vi. family recipe

Rin wandered the aisles of the grocery store like a child lost in a forest. She trailed her fingers over the fruits, tenderly and carefully considered the sweet potatoes and bell peppers as she weighed them in her hands. That morning, when they'd first set off for the store, she'd had it in her mind to make a beef bourginon. Around halfway there, she changed her mind to a traditional fish dish. Now, meandering through the store's produce section, she seemed to be deliberating between chorizo or lamb or something vegan.

All of this, Aizawa learned without ever actually being in any direct conversation with Rin. She remained close to his side, reusable grocery bag clutched beneath her arm – all the while mumbling to herself in a sweet, quiet voice. Rattling off recipes. Humming thoughtfully whenever a new idea crossed her mind. Occasionally, she would glance to Aizawa, glowing ghostly in the grocery store's milky light and smiling attentively as she suggested a new meal for dinner. And Aizawa would pretend that he hadn't been listening to her conversations with herself the whole time, would offer her his thoughts with as much casualness as he could possibly muster.

"Do you mind seafood, sensei?"

I'm rather partial to white fish. "I suppose it'll do."

"And vegan food? Do you think you'd like vegan?"

What's the point if there's not some sort of meat? "I'd really rather not."

High colour rose into her cheeks as they shopped. She had her hair up high in a ponytail, wearing that same white skirt as the other day and a dusty pink jacket. Aizawa watched her curiously, coolly, noting the way she walked with her weight balanced over her toes and how she smiled at strangers, sugar spun and lovely as a debutante. He wondered if she could feel him staring, if that was why she ventured to look back at him less and less.

In the cooled foods section, Rin picked up packages of crumbed chicken, deliberating and then returning each to its place in gentle rejection. Too small. Too expensive. Not crumbed enough. Eventually, she gave up on the endeavour and moved to repeat her process with packets of shrimp. Weighing in her hands. Humming. Taking forever to make any sort of decision.

As she did so, eyes fitting up to glance at Aizawa once again, she tilted her head across her shoulders. "Do you like shrimp, sensei?" she asked. "Or would you prefer something different?"

He told her it didn't matter. He told her anything was fine – and as Rin lowered her gaze, Aizawa considered with some skepticism that maybe this was less about her cooking and more about getting to know him, about learning him as much as he wanted to learn her. Admittedly, the thought made him feel a little guilty – since arriving, he'd started giving her snippy answers, silently beginning to bristle with impatience and the hope that she would just make a choice and move on. As yet, her basket remained mostly empty, save for a seltzer water, dried apricots and toothpaste. She continued to waft from aisle to aisle, expression growing ever more sheepish and dire. She stopped asking Aizawa about his preferences, kept her head down. And if it was true that she wanted to know him, was it true too that she was as disheartened by his empty answers as he was by her general air of impermeability?

Trailing behind her, Aizawa shook his head. He shouldn't get too caught up in possibilities and daydreams.

Back in the produce section, having circled the entire store, Rin took a mixed packet of spinach and kale, and – after considering the contents for quite some time – placed it in her basket. Then she looked to Aizawa again. "Sensei," she said delicately, "can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Do you have any family here in Musutafu?"

Considering this, Aizawa inhaled sharply. He felt his mouth turn unpleasantly downwards. "My parents live in Tokyo," he said, a little reluctantly. "I don't have any siblings."

Rin turned to tip-toe onwards down the aisle, speaking over her shoulder as she did so, "Did you grow up in Tokyo?"

"Yes. I did."

"I spent my childhood in Tokyo too."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

Even Aizawa, socially hermitted as he was, could recognise that Rin was leaving openings for him. This was his chance! The ball was in his court and she was waiting for him to throw it back. So why did he choke? Why did it take him such a long while to answer that, by the time he did eventually speak, they'd already traversed two more aisles and enough silence had spread itself between them that his words now seemed awkward and unwieldy? "I've always wondered," he said, "about your family."

Holding a tub of pouring cream in her hand, Rin spoke in a low voice, "My family." She paused. "What do you want to know?"

Aizawa had to think for a moment. "Have you always stayed with your grandparents?"

"No. Not always."

"Your parents?"

"My mother," she said with new depth of emotion. "Until I was about nine years old."

"And then what?"

She put the cream in the basket, expression soft and beckoning. "And then a lot happened." Carrying on toward the end of the aisle, she clasped her basket in front of her and stared down at her hands. "I don't really know how to explain what."

Now, instead of trailing behind her, Aizawa made an effort to keep at her side. "What about your father?" he asked her.

"He wasn't–" Here, though she didn't seem choked up, she did stumble somewhat over her words. "I guess he wasn't quite cut out for raising me," she said after a while. "I'm not sure what to believe when it comes to my father. But I think I've convinced myself that I wouldn't have wanted him around." She made a sound between a scoff and a hum. "Sorry. That sounds bad."

"No. I think I see."

"Sorry," Rin smiled, "if that was more than you were wanting to know."

On the contrary, this was what he'd been looking for. A hairline crack. A fracture in her facade. Aizawa pressed onwards. He said, "That's exactly what I wanted to know."

"Are you close to your parents?"

As much as he didn't want to answer the question, he did want to answer her. "Not very."

"Do you visit them often? It's as you said… Tokyo's only a forty minute drive from here."

"I should probably visit them more. It's just difficult sometimes. My parents and I see things very differently. Especially my mother and I."

"What sort of things?"

"For one thing, they don't agree with my line of work."

At this, Rin paused and looked meaningfully at him. Her eyes were luminous with questioning, bright and clear enough that, for once, Aizawa could see exactly what she was thinking – her surprise, her interest. And oh, how good it felt, to feel like he understood her a little better. "Why wouldn't they agree?" she asked him. "Don't they know what sort of good you're doing?" Like they had a little more common ground. In her voice, there were vivid notes of distaste, of offense. "Would they have wanted you to be a more mainstream hero? Or would they have preferred that you weren't a hero at all? Something more day-to-day, like a… I don't know… A banker?" Her brow furrowed, and Aizawa couldn't help but note the charming way her nose crinkled. "I can't see you being anything but an underground hero."

Aizawa shrugged, rubbed absently at the back of his nape. "I can't say I've really asked them what they would have preferred. It doesn't concern me."

"You should ask though."

"Why's that?"

With a dainty, surprising huff, Rin spun on her toes and grabbed a bag of pasta. Put it back on the shelf. Grabbed it again and put it in the basket. "I just think it's important," she said. And then, more quietly, "What you do, I mean. What you do is important. And I think they should know that."

Aizawa watched the back of her neck – little wisps of her flaring in her nape, the top of her spine like the delicate shape of a sea shell. Hoping she wouldn't look back to see, he smiled slightly. "Feel free to let them know, sometime."

there were people in the house again, making noise enough that she couldn't sleep, no matter how she pressed the pillow to her ears or how she counted sheep. twice now, she'd heard glass breaking. she'd lost track of how many ugly words had been said. they all laughed too, but it was a terrible sound, like the way gorillas howled when they beat their chests and bared their teeth. Rin wished her mother would make them leave. she wished the line of light beneath her door would go black, that she could turn the key in its lock and open the door, that she wouldn't find a mess on the other side.

mommy promised she would find another way to make money. mommy always said she was sorry – she knew it was scary – it scared her too – but she just needed to pay the rent this month, and she just had to do another grocery shop, and she just needed to sort out one more bill or another. then the people would stop coming. and then, and then, and then. mommy always promised that it would get better.

but why couldn't they live with daddy?

because daddy didn't want them.

but why didn't daddy want them?

because, mommy said, daddy needed to look after himself.

the people always stayed until the early hours of the morning, their jungle-raucous energy slowly petering out into jumbled mumbles and heavy, dragging footsteps up and down the passageway – up, down, up, down, like zoo animals stalking a cage. and when finally (finally!) they left, mommy would come knocking on Rin's door in their special code. the key would be turned in its lock. mommy would climb into Rin's bed, wrap her in her arms and kiss her face like it was a candy to be eaten up. she would always smell disgusting – sour and smoky and bloody – but Rin wouldn't care. she would bury herself into her mother's skin greedily, sapping her of the last dregs of energy she could bear and absorbing them into herself. Rin would finally (finally!) sleep, and in the morning, she would attend lessons with her tutors. hoping that that time was the last time.

but it never was the last time.

sometimes, mommy wouldn't come to her at the end of it all. sometimes, Rin would hear her saying goodbye – but after the front door had shut and there shouldn't have been anyone, there was someone. a man. always the same man, who spoke in whispers and sang to mommy in the next room over, telling her not to cry, not to cry, because "Rin will hear you". he stayed until the sun came up and Rin was allowed to unlock her door. he would be there in the kitchen, drinking whatever juice was in the fridge and watching as mommy cleaned up the wreckage and the spillage from the night before (her head hung like a rag doll, shoulders stooped, the broom practically slipping from her fingers as though her grip was but jelly).

the man was long and thin and spidery.

the man had a beautiful smile.

the man always offered Rin a glass of juice and, sometimes, would show her how to cook pancakes or omelets or oats.

the man never told Rin his name. mommy never told her either. whenever she asked, mommy would simply say – "he's nobody. be polite and answer his questions, but never tell him too much." so Rin never told him too much: she drank the juice he offered; he asked her how her lessons were going and she told him they were going well; he asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up and she said she didn't know, she was only six years old. that smile. those eyes that Rin knew without knowing she knew them. "very good," the man would say. "clever girls know when they don't know anything."

Aizawa had never cared much for home-cooked meals. When he was a child, his mother had hardly ever stepped foot into the kitchen (and when she did, it was usually a disaster of food burned to the bottom of pots or having exploded onto the roof), and his meals had been made up of pre-made breakfasts, lunches from the school canteen, and restaurant dinners.

However, Aizawa at least knew enough about food to know that Rin was an exceptional cook.

She'd been busy in the kitchen for almost an hour, slicing and whisking and pouring and seasoning, all the while chattering about charming and inconsequential things like her favourite wine (a Cabernet) and the fact that baby marrows were good for heart health. She dropped a can of chickpeas on her foot; she ended up cutting almost double the amount of chicken she needed (no matter, she'd make a basting for the excess later and let it marinade overnight). She burned her wrist on the oven door – and when everything could be left to bake and to simmer, Aizawa led her to the bathroom, where he applied Burnshield and a bandage, her bird-light wrist balanced in the palm of his hand.

"I'm sorry, sensei," Rin said sheepishly, and gave a tight little laugh. "I'm not usually this clumsy. I think maybe I'm a bit nervous."

"Why would you be nervous?" Aizawa asked.

"Haven't cooked for anyone in a while."

They ate in front of the TV. Aizawa pretended to watch the news, and Rin pretended not to watch him.

She'd made some creamy chicken dish topped with marrows and baked chickpeas. It didn't sound like much, but it was perhaps the single most flavourful thing Aizawa had ever tasted – rich, warm, the chicken meltingly soft and the chickpeas crunchier than he had thought chickpeas could be. He had seconds. With some slow embarrassment, he had a small bowl of thirds. And by the fact that there was almost nothing leftover, Rin was delighted, beaming next to him on the couch like a playful sparrow.

"Do you want dessert?" she suggested, obviously making an effort not to sound too excited. "I bought chocolate. And there's still cream left. Sweet things aren't my forte, but I could probably make–"

Aizawa stopped her. "Please, don't. Maybe next time, but I'm quite full now."

"Tea will settle your stomach, if you want."

"I don't usually keep tea."

"I bought some jasmine tea. It's very nice."

Aizawa blinked at her. She blinked back at him, eyes aglow. At the look on her face, he almost chuckled. "Why do you look so pleased with yourself, Hiruma?"

"Oh ~ well, it's just nice to have somebody to eat with, you know?" She paused. A healthy shade of pink blotted itself across her cheeks. She continued in a quieter voice, "To eat with you."

The sound of the television echoed on in the background, the room bright with a purgatorial shade of yellow as the night outside deepened into silent, purple darkness. There were a lot of dishes to be washed, and Aizawa still had some work to do before showering and heading to bed. But he didn't move from the couch. Neither did Rin. They slipped into a silence that, at last, didn't feel precarious and strained, full of unknowns; and for as long as they remained there, staring at the television as news presenters and interviewees rambled about nothing of importance, Aizawa felt ever more separated from everything but that very moment. He was aware of her. Only her. He noticed every flinch of her toes in their spotted socks, every shallow breath, how the one corner of her lips turned ever further upwards into a smile.

He noticed and didn't stop it when she came slightly closer to him, the shape of her shoulder brushing against his arm just so and staying there. Not quite touching. Definitely not not touching. And could it have been just his imagination that the way she sighed seemed to be loaded with a relief he himself was familiar with? The relief of finally coming close. Into contact. Of finding the hairline crack and probing into it. She sank against the back of the couch, began to breathe more deeply. When at last her temple fell unabashedly onto his own shoulder, Aizawa ventured to look down at her more fully, finding her eyes closed and her hands perfectly still in her lap.