could. He busied himself with getting a glass of water, realizing a little too late that it might be presumptuous to go through Komatsu's cabinets (with obvious familiarity, no less) in his own kitchen while he was there, but the shorter man simply watched him with happy ease, a just-slightly-too-wide smile on his face. It warmed the pit of Coco's stomach; Komatsu had never been restrained, which he'd come to honestly appreciate, and seeing him so—diminished had been unnerving.
He let his hand rest on Komatsu's shoulder after he handed over the glass.
After drinking deeply, then carefully setting the glass on the counter while he coughed, Komatsu spoke. "I'm glad to hear that," he said, carefully. "Coco-san, thank you so much for looking after me. But I—I'm not keeping you from anything more important, right?" He looked worried. Honestly worried.
Coco shook his head again. "Not at all! Komatsu-kun, I'm just glad that I can do something to help, as little as I've done..."
"You've already helped me so much!" Komatsu exclaimed, worry shining through his eyes as he straightened; it was his turn to reach out, putting a hand on Coco's arm. "You've saved my life before—many times, really, there's no need to—"
"There is," Coco said, voice unexpectedly intense even to himself, putting his other hand (poison safely cleared) over the smaller one resting against him. "Please, don't let it worry you, Komatsu-kun. How are you feeling today?"
"Better," he said, considering. "I think my fever's going down." Although he was still clearly feverish, cheeks flushed and his hand too hot against Coco, not that he was as sensitive as, for example, Sani. Although Sani would have, in other ways, been a bad choice for this situation: he had trouble waiting, and staying calm, and he was terrible at feeling helpless. And Komatsu didn't really need someone "licking" him every five minutes.
"I'm glad, Komatsu-kun," Coco said, and his voice was fervent.
There was a moment of silence. "Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to cook you dinner, Coco-san!" Komatsu
said, suddenly, and Coco shook his head, smiling indulgently.
"Don't push yourself for my sake, Komatsu-kun. In the meantime, do you think you could eat something? Even if it's just plain rice?"
"I am a little hungry," he said, smiling wider, and Coco smiled back.
Later that day, when Komatsu was resting again, he left another message for Toriko, who still wasn't answering his phone, this report much calmer, although still worried, in spite of himself. Logically, he knew that everything was fine, but his instinct was still screaming at him. It had nothing to do with his fortune-telling, it wasn't that real or anything like that reliable, instead nothing more than natural paranoia he couldn't ignore. The whole situation just sat wrong with him, prickling under his skin when he thought about it too long.
Komatsu woke up restless the next day, after an uneasy night, the wraiths of fever dreams only letting him sleep intermittently. Despite that, he had more energy—he was feeling better, and the prolonged bed rest was starting to wear on him.
"I still think you should be resting," Coco said, standing (hovering) at Komatsu's elbow, watching his hands as they worked through the pale dough he was kneading. Together they watched flashes of skin appearing and disappearing, tendons and muscles tightening, relaxing. Komatsu knew how hypnotic kneading could be; he found it almost irrationally soothing. Maybe Coco thought the same?
"I'm not working very hard," Komatsu pointed out, after a second. "It's just kneading." Then he paused to bury another cough—it was lingering—in the corner of his elbow, supporting himself a little against the counter as it continued, wracking his body.
When he looked back up, Coco looked horrified. "I'd be coughing just as much in bed, Coco-san," he pointed out, turning back to the dough. He wasn't done yet, and it was a testament to how truly terrible he still felt that even just what he'd accomplished so far had left him worn out. Still, he was happy to be cooking again, which helped quite a bit. The dough felt nice against his fingers, slightly sticky and yeasty-smelling, but mostly it was just nice to be back in a kitchen, even if it wasn't anything extraordinary he was working on. Or, really, anything more than bare basics, but it had felt like a good day to bake bread, if only because kneading was far more instinctual than intellectual, and the recipe familiar enough that he wouldn't play with it (too much) while he worked. His brain was still fuzzy, indistinct, making it hard to concentrate.
He should be back at work in the next few days, probably with a face mask on because of the coughing. But he really needed to be back at the restaurant—he felt bad, leaving so often. And there was the new menu to start tweaking, with the changes starting hopefully within the next month...
Then Komatsu turned slightly towards the door at the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs, brows knotting a little in confusion. It was louder than any one person had any right to be, especially in a quiet apartment building in the middle of the day. Actually, it almost sounded like—
He started to move towards the door, wiping his hands on his apron, at the first loud knock. Then the door burst open anyway, lock ripped out of the door, Toriko pushing his way in, his breathing slightly fast and his expression manic, worried.
"Komatsu!"
"Toriko-san!" he exclaimed, floury hands forgotten as he filled with the excitement and joy that always met Toriko's arrival, moving forward to meet him, albeit a little more slowly than he usually did, legs still sort of wobbly-feeling and sore. He was crying a little, but that was nothing unusual, and he pulled himself and was pulled into the customary hug, letting himself relax a little, knowing Toriko would take his weight even if he wasn't hanging off of his neck. Which was rather more energetic than he felt he could manage at the moment.
"Komatsu! Are you okay?" Toriko sounded almost frantic, Komatsu realized belatedly, and he was running his hands over the chef as if to assure himself that Komatsu wasn't punched full of holes and bleeding out or—or whatever, this sort of concern, the need to check up on him, had happened before, but usually in a situation where it was really likely that Komatsu would end up as (poorly ground) hamburger. There was that—he sounded more...desperate, too? Yeah. Desperate.
"I'm fine," Komatsu said, pulling away (just a little) to look up and meet his eyes, a little baffled by the reaction. "...Are you okay, Toriko-san?" The blue-haired man had a kind of wild look in his eyes.
Somewhere behind him, Coco coughed, a muffled, half-amused half-resigned sound that almost might have been hiding a laugh. "Komatsu-kun has been doing much better, Toriko," he added, calmingly, walking the rest of the way over.
Toriko gave Komatsu a confused look of his own, before it smoothed over somewhat, the rest of his expression relaxing as well, not quite into the happy exuberance Komatsu knew as his default, but into something much calmer.
"Nothing, nothing," Toriko said, with a grin, relaxing his firm grasp of the chef somewhat, although he didn't, Komatsu realized, let go. He was fine with that, resting his head against that broad chest with a sigh. "How've you been, Komatsu?"
"...Bad," Komatsu offered finally, with a small laugh. "I hope you've been doing better, Toriko-san! I just started moving around today—Coco-san has been very kind to me, he made me okayu and—oh! Let me offer you tea, and you probably want something to eat, I can't promise that I have anything good but..."
"Why don't you go sit down, Komatsu-kun?" asked Coco, still hovering. It became a moot point when Toriko just picked Komatsu up bodily, moving half-instinctively to the yeasty-smelling kitchen. It made the most sense for all of them. It was certainly better than the spare, empty living room, even if that was probably more appropriate for guests. On a purely practical level, it would feel remarkably cramped with three people there, at least when one of them was tall and strongly built (Coco) and another huge, in several senses of the word (Toriko, of course).
The kitchen felt more right. Plus Komatsu still had bread dough to knead.
"Oh, right. I was making bread," Komatsu added, to no one in particular, as Toriko seated himself on a stool pushed to one side of the kitchen, balancing easily on the too-small seat, ignoring a quiet creak, showing no signs of putting down Komatsu. "I can at least make tea, though..." he wiggled a little, moving upright, then braced himself against Toriko's shoulder as he muffled another coughing fit.
Toriko looked kind of horrified again, Coco realized. Komatsu seemed clueless as he steadied himself, hopped down, wobbling a little as he steadied himself again.
In a few quiet seconds Komatsu had put the kettle on, and settled back into his kneading, muscles bunching in his arms and fingers working through the elastic dough, steady and competent. "How was your trip, Toriko-san?" he asked, looking over. After a moment Toriko startled a little, meeting his eyes with a smile. His gaze had been remarkably solemn, intense as he watched Komatsu's hands punch and roll the dough.
"Good, good!" he said, launching into an explanation of the troubles he'd faced, how long the trip had been, what he'd eaten.
Komatsu listened, mostly silently but with a few interjections, at ease and as comfortable as any friend (partner) listening to work stories, even though—Coco knew—he had no reason to. The stories would be unbelievable, if Komatsu hadn't lived through situations even more extreme a dozen times before. Instead of chat about coworkers, unpleasant managers, new policies, it was all death defied and ridiculous quantities of food that half the world would give their right arm to get to experience, coupled with feats of strength that were, simply, inhuman. Like Toriko was, in his way, like they all were.
It didn't seem to put Komatsu off at all. As he put the bread dough away to rise he turned, sitting down on a convenient chair as he did so. Coco was acutely aware of how that made him tower even farther over the short chef, leaning against the table the way he was; Komatsu seemed oblivious, the way he usually was, simply accepting the differences between them.
"And how was the ice crab, Toriko-san?"
There was a moment of hesitation, and Coco raised an eyebrow, but Toriko was ignoring him. "I left before I found one," he said, casually, with a shrug.
"What?" said Komatsu, bolting upright, surprised. "What happened?" They'd never turned back from anything before. "You're not injured, are you? Or were they all gone? —You didn't run into the Bishoku-kai! Did you?"
There was a pregnant pause. Coco sighed softly. Toriko rubbed at the back of his head, shifting a little. It made the chair creak again, as his bulk resettled itself. The small noise was uncomfortably loud in the silent kitchen.
Komatsu drew in breath to speak and coughed again instead, twice more.
Before he could speak again, Coco began talking, voice carefully, politely neutral. "Toriko hadn't been able to get in touch with you, so he called me to make sure that everything was fine," Coco said calmly, pouring tea before Komatsu could stand again and setting a cup next to each of them, sitting down with his own before he continued. "At the restaurant, they told me you were sick, so I went to check up on you. I didn't want to leave you alone, so I stayed with you—don't protest, Komatsu-kun, I wanted to take care of you. It was hardly an obligation, and there was nothing more important for me to be doing. I called Toriko to tell him how you were doing."
Komatsu turned bewildered eyes to Toriko this time. "You left early—because of me? Toriko-san, it's just the flu..."
Toriko shook his head, dismissing that out of hand, just the way Coco had. "You were sick. I can't—we're partners, Komatsu, that's more important! When you're all recovered, we can go get ice crab together—but it would be wrong for me to just leave you sick."
Komatsu blinked, hesitated, wavering. "Coco-san was here to watch over me," he said, carefully, but Coco could almost see the realignment, something clicking into place. Komatsu had been the one waiting at home for Toriko to regrow his arm, Coco realized, even if he'd had the century soup to work on while he waited. He had to know how bad it could be, had to understand the pull to go to his sick partner's side even if there was nothing he could do. And Komatsu and Toriko shared a bond, one that Coco couldn't replace, no matter that they had one of their own. It was right that Toriko had come, and Komatsu could feel the rightness.
"Yeah," Toriko said, shrugging again. Coco had been there to watch over Komatsu, but it wasn't a matter of practicality, or even of making sure that Komatsu was safe. None of that mattered; Toriko had needed to come.
"Thank you, Toriko-san," Komatsu concluded finally, and he busied himself with his tea, something settling in his eyes as he relaxed. Only partially because he was tired again already, leaning against the table, stifling a yawn. It was, after all, more than he'd done in the past week, and his body wasn't quite able to keep up with his spirit. Not that anything, Coco thought, ever would, except for maybe Toriko.
Lost in his own thoughts, it took Coco a while to realize that Komatsu was considering both him and Toriko, with an expression that was familiar but not usual for him; it took Coco a second to place it, before the realization clicked. It looked like he was considering how best to prepare a particularly recalcitrant ingredient. It was a little odd, especially for someone who was far more used to intimidating than being intimidated.
"...None of you really get sick," Komatsu said finally, like it was some sort of revelation, or at least that it explained a lot.
Coco blinked in mild surprise, thinking over the question. They really didn't, but—
"Zebra got sick once after he ate something weird," Toriko said, but Komatsu was shaking his head.
"It sort of explains it," Komatsu continued. "Why you both overreacted."
There was a pause. Komatsu took another drink of his tea, sleepily watching sunlight light up the honey-colored liquid.
He looked up when Toriko slung a heavy arm over his shoulder, leaning close, companionable and maybe needing the comfort. "No, Komatsu-kun," Coco said softly, shaking his head, looking up from his own cup to meet Komatsu's eyes unwaveringly. "It's because it's you."
The chief blinked, looking overwhelmed. "Just the flu—" he began, again, and Toriko laughed.
"Even I know when to pick my battles, Komatsu," he said, shifting his chair a little closer, settling in more comfortably, clearly not prepared to move anytime soon. Finally, Komatsu gave in, with a little puff of his own laughter, eyes crinkling with his smile.
"I guess. Tomorrow, though, I'll make dinner. If you don't mind..."
This time, Coco startled both of them with his laugh. "Komatsu-kun! You should know better," he said. They laughed, Komatsu bracing himself against Toriko while he coughed. There was a slight cold breeze through the apartment—Komatsu's door would need some repair, considering the damage Toriko had managed to do, not bothering to restrain himself at all (What if it had been someone else's apartment? Coco thought, a little morbidly) in his panic to reach Komatsu.
Komatsu. Coco wasn't sure that he really did know his place among the four of them, how important he was, what they would do for him, or him for them. He didn't think any of them really did, including himself. Not yet, at least.
Not that it mattered like this, in a warm and yeasty kitchen, Toriko munching on snacks produced from a cupboard by Komatsu, new cups of tea in front of all of them as they talked. Toriko still had an arm slung over Komatsu's shoulder, full of an easy disregard for propriety and appropriateness that Coco resented slightly for now, because it made him slightly jealous, just this once.
Still, it was nothing in the warmth of the kitchen, when Komatsu tugged him down to sit in a chair pulled close to his own, unabashedly tugging at his elbow, the little chef all effortless, generous warmth. Komatsu asked their opinion on the new menu he was making, grinning despite his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes.
Even though Komatsu was clearly tired he refused to go to bed even for a nap, so instead they all made soup together for dinner, Coco and Toriko following his exacting instructions until he teased them that maybe they'd be good enough to work in his kitchen someday. Toriko laughed, loud and carefree. Coco chuckled, wiping down the counters before Komatsu could get up to do it himself.
Komatsu slid the bread into the oven, then checked on the soup. "I'm really glad you're here," he said when he turned around, blushing a little but leaving it at that.
"Of course," Coco said, smiling, and Toriko hugged them both this time, as the kitchen started to fill with the smell of baking bread.
-End-
Author's Notes:
-Please tell me if anything is hideously wrong! Especially things such as with the honorifics and my (amateur) attempts to use them, or my (lack of) understanding of restaurant hierarchies and how a kitchen functions. Uh, exception: if the flu is too hideously unbelievable, it is Something Weird he picked up in the pyramid or something. And I'm not even sure I want to speculate on what Gourmet World viruses would look like...
-I used the metric system for this fic, because that's what they'd be using. If, like me, you are an uncultured heathen American, 32 centimeters is a little over a foot—Sani has, according to the bios, around 13 inches on Komatsu, even though he's the shortest of the Four Kings, at 6'2", good grief. 40 degrees Celsius is just a bit higher than 104 degrees Fahrenheit.
-Okayu is a Japanese rice porridge, sometimes with various things added. It's a good thing to feed sick people, at least according to (potentially questionable) Internet sources.
-This might be a little weird and/or awkward, but if anyone wants to talk/squee/chat/etc about Toriko with me, I'd really really appreciate it—I just love it, and want to talk with like-minded people, and there's not much of a fandom, and oh lord maybe I am pathetic, but it might be fun? So, please do feel free to get in touch! Pretty much anything works for me—PM, email, Livejournal, etc.