Tsukasa Akechi did not know what exactly he was doing in Finland, but even in his later years, when his prodigious eidetic memory had long since succumbed to age, he would never forget the moment he saw her at the Espoo Cultural Centre. He'd been denied his end-of-middle school vacation and booted by his upperclassmen onto a jet to do some consultation at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Helsinki — seriously, who did they think he was? Turns out the museum authorities had requested of Totsuki a dinner service for the Finnish prime minister and a chef worthy of said prime minister.
When all present parties hit the floor with the sheer ecstasy brought on by his cooking, Akechi cleaned his knife, took his leave, and decided to check out the city before catching his flight back to Tokyo.
Thanks in part to a classical music seminar he'd taken as a non-culinary elective, Akechi knew that his time would be better spent watching Strauss' Don Quixote at the Helsinki Music Centre. But something about Espoo and the Tapiola Sinfonietta pulled at him that night, and throwing all doubts to the winds, he took the subway twenty minutes west, twenty minutes deeper into the airy March night.
He was three spots to the front of the ticket line when his eyes found her at the edge of the water, and Akechi saw stars.
She had strawberry blonde hair that was more red than gold, long and cascading down her back in waves. The hand that reached up to brush a stray lock out of her eyes was delicate, graceful, her skin like porcelain.
His gut instinct hadn't ever failed him before, so Akechi dropped out of line. He approached the girl, sensing her quiet potency, and when he drew near enough she turned.
"Do you need something?" She asked in perfect Finnish.
Akechi opened his mouth to reply but choked on his words. Her left eye was lilac flecked with gold, her right a brilliant amber splashed with amethyst, and he instantly found himself lost in the thousand emotions dancing behind those masterpieces she had for eyes, more depth than the night.
"Do you speak Finnish?" the girl tried, this time in Japanese.
"What?" he asked with a start.
Having been nominated for the Elite Ten as a rising freshman mostly due to his insane valedictorian speech at the high school promotion ceremony last week, Akechi far exceeded the standards for public speaking. His powerful deliverance and resonant bass often left entire halls filled with angry politicians and feuding culinary powerhouses trembling and subservient.
So why, pray tell, were his words failing him now of all times?
"You're a Totsuki student," she asked, raising a thoughtful eyebrow. "The uniform."
"Tsukasa Akechi." He stuck out his hand, she shook it, and sparks flew in his chest. "How do you know Totsuki?"
The girl shrugged. "Small world. What generation?"
"121st," he said.
"You were this year's valedictorian for the middle school division, weren't you?"
Akechi blinked. "Are you from—"
"No, I'm not. But I know people that are."
Akechi ran a hand through his scarlet hair, wondering why his heart was threatening to burst out of his ribcage. "Listen, I've gotta get back to school tonight, but before I go—"
"Talk over dinner?" She interrupted, and Akechi grinned, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.
"Would you want to?"
She smiled for the first time, a real smile that showed her perfect white teeth. "Obviously."
It took a full week for Akechi and his dead phone to realize he'd forgotten to fly back to Tokyo and successfully missed the first few days of high school. They'd spent seven days in Helsinki, talking until time itself slowed down. It was their world, all their tempo.
On the second day she told him her name.
Yukihira Kaede.
You're a Nakiri Yukihira?
Yeah.
You don't sound proud of it.
I didn't want to tell you. It's just going to change how you see me. That's how it is with everyone. It's always Yukihira Souma this and Nakiri Erina that. I'm not a chef like them.
It changes nothing. I don't give a damn who your parents are, no offense. I like you, not them.
You like me? Well, that just made my day.
That's why I'm here.
Smooth, Tsukasa.
Just wait, princess. I'm going to knock you out.
On the third day she showed him her draftbook. It was a thick 18 by 24 inch pad filled with precise lines, meticulous shading, raw black graphite slashed into neat drawings. Three or four majestic buildings for every city she'd been in. And she'd been in a lot.
I want to be an architect.
You sure you're not already?
You're just saying that because you like me.
I'd give up lots of things to live in one of your places someday.
So you're saying there's a future for us?
Don't jinx it, princess.
On the fourth day they cooked for each other at 2 AM in the three-starred kitchen of Fountainhead, Yukihira Souma's debut restaurant, because architectural pursuits notwithstanding, Kaede still had her mother's god tongue and was one hell of a chef. Especially when it came to Korean cuisine.
On the fifth day he kissed her in the otherwise empty Nakiri Yukihira penthouse overlooking the city — Erina was in Budapest and Souma in Evanston — and found himself addicted to the feel of her lips pressed to his, her hair tangled around his fingers, her body under his hands. The fact that he might not be her first kiss, or her eventual last, made his blood boil.
On the sixth day she bought a postcard at a local souvenir store, wrote the date, sketched a building, then tucked it into his pocket.
I'm never going anywhere without this.
I know.
On the seventh day he kissed her once, twice, twice again, and departed for Tokyo, but it was simply a shell providing halfassed alibis for why he'd skipped the first two days of high school and his first Elite Ten meeting. His mind and soul were still in the outskirts of Viikki, on the roof of a building whose sharp angles seemed to blend into the tranquil green expanse below them, next to a girl with two distinct colors in her eyes and the wisdom of a thousand years in her head.
i was doing my best not to establish endgames early on but i'm catching feelings for kaekechi already lol