I didn't realise that so much time had passed since my last update. I promise I'm still writing— I'm just taking two-to-three years, apparently, per chapter. Studies are time-consuming and I am dying. It's been a while since I've written so big apologies if the quality of my writing is noticeably questionable!
lips like desire, hearts like home
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Chapter 3: mixers and chicken
Kei can't remember the last time she directed a smile like that at him. It makes him nervous.
He gingerly approaches. Momoka tilts her head towards him. She looks regal, almost, angelic; Kei is sure that if he were to squint hard enough, he would probably be able to make out the wings sprouting from her back, or the halo she dons like a crown. She sits poised and back straight, hands folded neatly on her lap, a soft, saccharine smile on her lips.
The sight inspires a certain nausea to fester in his throat.
"Momo—"
"Yes," she interrupts, and it's like she's glowing, "Souma-kun?"
Kei instantly bristles. "Fucking hell, Momoka!" He flees to the farthest corner of the room, equipped with a haphazardly-grabbed cushion that he holds to his face— for defence, because: "What the hell is wrong with you? Are you still mad?" He peeks out from the corner, flinching when she raises a hand to her lips.
"Mad?" Her laugh resonates, sparkling like windchimes. "What could I possibly be mad about? The fact that you completely ruined—" a tinge of frigid ire blights her cadence, but she swiftly clears her throat— "my chances at the mixer? Absolutely not."
"As if I was the only one," Kei mutters, willing away his goose-bumps. "You went and told everyone about my background, but you don't see me acting out."
Momoka ignores him, ever-glowing. "Just for future reference, don't ever expect me to invite you to a mixer again— once was plenty."
"Assuming that I'd even want to go with you again," he retorts. "Seriously, was it really necessary to tell everyone that I was, in your words, a 'bumpkin boy obsessed with looking like he's from the city'?"
"My, you certainly don't sound like you're over it—"
"I never said I was over it, only that I wasn't acti—"
"—If you're gonna have the balls to argue, maybe put away the cushion?" she intercepts sharply.
Kei grimaces, sheepishly lowering his impromptu shield.
"Seriously—" Momoka scoffs, dropping her facade— "would it hurt to be a little grateful? I gave you an opportunity, which, keep in mind, you ruined yourself— I never would have mentioned it had you not 'warned' everyone that I was 'two-faced' and a 'wolf in sheep's clothing'."
Much to his dismay, she makes a fair point— and Kei, recalling that calamity of a mixer, feels the regret kick in. Why did he say that? Really, what possessed him? He internally grapples for an answer, but nothing comes to mind. Kei gulps, darting his gaze away from her. "I was just doing the guys a service," he mumbles, awash with shame. "They had the right to know what they were getting into."
Even he recognises that his excuse sounds nonsensical— but it's better than admitting that there was no reason or rhyme to his actions (well, now that he has let the question marinate, the answer finally occurs to him— but it's not something that he's proud of).
Momoka sinks back into the couch, brows raised, and he suspects that she's partially amused. "Then consider mine an act of 'service'," she spits, "to my girls as well."
Or maybe not. The longer he looks, the angrier she seems.
Still, she entertained his excuse, and so Kei is going to run with it.
"Great," Kei says, "that's sorted! I accept accountability! So can we just let this go?"
"Unfortunately for you, Kei, I am the type that likes to hold on to my grudges."
"Evidently." He sighs, placing the cushion back beside her on the couch. She snatches it right as he does.
A silence grows between them. Momoka doesn't so much as even glimpse in his general direction, and Kei has to wonder how on earth this girl has the audacity to sulk in his home (even if it is his fault). But really, if she were seriously mad, he considers, then she wouldn't be here at all; and likewise, if it really bothered him, he couldn't imagine simply putting up with it.
In the end, this, their quirky camaraderie, is what provides him some semblance of solace, is what distracts him when he still feels his heart plunge into conflict at the sight of Kujou so animated (relative to her usual) from the mere mention of Yanagi. And he knows— painfully well— that Momoka is the same.
He remembers the night before the mixer, he remembers her desperately clutching to him, tipsy off beer, her hair tangled amidst his fingers and teardrops pluming across the fabric of his shirt as she whispered, "I don't know how I'm going to get over him. I don't know if I'm ready to—" her voice was coarse, grating at his heartstrings, and she looked up at him, glazed eyes glistening with guilt and hurt and shame—"or if I even want to."
She sits on the couch, balled up and small, resting her head on the cushion, honeyed hair spilling over her knees. She wears a scowl, but Kei notices how her lip quivers, how restlessly she interlocks her toes, how her eyes peer into the distance, yearning, poignant.
"I'm scared, Kei."
They never talked about it after it happened. Kei suspects that they probably don't ever intend to— at least, not properly. In the end, it was a product of the moment, a memory made to be transient. But pain magnetises, and their unspoken moments are why she's here, and maybe it's why they indulge in these senseless fights. And, these days, he doesn't hate that.
"You know what?" Kei's voice effervesces through the silence. He runs a hand through his hair and remembers the feel of hers (Kujou's; Momoka's). "Do what you want; I'm gonna go sleep." He pauses. "There's curry in the fridge if you get hungry."
Her scowl visibly eases, but Momoka's pride compels her to try to maintain it, at least in Kei's presence. "You have another thing coming if you think you can placate me with food."
Kei laughs as he walks off. "'Night, Momoka."
She's still there in the morning.
What's more, Kei notes, is that she's cooking something. He does not recall giving her permission to scavenge his fridge, and in the right state of mind, he would reprimand her. But the situation is so foreign, and he's evidently not as much of a morning person as he assumed he was (he can imagine his old man's disdain, because a farmer's son should thrive in the mornings)— and so, his mouth running on crude reflex, he gapes and splutters out, "You... what?"
Her attention flits to him for a moment, his bewildered expression eliciting her contempt, before the sizzle of the karaage draws it back. "Cooking."
"I... yes, I got that," he responds drily. He glances at the food: shimmering, crisp and golden, and it smells like heaven. Kei clears his throat as Momoka blots away the oil with a paper towel. "I meant that—"
She stabs into a piece with a fork. "That I've never cooked here before?" The prongs meet some initial resistance as it crunches into the crisp exterior, but the way it sinks into the chicken and paves way for the juices to ooze out is just so alluring— "That I didn't ask before I used your ingredients?" So alluring, in fact, that Kei doesn't quite register Momoka approaching him.
He blinks, redirecting his focus back to her. "Ye—" His voice is snuffed out as she stuffs the karaage in his mouth. "Wha—" Kei grips onto the fork and gasps as he swallows down the chicken, fumbling for a glass of cold water. "Christ, Momoka!" Not enough water; he sprints to the tap, filling his glass to the brim before gulping it all down.
He takes in a deep, sharp breath and turns to her, glaring. "Are you trying to burn my tongue off?" he seethes. "You literally just finished frying it! It needs to cool down!"
"Will keep that in mind for next time," she dismisses, shrugging, her blatant nonchalance abrasive on his nerves. "Now, tell me: did it taste good? It's my first time making—"
"—Something besides sandwiches?"
"—Japanese food," she hisses, glaring at him, "so I want your honest thoughts."
"What." Kei scowls, vexed. He takes another sip of water— it alleviates the heat, but only slightly.
She huffs. "The karaage." Momoka swipes away the fork and deftly rotates it in her fingers, pointing the prongs at him. "Does it taste good?" There is something oddly menacing about the way the metal, slick with oil, glints underneath the kitchen lights (which shouldn't even be on, Kei bemoans, running mental calculations of his bills).
In the back of his mind, Kei wonders if the fork is a threat. In the unchartered depths, he knows that Kujou could probably find a way to utilise it as a weapon.
He banishes the thought. "I mean, it was too hot to tell—"
"Okay, have another piece."
"Fuck!" Kei swerves away. "What part o' this is 'keepin' it in mind'?!"
"Oh yeah," she says, with not even the slightest semblance of guilt. His expression crumples when she smiles, sinister. "Whoops."
"You!" Kei fumes, pressing his temples. "Are you actually trying to kill me? Wait." He pauses and exhales, his breaths measured. "Are you still m—?"
"I'm not mad." Momoka gives him an indignant look, blowing softly on the karaage. "Okay, try it now." She rises to her toes, elevates the fork to his mouth. The exterior grazes against his lips and he gulps.
"Momo—"
Before he even has the chance to speak, she nudges it into his mouth and takes a step back. "Good?"
Kei is tempted to berate her for ignoring him again, but he relents and focuses on the karaage. It's not too hot this time, at least. He huffs, and reluctantly confirms, "Good."
She breaks into a grin. "Of course it is!" Her hair bounces as she shifts her weight, and she returns to the counter, nodding at a plate with an excessive amount of fried chicken flocked together in the centre to form a small mountain. "I've made a lot, so eat up."
"No kidding," he mumbles. It tastes good for sure, but there's a limit to how much he can stomach (besides... only karaage?). Kei won't mention that, though— but as he thinks, something finally registers in his head, clicks, and the morning grogginess clears in its entirety. He pauses. "Uh, wait a minute—"
She coats a final cube of uncooked chicken in flour. "Yes?"
"—You made it for me?"
The chicken bumbles into the oil and hisses.
Momoka goes rigid, and Kei can hear the metaphorical gears creak as they halt. She clears her throat. "Well," she says, and Kei can see her ears tinge red, "if you say it like that, it makes me want to say no."
She scoops out the chicken, lets the oil drip off— the sight near salacious and stupidly seductive— and the hunger is starting to hit him, but with something much more important finally within his grasp, he barely gives it a second thought.
The most devilish of grins blooms across his face. "But?"
She crowns the mountain with the final piece before finally turning to face him— and the goose-bumps on her skin are near immediate. He's not even trying to hide his scheming. She gulps. "Don't put words in my mouth, Kei."
"Oh no, you're continuing." Opportunities like this are elusive— if not now, when else would he exact vengeance for all the taunts he's had to endure? Kei is determined to see this through. "But?"
Momoka, obstinate, arrogant and prideful, of course attempts to stare him down and battle it out in silence, but barely a few minutes later, she groans. "But," she acquiesces, swallowing her pride, "yeah. I made it for you."
Success.
A series of snorts escape him, crescendoing into brazen laughter, and the hue of her cheeks intensify.
"Oh fuck off, Kei!" she cries out, hands flying up in front of her face to obscure it from view. "I knew this was a mistake!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's just—" he stifles his laughter in attempts to regain his composure— "what brought this on?"
"Not telling!"
"Momoka." He steps closer, attempts to pry her hands away, and the laughter bubbles out again as she adamantly struggles. "Momoka, tell me."
She risks a timid glance from between her fingers and Kei takes the chance to fully peel away her hands.
Her face is fervid with mortification, and Kei relishes in it.
Momoka glances nervously at him, recalling the night before the mixer, and she flits her gaze away.
"I just felt... bad," she mutters, "for the other night. You know... when I was drunk." The shame of the memory makes her shudder— the way she leant on him, the way she cried, the way she confessed, the hypocrisy of it all, especially after she had so determinedly declared that they would both find someone new, especially after she had internally chastised him for not even wanting to try when she was no different... looking back makes her feel nauseous.
But—
— Momoka also remembers the way his eyes looked, that night. She remembers seeing the brewing turmoil. It makes her uneasy, still. He never said a word at the time, but it's the way he pulled her closer and the way he rested his chin on top of her head, the way his heart thrashed like a tempest. It's the way he clenched his fist and pursed his lips and grit his teeth. He never said a word at the time, and that is exactly why Momoka worries for him. He never says a thing.
"If I say what I'm thinking out loud," he told her, a while back, "then it becomes a reality. And if it becomes a reality, I'll have to accept it, even if I don't want to… I'm just running away, really."
When she looks back at him, Momoka realises that she let her expression slip.
"Momo—"
"And I wanted to thank you," she continues, hurriedly. "For putting up with me. And for helping me while I was injured. And, on top of that, you always give me food, so I thought that maybe... I could do the same?" She glares at him. "But I am never doing this again! Absolutely not ever!"
She is taken by surprise when he tousles her hair.
"Hey! My hai—" In her shock, their eyes meet.
"Thanks, Momoka." And she does a double-take when she sees how tender his smile is, and how his eyes emanate a peculiar fondness. It perplexes her, really, that tenderness and the feeling of something complete, a sense of something sated in her, as if her heart were an overflowing cup, and she thinks that maybe (maybe, maybe, maybe) it wouldn't be so bad to do this more often after all, and— "I really appreciate it."
—and what the hell is she thinking?
She mellows in an instant. "Gosh," she says, faltering, "and here I was, practically convinced that you were an ungrateful bastard— given all of last night's slander."
"Don't bring that up again," Kei laughs, grabbing a bowl and a pair of chopsticks (and Momoka rolls her eyes, because of course he prefers chopsticks). She tries to focus on sounds instead of her thoughts: the clinking of cutlery, the sliding of drawers, the way his feet drag across the floor (as if they're laden, but the truth is that he's really just lethargic in the mornings)—
But as he turns away from her, even as she tries to distract herself, Momoka's mind still lingers on that look in his eyes just now, on his smile, and she contemplates rethinking her stance on his honesty. But the unfamiliarity— or perhaps the unexpectedness— of it muddles her thoughts, invades it (for god's sake, Momoka, stop thinking about it—)
"Wait."
Kei's voice, abrupt, draws her from her trance, and Momoka glances towards him, brows raised in questioning.
He points at her. "Is that my shirt?"
Momoka glimpses down reflexively (she missed a button, she notes) and looks back up at him, nodding. "Yeah."
"When did you... when did I—"
"Last night." She shrugs, palming the fabric in attempts to smooth out the crinkles. "And no, you didn't say I could, but sleeping in a mini skirt isn't exactly comfortable, so I borrowed it."
He gapes. "You mean you stole it."
"It's not stealing if I'm giving it back. Don't worry about it; I'll wash it since you're so bothered."
Ah. Momoka realises his intentions: this is his attempt to re-establish normalcy, maintain homeostasis— and what better method than a senseless squabble? It's what they're notorious for, after all. But he resigns too easily, sighing as he mutters, "Make sure you iron it."
But since her thoughts have been wandering to uncomfortably strange places, Momoka chooses to indulge his need for the status-quo. "Will do, your Highness."
He takes the bait, almost too eagerly. "Says the queen of all drama."
"Watch it, or I will take away all that chicken from you."
"Do it," he says, grinning. "I can cook for myself."
She gasps. "Kei!"
"I'm kidding." He takes a bite of the karaage, gives her that damn smile again, and Momoka stifles a gulp.
(She must be going insane.)
"The real reason," Kei starts, earning a side-glance from Momoka as she tears open a bag of marshmallows to dunk into her hot chocolate, "was because I didn't think they were good enough for you."
His laptop flashes as the scene changes. Kei keeps the lights off (it's part of the movie experience, he insists— though the real reason is the one he claims to be the added benefit: it saves the bills), so the illuminated screen and the dim flickering of his lamp are all she has to make out his expression. "Is this about the mixer?"
Kei nods sheepishly, and Momoka sighs, gesturing for him to move over as she settles beside him on the couch, mug in her hands (she revels in the warmth as she takes a sip because damn this boy, he refuses to turn on the heating, arguing that it's "perfectly bearable"— fucking cheapskate).
"And, pray tell, why did you think that?"
He doesn't know what to say, really. He wasn't planning on saying it at all— but he feels like he owes it to her, somehow. Maybe the karaage inspired some sense of guilt?
It's embarrassing, though, having to admit it. He can't bring himself to look at her while he speaks. "They... just weren't... it's just..." Kei fumbles with the wording, pauses, sighs, clears his throat, and then tries again. "It's just that," he says, slow and careful and firm, "after that night, I... was worried about you. You've been upset about Yanagi-senpai before, but never like that. I just didn't want to see you get hurt again." He shifts uncomfortably.
She hums, nods. "I had a feeling that was it." She sips her hot chocolate, and after a brief interval of hesitation, she turns around to face him fully. "But you don't need to worry about me, Kei. I can handle myself."
Kei flinches at the austerity in her voice and he retorts, "I know that, but still, I can't—"
She corks his mouth with a marshmallow (half-soggy and chocolatey) and he stares at her, wide-eyed— and he hopes to God that this isn't a new habit.
"Enough— I get it. You can't help it," she finishes, reclining back into the couch. "But you can't do this again."
He almost flares up in defence, but the wave of shame that washes over him forces him to keep his mouth shut— because she's right. His behaviour that night was out of line.
She notices the way his lips purse into a fine line, and she takes another sip of her drink, sighs. "It's cold, Kei." Momoka shuffles closer to him, gently tugging at the fleece throw he has draped over his shoulders. "Share it with me."
"Get your own," he replies, petulant, but contradictory to his words, he extends the throw to wrap around her, and he nudges her slightly closer.
She nestles against his side, and his arm falls across her shoulder.
Momoka doesn't look at him. "Thank you," she whispers.
It takes him by surprise, but, smiling at her softly, he gently knocks her head. "You would have kicked up a fuss if I refused," he teases.
She headbutts his chin. "You know what I meant." And she says it again: "Thank you, Kei."
Perhaps his stinginess with the heating has made him more comfortable with the cold, he speculates. After all, how else could he explain the abrupt, uncomfortable sense of warmth surging in his chest— a warmth that was inexplicably too hot, even in the midst of winter? Kei hums, nods.
(He must be going insane.)
Here we are! It's been a LONG time, and I can't promise that I'll be updating anytime soon, but I do think about this fic pretty frequently and so I absolutely intend to keep writing. I am in desperate need of a Last Game re-read, so apologies if they are OOC.
Please review!
~Adieu!
X's and O's,
Liberty