Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like eggs and soy sauce, the morning air thick with steam rising from a pan of tamagoyaki. Takemichi stood at the stove in a threadbare shirt, his hair flattened awkwardly on one side, flipping the rolled omelet with a spatula that had seen better days. He hummed a low, tuneless melody under his breath, shifting from one foot to the other as he balanced a rice bowl between his elbow and chest.

The morning light filtered through the single window above the sink, casting long shadows across the cramped kitchen. Takemichi had learned to appreciate these quiet moments before the world demanded his attention. The sizzle of egg in the pan, the gentle bubble of rice in the cooker, the way the steam curled up toward the ceiling—it was meditative, almost.

Behind him, the sound of keys jingling was followed by the unmistakable thump of boots being kicked off. Takemichi didn't turn around. He'd grown familiar with the rhythm of Sanzu's arrivals: the way he always struggled with the lock for a few seconds, the deliberate heaviness of his footsteps, the small grunt of effort when he pulled off his boots.

"You're early," he said.

"Didn't sleep," came the hoarse reply.

Haruchiyo Sanzu stepped into the cramped kitchen, his jacket half-off his shoulders and a dead look in his eyes. The pink in his hair was a little faded today. Or maybe it was the light. Dark circles shadowed his pale skin, and there was a tension in his jaw that spoke of hours spent grinding his teeth.

Takemichi didn't press. He never did. Instead, he slid the omelet onto a plate, added a scoop of rice, and set it on the counter. The routine was as familiar as breathing now—plate in the same spot, chopsticks laid parallel, the small dish of pickled vegetables just to the right.

"Eat before it gets cold."

Sanzu dropped into the chair like he hadn't sat in hours. Maybe he hadn't. His movements were sharp, precise, but there was an underlying exhaustion that made everything seem slightly off-kilter. He stared at the plate for a moment, as if surprised to find food in front of him.

Takemichi poured two cups of tea and set one beside the plate. The ceramic was warm against his fingers, and he let himself savor the simple pleasure of it. Sanzu didn't say thank you, but he picked up the chopsticks, which was its own kind of gratitude.

They sat like that for a while. Quiet. Comfortable.

The silence between them had taken months to develop. At first, Takemichi had felt compelled to fill the space with chatter—questions about Sanzu's night, comments about the weather, observations about the neighbors. But Sanzu had never responded with more than grunts or single-word answers, and eventually, Takemichi had learned that the quiet was what Sanzu needed.

Sanzu wasn't good with mornings. Takemichi had learned that early. But he always showed up when Takemichi cooked, even if it meant dragging himself into the kitchen half-dead. It was one of the few constants in what Takemichi suspected was a very chaotic life.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Takemichi finally asked.

"Mm." Sanzu's response was noncommittal. He shoveled a bite of egg into his mouth and chewed slowly, methodically, like he was processing more than just food.

Takemichi waited, sipping his tea. He didn't pry, but he noticed the tension in Sanzu's shoulders, the way his fingers tapped restlessly on the table between bites. There was dried blood under his nails—barely visible, but Takemichi had learned to notice these things. He'd stopped asking about them months ago.

"Night shift?"

"Something like that."

"Rough one?"

Sanzu snorted softly, like he was amused by the understatement. "You could say that."

Takemichi smiled faintly and looked down at his cup. The tea was getting cold, but he didn't mind. He'd learned to appreciate lukewarm tea, day-old rice, vegetables that were slightly past their prime. Poverty had taught him that warmth and freshness were luxuries, not necessities.

"Want me to make that ginger soup again tonight?"

Sanzu looked up. His eyes were sharp, too sharp for someone who'd barely slept. There was something predatory in his gaze, but it softened when it landed on Takemichi. It always did.

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

Sanzu didn't answer, but he didn't say no. That was as close to acceptance as Takemichi would get, and he'd learned to read the subtle language of Sanzu's responses.

Their friendship was strange, maybe even fragile, but it had weight. Familiarity. The kind that came from shared time, not shared secrets.

They'd met in high school, though they hadn't been close. Not really.

Takemichi remembered those days with a mixture of nostalgia and embarrassment. He'd been smaller then, quieter, the kind of kid who attracted attention from bullies like a magnet. His uniform had never fit right, his hair had always been messy, and he'd had a habit of stammering when called on in class.

But Takemichi remembered the day Sanzu had stepped between him and a group of upperclassmen who thought they could get handsy because he was small and pretty. Sanzu hadn't said anything—he'd just stared at them until one of them flinched. And then he'd laughed. A high, unsettling sound that had made the hair on Takemichi's arms stand up. The bullies left.

After that, they'd nod at each other in the halls.

Takemichi had been grateful, but he'd also been wary. There had been rumors about Sanzu even then—whispers about fights, about the way he'd smile when he got hurt, about the company he kept after school. Takemichi had known better than to get too close to someone like that.

Years passed. They lost touch. Tokyo swallowed them both in different ways.

Takemichi had drifted from job to job, apartment to apartment, always one step behind on rent, always one bad day away from sleeping in an internet café. The city had a way of grinding people down, and he'd felt it working on him—the slow erosion of hope, the way dreams got smaller and smaller until they were just about surviving another day.

And then, by some twist of fate, they'd crossed paths again at a convenience store last winter.

Takemichi was trying to decide if he could afford the discounted bento. His wallet held exactly three hundred yen, and he'd already done the math twice. The bento cost three-fifty. He'd been staring at it for five minutes, weighing hunger against the possibility of needing that money for train fare.

Sanzu had stepped in, grabbed it off the shelf, and handed it to him.

"Still look like you haven't eaten in days," Sanzu had said, smirking.

Takemichi had been too stunned to reply. Sanzu had looked different—older, harder, with scars that hadn't been there in high school and an expensive jacket that didn't match the rest of his appearance. But his eyes had been the same: sharp and calculating, but with something almost fond underneath.

They'd ended up walking home together. Sanzu had paid for the bento without comment, and they'd walked in comfortable silence through the narrow streets. A week later, they were sharing late-night dinners twice a week. Then three times. Then Sanzu started showing up without calling, and Takemichi started cooking without being asked.

It was... nice.

He didn't know what Sanzu did for work, and Sanzu never asked about his either. Maybe they both liked it that way.

Takemichi suspected it was something dangerous, something that required Sanzu to carry himself like a weapon even when he was sitting at a kitchen table eating homemade food. But he also suspected that Sanzu needed this—needed a place where he could just be tired, where he could eat without watching the door, where he could let his guard down for an hour or two.

"You're good at this," Sanzu said suddenly, gesturing to the food.

Takemichi blinked. "Huh?"

"Cooking."

"Oh. Thanks." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean... I guess I had to get good at it. Eating out's expensive."

Sanzu made a noncommittal sound.

Takemichi didn't mention how he'd often go without meals when he couldn't afford groceries. Or how he was behind on rent again. Or how he'd learned to make a single bag of rice last for two weeks, how he'd discovered which vegetables were cheapest at which times of day, how he'd perfected the art of making filling meals from almost nothing.

Instead, he took another sip of tea and looked out the window. The sky was clear today. Blue and sharp and too bright for someone like Sanzu.

He glanced at the man across from him.

Sanzu had finished the meal. His hands were still. His face looked softer now. Not peaceful, exactly, but less carved by tension. The sharp angles of his cheekbones seemed less pronounced, and there was a looseness to his shoulders that hadn't been there when he'd first walked in.

This was Takemichi's favorite part of their routine—watching Sanzu slowly decompress, seeing the way food and quiet and simple human companionship could smooth away some of the harder edges. It made him feel useful in a way his dead-end job never did.

"Same time tomorrow?" Takemichi asked, reaching for the plates.

Sanzu hesitated. He always hesitated, as if he was surprised by the invitation every time, as if he expected Takemichi to eventually get tired of him showing up unannounced with blood under his fingernails and exhaustion in his eyes.

Then he nodded.

"Yeah."

He left without another word.

When the door closed, Takemichi sank into the chair Sanzu had left behind and stared at the cooling cup across from him. The kitchen felt different without Sanzu's presence—emptier, but also somehow more his own. He could hear the sounds of the city waking up: traffic, voices, the distant hum of the train.

It was Sanzu's favorite cup.

Black porcelain with a small chip near the rim.

Takemichi picked it up, washed it gently, and set it back on the shelf. He'd bought it at a discount store months ago, drawn to its simple elegance. It wasn't until Sanzu had been coming around for a few weeks that he'd noticed how the other man always reached for it, how his fingers would trace the chip unconsciously while he drank.

He didn't know why Sanzu came back.

But he was glad he did.

The morning stretched ahead of him—another day at the convenience store, another eight hours of scanning barcodes and restocking shelves and pretending he didn't notice when customers shoplifted small things. But for now, he had this: the lingering warmth of shared breakfast, the satisfaction of feeding someone who needed it, the quiet comfort of routine.

Outside, the city hummed with life and possibility. Inside, Takemichi cleaned his small kitchen and prepared for another day of small kindnesses.

It wasn't much, but it was enough.

Later That Evening

The rain had started around noon and hadn't let up. Takemichi stood at his kitchen window, watching the drops streak down the glass, and wondered if Sanzu would show up tonight. He'd mentioned the ginger soup, but Sanzu had never been one for certainties.

Still, he'd bought the ingredients on his way home from work. Fresh ginger, despite the cost. Good broth, not the cheap stuff. He told himself it was just in case, but the truth was simpler: he wanted to make something that would help.

The soup was simmering when he heard the familiar jingle of keys. Takemichi smiled despite himself and turned down the heat.

"Smells good," Sanzu said as he kicked off his boots.

"Ginger soup, as promised." Takemichi ladled it into bowls, adding a sprinkle of green onions and a dash of sesame oil. "How was your day?"

"Quiet," Sanzu said, which probably meant the opposite.

They ate in companionable silence, the sound of rain providing a gentle backdrop. Takemichi watched Sanzu's face relax with each spoonful, saw the way his shoulders gradually dropped from their defensive hunch.

"Thank you," Sanzu said quietly when he'd finished.

"For what?"

"For this. For..." He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at the empty bowls, at the space between them. "For not asking questions."

Takemichi nodded. He understood. Sometimes the greatest kindness was simply being present without demanding explanations.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.

Sanzu smiled—a real smile, small but genuine.

"Yeah."

Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the city clean. Inside, two lost souls found warmth in the simple act of sharing a meal, building something fragile and precious out of routine and trust and the quiet understanding that sometimes, showing up is enough.