Kyouka's made some decent chazuke after all the practice she had making it for her roommate--not restaurant quality, but it was good enough--and she has a bowl of it for Chuuya to try. She stares expectantly, waiting for him to take the first bite.
Chuuya’s done deals with the shadiest names in Yokohama. He’s stared down the barrel of a gun more on more than one occasion—on more occasions than he can count, actually—and pointed a gun himself just as many times. He’s broken into warehouses, taken on gangs that outnumber his crew ten to one, put his life on the line for the sake of his subordinates. Mafia executive, and all that; when he signed his future away all those years ago, danger came as a nonnegotiable part of the deal, and he’ll be the last person to complain about it.
Death induces a unique flavor of fear. Death, and proximity to it, the latter of which Chuuya has long since become jaded to. Again: mafia executive. Risk is part of the job, and if he ever feels safe enough to relax out of vigilance, then he’s probably doing something wrong.
Death induces a unique flavor of fear. Izumi Kyouka’s bowl of steaming chazuke induces an equally unique kind of fear. Chuuya can taste it on his tongue. Literally. He’s having flashbacks to the last time she did this for him, and yes, he’s still wondering how it’s even possible to burn tea and rice, and yes, he’s willfully forgetting the fact that he burned his toast making breakfast this morning.
“Oh,” he says, feigning a pleasant brand of surprise as she pushes the bowl into his hands and suppressing an internal cringe. Her expectant expression really, really isn’t helping. “Thank you, Kyouka. This smells delicious.” He takes a whiff to emphasize the point and hopes he’s only imagining the... charred quality to the scent that enters his nose.
Kyouka’s stare is wide-eyed and solemn, characteristic of her, but Chuuya finds himself succumbing anyway. No use in avoiding it, he reasons to himself, pretending he isn’t just weak, and tries to smile as he lifts a spoonful to his mouth. Here we go.
And really, he needn’t have worried, because Kyouka’s clearly been practicing. Chuuya swallows the tea, chews thoughtfully on the rest. The rice is slightly overcooked, but honestly, he should have had more faith in her from the beginning. A smile finds its way onto his face unbidden. It’s of a rare species, soft and genuine, rarely given to his subordinates and never to his superiors.
“It’s good,” he says, and means it. “You’ll have to show me how to make it sometime.”
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