Every now and then i remember that [for all the essays i could write ab how they deserve better from the writers and official artists] citron and guy are muslim coded and my little heart fills :)
citron teaching omi and izumi how to make roti on a well aged tawa [think crepe pan!], one of the few things citron brought with him when he fled home. Smiling quietly when he teaches them how to scoop up curry without getting toooo messy, and openly grinning and cheering when sakuya manages to do it perfectly, laughing and agreeing when misumi says the shape between his fingers looks a bit like a triangle!!!! So cool!!!!!
Heart swelling with something…just something. When he hears masumi and tenma grumble about the saffron staining their fingernails. Just like his brothers do. Well, did. I mean, probably still do…right?
Every now and again, he was viscerally reminded that he. Was not. Home.
No one recognized his spices and perfumes.
No one joined in his little songs, references from his favorite movies. They couldn't.
He always, always had to check before he ate something for the ingredients list. Something he took for granted. A comfort, a sense of safety he took for granted.
No one recognized his mumbled recitations under his breath after watching horror movies. He was never the most intently devout, but the Arabic he did know soothed his soul.
Tea tasted thin, bitter. Nothing like his rich, spiced chai.
Nothing special he could point to and say was ‘wrong’. It just, deeply, wholly, wasn't his.
Citron felt that gut wrenching twist and claw of loneliness when holidays rolled around. He dreaded celebrating alone.
He explained Ramadan to his new family! Assured them that, yes, he was definitely eating! He just wouldn't be eating with them in the day for a while! All with this…strange smile on his face.
The first week of the first Ramadan he spent at the dorms was sad. Just plain sad.
He wanted his brothers. He wanted them near him so bad it hurt. He wanted to hear those quiet little complaints and the jokingly angry yells whenever a commercial for food came on the tv. He wanted to wake up with them. Watch everyone slowly shuffle into the kitchen before dawn. When he was alone it felt wrong. Like he was taking food when he wasn't supposed to. It just. It wasn't right. Nothing about it felt right.
And then the second week started. And Izumi was in the kitchen before him.
Bleary eyed, blanket around her shoulders [that made his heart hurt, who knows why], and wearily peering at the stove as she stirred a pan of leftover curry, rice cooker with only 3 minutes left on the counter. And the young man was struck with how soft her ‘good morning’ was. How full of love and determination her smile was.
He was not ashamed when he cried into her shoulder for a minute or so. She seemed to understand.
