I never know what my characters are going to say until they say it. I've talked about this before, but it's especially noteworthy with this story and its sister, because the vast majority of the meat, so to speak, is found in conversation.
The details of this chapter just kind of . . . happened.
I love it when that happens.
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"Did you ever meet your grandparents?"
Ryo's expression turned wistful as he nodded. "Nan would come around for Thanksgiving every year. She and Pop-Pop always handled the cooking. It was a rule." He held up one finger and jabbed it in Noa's direction. "No one was allowed in the kitchen except Nan and Pop-Pop." He smiled. "I don't think I've ever eaten so well, and I don't think I ever will again."
Noa grinned. "That sounds great," he murmured. "Really great." He looked sad all at once; Ryo didn't have to ask if Noa knew his grandparents. He very clearly didn't. "You know," he said, quickly changing the subject, "it's odd. There really is something about a meal that's cooked by family. I mean, when I was little, Chichiue always hired the very best. Michelin Star chefs. You know the kind. Imagine every rich bastard stereotype you've ever heard, or made up, about food. Them."
Ryo hummed. "I don't think I'm surprised," he said.
"My favorite was always gyudon," Noa went on. "You can imagine how exacting Chichiue was about any traditional dish. Even something as simple as a rice bowl with beef. It was always delicious. I loved it dearly, every time we had it."
Ryo smiled; he could already guess where his boyfriend was headed with this.
"Aniki asked me, after I'd been home for a while, and it was clear that my new body would be suitable for . . . you know, living. He wanted to know if I wanted something special for dinner. As a celebration. Anything at all, he said. Well, naturally, I went for my old standby. I expected Aniki to do the same thing my parents did and call the cooking staff to have them whip up the best damn gyudon that money could conjure. But he didn't. He went into the ground floor kitchen himself, checked around, and told me we already had everything he needed. So he just . . . rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and made dinner."
Some part of Ryo had always assumed Seto Kaiba didn't cook. He recalled, however, as he thought about it, that Seto and Mokuba weren't like Noa; they hadn't been born into their wealth. You didn't end up at a hole-in-the-wall orphanage if you had money. Surely, Seto had been taught to make his own meals.
"Everything about Aniki's gyudon is different from the way Chichiue's staff used to make it," Noa said. "Flavor, texture, even temperature. Aniki says some foods are actively worsened when you go higher and higher with the quality of ingredients. Some foods need to be made on the cheap, he says. And, I mean, that sounds blasphemous to me, but judging by the example he set that night, I think he must be right. I've never had a meal as delicious as what he made. It was a religious experience."
Ryo's smile widened.
"Anyway." Noa waved a hand. "I guess my point with all this is . . . I imagine your grandparents' cooking must have been something like that."
Ryo nodded. "It was," he agreed. "I've tried to roast a turkey the way Pop-Pop used to. I can't. I don't know what it is that I'm missing, but there's something about the way he did it that made it special. Made it different. Nobody can do it like he could. It's the same with Nan's pies, and her green bean casserole."
Noa seemed struck by something. "What do you think they would have thought, if you'd brought me to Thanksgiving dinner one year?"
Ryo felt tears burning the backs of his eyes.
He reached out and took hold of one of Noa's hands. "Noa," he said, quietly, firmly, "they would have adopted you immediately."