Author's Note: You may see a pattern emerging in the titles; this chapter is a little bit dirty. There's not a graphic description of the act, but it does occur. Again, thanks for reading so many chapters worth of my whacky writing, enjoy, and please review!
"Ah… French cuisine isn't easy to make, is it?" Makoto makes the obvious observation in the moonlightthat streams in through the window. We spent about three hours putting it together, but now the bouillabaisse sits on the stove cooking.
"It should be done in a half-hour or so."
"Just as well! Cooking makes me hungry. I didn't even do anything and it made me hungry."
"That's not true. You handed me the ingredients. You put the croutons in the oven. You cut the potatoes. Nearly took your finger with them, but you cut the potatoes."
He laughs. "Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but if I'd done anything more than that, we'd probably be cooking poison of some sort."
"You'll get the hang of it." We can do this more often. You'll learn.
The light from the bulb in the kitchen flows past the open door into the darkness enveloping him and I in the dining room. I can make out his profile in the moonlight, but the half of his body that's furthest from the window gets lost in its own shadow. "So what does this bouillabaisse stuff taste like, anyway?"
"It's basically a seafood soup. The important parts are the potatoes, the mussels and some kind of white fish for body. In this case, mackerel."
"No surprises there."
"Yeah. But, basically, it's those things and then you cook them in a basic tomato soup and make this sauce called rouille."
"What the hell is that?"
"Some olive oil, bread and a handful of spices. Goes well with most fish."
"So what part was this rouille stuff?"
"That kind of sludgy, yellow sauce that looked a bit like mustard."
"Oh. I wondered what that was."
"So, basically, bouillabaisse tastes like tomato, mackerel and garlic. Among other things."
"I can't wait to try it."
"You'll like it. Trust me."
"I do." We kind of stare at each other, even though we can only see one of the other's eyes. There's no need to say anything. But I want to keep the conversation going anyway.
"The only problem with it is that, like most soups, it's really high in carbohydrates and whatnot like that. So we'll have to do something pretty physical to work it off." I feel myself blush and see Makoto turn away awkwardly. We're both trying to figure out whether I meant what it sounded like I meant.
"Haru… we've only been together for five days. Do you really think we're ready for that?"
"Not quite." He looks at me in surprise. "We might have only been official for five days, but I've loved you for a lot longer than that." I can't quite look level at him, because I'm a bit ashamed to admit this next part. "I didn't realise for a long time, but I've loved you almost since I met you."
He smiles at me in the comforting way he has. "You put things so perfectly, Haru. I feel the same way, but I couldn't say it that well if you paid me." We kind of stare at each other intensely while the bouillabaisse starts boiling audibly. Makoto freaks out a little. "Does that mean it's burning or something?"
"No. I just have to go and turn the heat down. It'll be done in about ten minutes."
"Can't wait." I disappear into the light for a minute and set the mix simmering. "That smells like culinary heaven."
We have to raise our voices to communicate across the rooms. "All going to plan, it should be." I walk back out, and in the sudden shift to darkness I walk to the wrong side of the table. With my low vision, I stumble right into Makoto, tripping over him in the process. And, somehow, my legs stay twisted around his shoulders while my torso lays back flat against his, but in the other direction. I notice where this puts our heads in relation to each other and hurriedly disentangle us, blushing aggressively. "Sorry about that."
"What's to apologise for?" We look at each other sideways.
"Well, anyway, it wasn't on purpose. If you're not ready, I'm not pushing."
He laughs in this infuriatingly attractive way. "It's not like that at all." We find ourselves running out of words again.
"Soup's ready." It abruptly bursts into the silence that's permeated our conversation.
"Oh! I'll help you serve it up." We make our way into the kitchen and I'm bombarded with a wave of heat. "It's so hot in here! How do you cook when the room gets to be this temperature?"
"Generally, I'll wear less." Taking a cue from each other, we both take off our jumpers. Haru throws me an apron. "Put this on, though. If this gets into your clothes, you'll have some trouble getting it out." He pulls a ladle out of a drawer without even looking, like he referred to some perfect blueprint of the kitchen in his head.
Dipping it into the soup, he carefully measures out the meatier bits – we get about half a pound of fish and two mussels apiece, as well as half a potato and two croutons. Well, they're not what you normally call croutons. They're an entire slice off a baguette, so they're fairly large. But apparently, they're still called croutons. I pick up the yellow stuff, desperate to do something to help.
"How much of this stuff do I put on it?"
"To taste. For me, not too much. Two teaspoons worth'll do." I follow his instructions, spooning two small heaps onto his pile of broth and following suit with my own. Haru's taste is a pretty good judge. "If you like, you can stir it into the broth, or you can leave it on top." He grabs two soup spoons out of thin air (well, it looks like it, anyway. He must have gotten them from somewhere, I guess). "Time to eat."
We each take a bowl and put it down on either side of his table, finding our way to the floor as we do. Haru doesn't go to take his apron off, so I don't either. Probably good to keep this stuff of clothes. "Itadakimasu." I dip my spoon into my bowl, taking a sizable amount of soup and a small piece of mackerel, topped with some of the… wait, what was it called? Rouille? Something like that. I size up the spoonful, seeing steam float off the top. This stuff must still be pretty hot, then. I blow on it a few times, trying to cool it down so I can put it in my mouth without scalding my tongue. When I'm satisfied it's edible, I empty the whole spoon into my mouth in one shot, evaluating the flavours as a set. "Holy crap, this is delicious!" I mean, Haru cooked it. Of course it was going to be good. But this is a whole new world of good. "It's not hard to see how the French got their reputation, is it?"
"Actually, most of what we consider fancy French cuisine started as a peasant dishes."
"I wouldn't mind being a peasant in France if it tasted like this."
"Well, it tastes good, sure. But that one mouthful was probably all you'd get."
"Fair point." I watch Haru stir the rouille (that is what it's called, right?) into his soup while he waits for it to cool. I follow suit, because it looks like a gentle stir also encourages the steam out. So it should cool quicker. But don't trust me when it comes to food.
We eat in relative silence, although we occasionally make little sounds of gustatory pleasure. Although they sound like another kind of pleasure altogether. That's okay. We're not really allowed to be uncomfortable around one another anymore. By some trick or design, we both finish at the same time. "Gochisosama." Standing up in unison, we take our bowls to the kitchen and leave them in the sink. I go to start washing up, but Haru catches my wrist.
"We can do it tomorrow."
Sneaking a look at my watch, I laugh. "Haru, it already is tomorrow." Holding up my wrist, the luminous face glares the time. 12:06.
"You know what I meant." In the light from my watch, I see something on Haru's face.
"Hold still a sec." Leaning in close, I can see it's a small patch of soup that didn't quite make his mouth. Reaching out my tongue, I lick it off. "You had a little soup on your face." I untie my apron and hang it over bench, watching as Haru does likewise. "Time for bed?"
"I guess." I've already put my bag in his room, so we make our way upstairs to change. Pushing open the door to his room, I'm glad we had the foresight to clean it while we cooked.
"Before we change, just one thing, Makoto."
Before I get the chance to ask him what, he's pushed his lips against mine and forced his tongue through my lips. With no particular desire to resist, I just sort of give up to and enjoy it.
"Like I thought. The bouillabaisse tastes better out of your mouth." He pulled away too suddenly, just to say that.
"Well then, why don't we have a second helping?" We're close enough to the bed that, with a little imagination, we can fall onto it. We push ourselves into each other's mouths and just kind of let our emotions take control. They decide our lips just aren't enough anymore, and our hands start working around each other's bodies to expose more exotic areas. And suddenly we're lying on each other, drowning in passion and who was I trying to kid, of course we're ready.
I guess I won't need those pyjamas after all.