Remember how I said this chapter has more of Miyuki? It's actually a whole lot more of him cuz this update's from his POV! Hooray, right? This takes place around the same time as last chapter, starting at Miyuki's place. The tone starts a little negative but will get better, so keep that in mind if you're feeling a certain way, 'kay?
There's only one side of my bed to get in on, yet there are two sides to get out of. When I push my sleep mask up and blink my eyes open, it's all too clear that I've woken up on the wrong side: a dull ache of the head and an unexplained sense of dread can't be ignored, no matter how much I'd like to do otherwise. I sigh and roll over to pull my curtains aside, greeted by endless grey clouds with zero chance of sunshine. It isn't raining anymore like it was last night, so that's not so bad. The staff meeting already happened earlier this week, leaving me the luxury of sleeping in as I please. It seems there's nothing for me to be burdened with at the moment, so why the unease in my gut? I reach over on the nightstand for my glasses before checking my phone calendar for anything I may have forgotten when the notification sinks in: a missed call from my dad. Delightful.
While I continue to wake up in the bathroom, countless reasons run through my head of why I shouldn't call my dad back, most of them reasonable enough. When I brush my teeth, I consider what I'd say if I were to return the call. During my sluggish shower, I wonder if maybe a text would be an alright way to get back to him. That might make him think that I'm suddenly available to speak, though, and he might call me again anyway. There are a million excuses I could give him for why I can't talk now, some of which are believable, but lying isn't really my thing. I guess one call while my coffee brews won't spoil my entire day if I handle it right. Lucky me: he picks up on the first ring. I try not to sigh, forcing something like a smile. "Morning, Dad. Sorry I missed your call." Who calls at six in the morning, anyway? He doesn't return the courtesy of keeping his irritated sighing to himself and makes sure I hear the exasperation in his tone.
"It's afternoon, Kazuya. Don't tell me you're just waking up."
The bar closes at one and I don't get to sleep until around four; why can't I get my eightish hours? "In fact, I am. I work nights, remember? I have to sleep some time."
"So you're still at the bar." I'm almost positive he knows this; there's no reason it should come as a surprise, even if the last time we spoke was months ago. "Should I assume you're still planning to stay just a cook?"
Just a cook. "Yes, Dad."
The pause in speaking isn't awkward, but standard between us these days. "Then why did you need schooling and training? You could've gone to university and really done something with your life. You're too smart to be standing at a greasy stove every night with no room for upward movement."
"You know, sometimes I stand at the fryer."
"Kazuya." He is not amused. "You could be doing so much more. Don't you see that?"
What I can see is that my dad still doesn't like me working in a kitchen, even after nine years. It doesn't matter that I graduated at the top of my culinary class or earned the title of chef or trained under acclaimed professionals; all he cares about is that I'm in an unremarkable bar, cooking small plates for just enough money to live comfortably on my own. I roll my eyes and pour my coffee in an old mug. "I'm doing something I enjoy." Something I happen to be very good at, I'd like to add. "I don't need a big paycheck or formal recognition when I know I'm good at what I do." At this point, I'm far more interested in my coffee than this conversation. My dad will probably get annoyed at my lack of cooperation, he'll try and play nice, I'll be too far removed from any of this to give a shit, we'll agree to disagree and probably go months without speaking again. I sip my coffee for another pause in our conversation.
"I'd appreciate it if you could try and think about your future with a little more consideration. This isn't a joke."
"Was I laughing?" I burn the tip of my tongue, not waiting for my coffee to cool.
My dad doesn't yell when he's mad: he gets eerily calm and quiet. "I do not want my son to waste his life doing such a menial job when he could be doing something worthwhile." I've heard this so many times that it goes in one ear and out the other. "I do not appreciate your attitude, either, Kazuya."
Here's the part where I check out. "We've had this conversation many times, Dad. It hasn't changed."
There isn't much about our relationship that's changed; not for years and years. "Okay."
We exchange niceties for a minute longer in strained tones before peacefully ending the call with simple goodbyes. I know I can shake off my dad's disappointment in my career choice with time, but a decent meal might speed that process up. My stomach is starting to whine at me for attention by now, so I check the fridge for something substantial. The lack of groceries makes my heart sink: scraps and remnants of groceries are all that are left. "Shit." I groan, finally remembering that I was supposed to get up hours ago to get my shopping done. If I leave now, I'll probably have time to eat before work, but I know it won't be anything spectacular.
Apparently everyone and their mother has the same idea to shop at the exact time that I do, clogging up the store with full bags and baskets. It's a battle to get through the aisles and find everything on my mental list, but I keep my head down and just get it done. By the time I'm back in my apartment and have everything put away, there's only enough time to slice a pear and break an egg over leftover rice and brew more coffee. It isn't what I had in mind, but it'll have to do; it's better than going hungry. There's no time for dishes and no time for slowing down, not if I want to get to work on time. I rush out to the hall and don't bother zipping my jacket, both hands busy with my coffee and keys and work bag. On my way down the stairs, I almost miss a step and scramble for something to steady me. The sudden movement results in my mug slamming into the railing. Not only has the handle shattered from the rest of the cup, coffee spills over me and the remaining steps below. Excellent.
Once everything's tidied up and I'm in the only clean shirt I can find, I hurry down to the parking garage. It seems my day is only getting better: one of my back tires is flat. As much as I'd love to break down and scream at the universe conspiring against me, I simply don't have the time. I make a quick call for a driver and stand outside my building. It isn't raining and isn't terribly cold, which, at this point, is my biggest blessing.
By the time I clock in, I don't need to see the time to know I'm late by more than a few minutes. I'm also hungry and irritated and smell like spilled coffee, but I can't focus on those things, not when a human pest is standing between me and the kitchen door. "Late again? What's your excuse this time, chef?" Kuramochi cackles, still in my way.
"Shouldn't you be at the bar, or something?"
"Does that mean you don't have an excuse?"
How I have any patience left in me is a mystery. "I have my reasons, but last time I checked, it's none of your concern." I gesture at the door he's blocking. "You aren't in charge of what goes on behind that door."
"No, but my job doesn't go too smoothly if you're not available. What happened?"
Mochi's not going to let up and I'm willing to concede this point. With a sigh, I explain everything that set me back today. "Don't know when I'll get the tire changed, but getting up earlier to walk won't kill me." I shrug.
"For real? Don't be stupid." He waves my thought away. "It's not like you live that far from me."
One day I'll pass up on giving Kuramochi hell when he shows me any form of kindness. Unfortunately for him, today is not that day. "You care that much about me, Mochi? I'm so flattered." I smirk when he rolls his eyes and frowns.
"Don't make me take the offer back." He technically didn't offer anything, but I'm not sure we ever communicate directly. "I'd sleep soundly making your dumbass walk to work."
"What colorful language is that I hear?" Our manager says from out of nowhere, materializing behind me. He chuckles at the face Kuramochi makes and probably at the way I visibly stand straighter. "Care to return to the bar, Kuramochi?" Chris may say this in the form of a question, but there's no room for an answer.
Mochi nods, rolling his sleeves up. "Yeah, I'm on it."
Chris turns his attention to me, presumably for my turn at being scolded. "Late again?"
Discussing this will only make me later, but who am I to argue? "Do you want the short version, or the long version?"
He shakes his head with something like a smile. "You know when you're supposed to be here, and you also know what'll happen if you do this again." My pay will be docked and there's a chance I could be suspended: got it. "Don't put me in that situation, Miyuki. I don't want to have to find a replacement for you."
That would sound more serious if I didn't know that we're already struggling to fill a server position; finding a new cook would be near impossible. "Who could replace me?" I smile.
Chris huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "Get to work."
In the kitchen, I don't think about the clouds outside. I don't think about my flat tire or the mug I broke. The meal I didn't get to have and the shirt that doesn't match the rest of what I'm wearing are entirely out of my mind. Not even my dad's nagging and lack of respect for what I love can reach me here. No, not when I'm cooking. Here, I'm safe to simply be, and there's nothing more liberating than that. I wait for an order, prepping what I can in advance. I carefully wash and slice and mix and pour. I could make any menu item blindfolded with one hand, having created some of them and quickly learning the rest. Seasoning and adding flavor come naturally to me, like an instinct; not a single bite of food I prepare could ever be called bland. My plating is very deliberate: simple, accessible, unpretentious. My customers aren't looking for elegance or precision. What they want is straightforward food they don't have to work to eat, don't have to wonder if it'll be good.
When I was studying culinary arts, I was acknowledged for my plate presentations. I was told that I was highly creative and mastered flavor combinations with ease. I'm trained to work in fine dining, trained to actually use my chef title. None of these things apply here, and truth be told, I've grown used to that. As long as I can consistently cook what tastes good, I think I'm good.
The other day, we had a staff meeting that I considered skipping out on. Kuramochi dragged me to the breakroom, though, and I listened to Chris ask everyone for any new ideas. New. Nothing around here is new, really, but it got me to thinking: what would happen if I did use my training to come up with a new dish for the menu? What harm could it do to add something that I would actually eat, something that I hadn't seen in a bar before? When I got the idea, Chris asked for a sample and quickly approved. I didn't know I'd be making so many orders of it in the first day, but I'm not surprised: ginger, soy and garlic go really well with green beans. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to share something original with others, having kept all my personal recipes for my own kitchen. I'd almost forgotten what creative cooking felt like. Perhaps complacency only works with the occasional bout of variation.
Another order comes in, shouted by Kuramochi over the various kitchen noises the couple kitchen assistants and I make. "Your number one fan is back." He adds afterwards.
No more explanation is needed. There's only one person I've ever called that, and I had a feeling he'd be back soon. The idiot had the nerve to tell me that I was mistreating food while simultaneously devouring said food like it was vital to his existence. I'll admit, those comments absolutely rubbed me the wrong way, but it was easier to handle when I could ruffle his feathers without effort. His face turns a fun shade of pink when he feels insulted, and his big golden eyes ignite when he's challenged. It's rather amusing, honestly, and worth a little verbal jabbing. It's not like he knows what he's talking about anyway, so it mostly goes over my head. It also doesn't hurt that he's not hard on the eyes. At any rate, his food is ready and I'm curious about what he'll have to say about it.
Sawamura Eijun is in the same spot as last time, jabbering away at Kuramochi. The man is wearing overalls; he has no right to not look stupid in them, quite frankly, and I nearly stumble over the threshold from this unexpected, and rather confusing, distraction. His dark hair is messy, like that of a child who's been playing outdoors all day, not covered by a hat this time. A bright cherry is caught in his mouth, chewing coming to a halt when our eyes finally meet; I'd recognize those honey colored eyes anywhere. "Miyuki Kazuya!"
"I see you decided to go formal tonight." I set the plate in front of him, not holding back my grin or caring how he learned my name. To my anticipation, Sawamura frowns as best he can while chewing.
He points a cherry stem at me. "You could win awards with that charm."
Sawamura is already annoyed, but I know a way to really get under his skin: "Thank you."
"It's called sarcasm! Who taught you manners, anyway?"
Kuramochi sighs, already stepping aside. "Not to interrupt this intelligent conversation, but some of us have work to do." He walks away without a second thought, off to wipe down counters and refill cups. I'll remind him later to thank me for saving him from boredom.
I lean forward, having forgotten how loud it can get in here at this hour. "What's wrong with my manners? Not up to your standards?"
"Apparently nobody ever taught you how to greet someone."
He hasn't even looked at his plate; he's evidently serious about this. "Good evening, Sawamura. It hasn't been that long. How're you liking the weather?"
This isn't a serious question. I actually mean it to sound as insincere as possible, but Sawamura's face absolutely lights up, frown curving into a smile. "I'm so glad it's going to rain tonight! It won't be too cold, either, which is perfect. For a while, I thought I'd have to keep a closer eye on how the carrots are progressing, but the clouds have taken away my worries!" I guess this guy could talk about anything as long as he has a thought on the matter. "This time last year already had more rainfall, and so did the year before that. We should've known it might be a drier season this year, but sometimes things aren't so predictable!" He laughs, smile growing. It's the first time I'm hearing him laugh; it's not a bad sound, either, I hate to admit. I wonder if he'll do it again.
"It'd be a shame to let a little thing like nature ruin your plants."
He does indeed laugh again, grabbing another cherry from his drink. "It could never! I like a challenge."
Hm. Maybe he's more interesting than I gave him credit for. "As do I." I push his plate closer to him and he finally glances down at it. "You seem to believe I don't know how to cook. I recall you claiming I was damaging vegetables and not showing off their natural flavors?" His eyes slightly narrow at me, but I'm not done yet. "I, personally, am under the belief that you have no idea what you're talking about." I can't help but laugh at the way his jaw drops; he just looks too funny. "If it tastes good, that's proof enough that I know what I doing, don't you think?"
Sawamura isn't buying into this theory, fierce stare all the evidence I need. "No, that's not how it works! Besides, I know a lot about food. I watch it grow from start to finish, and I'd be a terrible farmer if I didn't know a thing or two about nutritional values and stuff, you know."
"That may be true."
I think he's waiting for me to say something else. It's the end of my thought, though; I can admit that he might have a point, but I'm not admitting anything else. He finally understands this and sighs with a pout that draws all my attention to his mouth. How many cherries has he eaten to stain his lips so red? "Whatever, Miyuki Kazuya!" This gem of a comeback is the last thing he says before trying his first bite of food. He exhales through his nose, shutting his eyes. Is this a good sign? Well, he keeps eating, so probably. "How is this even possible?"
I accidentally snort a laugh at this, not realizing he could speak without shouting. "How's what possible?"
His eyes pop back open with more sparkle than a plate of green beans should elicit, the color reminiscent of aged honey. I don't think I've ever seen such a strong visible reaction to food. It kind of makes me wonder what Sawamura's been eating his whole life. "Food that tastes like this! I told you staying true to ingredients is a good idea, and it's clear I was right, but what did you do to these? I mean, I know you didn't deep fry them or drown them in grease."
Oddly enough, there's no malice in his tone, regardless of how rude the comment sounds. I look over my shoulder at the kitchen, noticing the lack of orders coming through: a few more minutes of this won't set me back. If Chris or Mochi have a problem with me being out of the kitchen, they know how to get a hold of me. "Would you believe me if I told you it was magic?" I turn back to Sawamura as he laughs again, shooting me a look over his drink.
"Very funny." He uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, ignoring the napkin under his silverware. "Come on! Tell me your secrets. I need to know."
I hand him more napkins since it's become very clear that my manners aren't the only flawed ones around here. "Why are you suddenly so curious? You didn't care last time you were here; you just kept ordering more food."
"You know I was hungry! I couldn't help it." He emphasizes this with another bite. "And I happen to be here for business matters."
That's original. "You're here on business?"
Sawamura nods with a serious expression. "I decided that the only way for me to grow and get better is to learn as much as I can about our food, and that includes what happens after selling it." He points at me with his next bite of food. "It's now part of my job to see the processes after crops leave the farm, and then I can maybe cater to the buyers better." His explanation isn't done yet, and neither is his meal. At least he's using the napkins now. "Like, would it be better for you if these were fresher? Should they be bigger or smaller? What do you do to them in the kitchen?" Sawamura continues to ask questions and point his food at me when he's not stuffing his face with it. I lose focus when his eyes light up, too busy chattering away to realize how oddly animated he's getting over vegetables. "You don't have to give me the recipe, either! Just a hint, maybe, on how to do this at home."
In all my years here, I've never been asked for such a favor. There's no way in hell I'm giving him a recipe, that's for sure, but his damn golden eyes are so hopeful, I can't bring myself to brush his request off completely. "Do you know your way around a kitchen?"
"Sort of." He wipes his plate clean with his finger, licking that clean, as well. "Enough, I think. If you can do it, how hard can it be?"
I laugh because this is obviously a joke. "I'm sure any farmer could do what a chef can."
"I do more than just pull food from the ground, jerk." Sawamura throws a wadded up napkin at me. I pull out a pen and slowly write the ingredients I used for his dinner on it, careful not to tear the weak material. "I don't have a fancy degree, but I can turn on a stove and stuff."
I nod, tucking the napkin in my pocket for now. "What else do you do?"
Maybe I shouldn't have asked this: his eyes are sparkling again, like when he went on and on about things he can learn about onions. "Everything! I help with the crops, the chickens, the equipment. Sometimes I do boring paperwork and have to order new parts for things that break, but most of the time, I sell our vegetables! We have a market in town where people sell all kinds of things." I tune out the intricacies of what can be bought at this place and just watch his mouth move. His lips are still red, but the color has faded significantly. It somehow seems fitting that he's a fan of the cherries, overly sweet and brightly colored. "That's where I just came from, actually."
Straight from work? He doesn't even live near here. "You drove here right after work just to eat something I made?" As soon as I ask, I want to rephrase that; it sounds far too personal.
"I said I'm on business, stupid!" Sawamura snaps at me. His eyes fall to his empty plate, blinking before looking up at me. "Can…can you make me another?"
I don't know; maybe I'm too stupid. The words are on the tip of my tongue along with similar variations, but nothing comes out. A small part of me is too grateful at someone who isn't me appreciating my skills so thoroughly to let the words slip. Maybe there's a small part of me that wants more of this recognition, even if it's from a fool. I find myself smirking and clearing his plate. "Only if you tell me how it was." The alarmed look that washes over him not only makes me laugh, but is almost good enough to leave on. Almost, but not quite.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" Sawamura huffs. "I wouldn't be asking for seconds if I didn't like it." While this is true, it's not what I asked. "And…and if it wasn't so good. But I'm the one who told you it would be, and that you should treat vegetables nicer!"
Victory sure is sweet. I head back to the kitchen to make another plate, loving the sight of so many orders leaving the kitchen. It's not just the new dish, either: it seems more of everything is selling tonight. Apparently people have big appetites, and I will not complain. I take my time at the stove, hands moving precisely and ingredients falling perfectly into place. It isn't until I'm finishing up that I hear myself humming with the crackly radio we keep on the counter. "Must be a good night." A soft voice says near me. I notice pink in my sight's periphery, and connect the voice to Haruichi, the younger Kominato on staff, our bartender-turned-server.
"Certainly a busy one." I use a toothpick to script my initials in a drop of dressing. "What's up?"
"I can take that out, if it's ready." He offers.
It's no secret that Haruichi will do any job well, even if it isn't what he signed up for. However, it seems like he'll be pretty occupied all evening, so why not give him a little break? "Thanks, but I've got it."
Sawamura stares at the plate the moment it's in front of him, mouth slightly agape. "Why so fancy?" He points at my initials.
"No work of art should go unsigned."
"So modest!" He smirks before digging in. "Thank you for adding this to the menu! It's the best thing I've had so far here."
"A compliment? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
His eye roll is a bit melodramatic. "Don't even. If you ever gave a compliment, you'd probably turn to ashes, or something."
He doesn't really know me, but that's not an uncommon sentiment from those who do. I don't really know him, either, but I do know that he likes to eat, talk and play in the dirt. "I like your flower." Naturally, I noticed the daisy in his pocket when I saw the overalls but I wasn't planning on mentioning it. The flower suits him, somehow. "It's pretty." The comment is merely to prove him wrong about me dying on the spot, but his smile is brutally honest and, frankly, I have no idea what to do with it. If Sawamura knew how disarming his smile is, he'd be a threat to all.
"You're just saying that, but I'll give you credit for trying!"
I did mean it, but he does not need to know about this. "Why do you have it?"
"My friend gave it to me. He sells flowers at the market, and this one was left over." Sawamura doesn't pause his eating to take the flower and idly twirl it. "These just don't sell like they do in spring and summer." He extends his arm towards me, glancing up. "Here: you can have it."
Words escape me for a second. I mean, I've never been handed a daisy from anybody, let alone some goof I only met once or twice before. I suppose if a friend gave it to him, it isn't so weird for him to give it to me. I guess? I brush Sawamura's fingers when I take the flower, surprised by how warm his skin is. "It's alright to regift it?"
He scratches his cheek, chuckling. "Well, it wasn't exactly a gift! He has leftovers every night, so it wasn't a big deal."
So accepting it is also not a big deal. I drop the flower into my pocket, careful not to squish the pristine white petals. "What a relief." I pull the napkin list of ingredients out and hand it over, wondering if he'll make contact again. "Don't complain to me when you can't figure the recipe out. It's normal to fail at what you're not good at."
With another scowl, Sawamura takes the napkin, roughly grazing my hand, and stuffs it in his front pocket. "You must be a saint, you're so damn generous."
"How kind of you to notice."
"Shut up, Miyuki!"
My worries from earlier are all but gone, replaced with the amusing antics of my number one fan. I'll have to get my tire fixed as soon as possible, though: there's a long drive I have to make out of town.
At the time of writing this chapter, there was like, a week before Christmas; I don't really care too much for the holiday, and all the forced Hallmark Holiday Togetherness™ is a downer and a half, so this was my escape XD I relate to Miyuki more than I should, probably, which is why writing his chapters has been so much fun for me. Next update is back to Sawamura's POV, and we'll be at the farm the whole time. All the love for hanging around with me and taking the time to visit my work!
