and only the bitterness remains.

by リリス - riris (arurun)

Summary:

Fumi lacks a lot of things. He's Taste-deaf. He's blind to most smells. He did not have the strength and culinary imagination many of the aspiring chefs in Tootsuki had.

But he had experience, enough for a whole lifetime past.

Notes:

hi hi! I really am not supposed to start another story with all the ones I have ongoing but I have been possessed by this idea pls don't kill me tq

this is a shokugeki no souma fanfiction, set in Shinomiya's generation (79th). This story features a patissier OC who develops taste deafness after a head injury. warning for fluff, angst, and unrequited puppy crushes for the hot onee-chan down the street.

Chapter 1: O'Tama and Fumi-pon

"O'Tama, it's an emergency!"

 

The blonde stood right up from her spot, cigarette tucked between her teeth as she whirled toward the intruder.

"What's going on?" she demanded, a hand already on her baseball bat. Did the gal gang from the next school over barge onto the wrong turf again? She thought she'd taught them enough of a lesson last time around...

"It's Fumi-pon again! They got'im!"

"What?!"

 

-

-

 

"So... you caused a fight at the underpass by the river and got yourself arrested?"

Uncle Yukihira was definitely furious. His arms folded, his brows furrowed, his lips pursed like a lecture was already at his lips.

This wasn't the first time he had to bail his daughter out of jail, it's old news.

The problem this time was...

 

"s'Not my fault! They nabbed Fumi, what was I supposed to do, let 'em take him?" she argued right back, still on her knees but not at all apologetic.

Wildly, she gestured at the boy on the chair, who in his seven year old glory was wrapped in bandages and plasters all over.

"Just look at'im! He's black n' blue cause he's too wimpy to fight back!"

"Uh, I'm okay... it doesn't hurt."

"Don't act tough, of course it does!"

 

The girl scrambled up to brush his bangs out of the way, revealing a line of bandages around his head. There was even a wound around his temple that had bled pretty badly.

"I said I was fine..."

 

-

 

Yukihira Tamako, better known as O'Tama, was the most infamous delinquent in Sumire Shopping District.

Kiyofumi, or as many call him, Fumi, was just a young orphan living on the streets until Tamako found him and got the shopping district involved. He was then deposited safely in a foster home that was a bakery only a little Grandmother lived.

It went without saying that Tamako and Kiyofumi were only half a step from being real siblings. Perhaps in a slightly different situation, that would have been exactly what occurred.

As involved in gang fights as she was, delinquents from the next prefecture often kidnapped Fumi, simply to settle grudges with underhanded methods.

(After all, Fumi, like all family, was Tamako's only weakness.)

You could say that Fumi had gotten used to it already.

 

-

 

At this point, Uncle Yukihira had gotten off his chair and his yells could be heard through closed doors, "in the first place, Kiyofumi was only nabbed because you gave them a grudge to avenge! This all happened because of you, not because of them! Why can't you start realizing that your actions have consequences!"

The silence that engulfed thereafter was deafening.

 

Fumi stared at the scene, swallowing nervously. The quarrels in the Yukihira household were common news, in fact, it was almost a daily occurrence, with how much older Tamako was becoming.

However, this was probably the first time they had Fumi in the center of their argument. Maybe that had an effect.

 

"Enough. Get out of my house and don't come back until you've understood what exactly you did wrong today!"

The doors slammed.

 

-

 

"Uhm, I'm kinda sorry," he said.

 

Tamako held his hand as they walked toward the boy's home.

Fumi had bandages all over him. A nasty scratch on him arm from being dragged too hastily through tree branches. A scrape on his knee from falling. A bruise on his face when that girl slapped him. He had hit the concrete, so he was also nursing a very minor concussion.

It was all okay, though. He'd be healed in a few weeks.

 

The blonde clicked her tongue, rubbing a frustrated hand through her hair as a toothpick snapped between her teeth. She spat it out and sighed.

"It ain't your fault, Fumi," she grumbled a little reluctantly, "those bitches were bloody cowards, that's all there was to it."

Tamako turned to the child.

"My dad might seriously disown me if this keeps up," she snickered, full of humour, "but all that matters is that you're alright, Fumi! If the gals bully you again, be sure to call on me, okay?"

 

And something, something inside of him, began turning like a gear.

 

The sun had set across the shopping district, a burning amber glaze spilled across the gravel.

Right then and there, her silhouette in the dusk was the most breathtaking scene Fumi had ever seen.

Tamako's hair spurred like the golden mane of a lion. Her roots, a faded brown, bloomed across the top of her head. She was almost never without that smile of hers, gentle and kind, yet fiercer, stronger, than any man.

If he could, he would ask for her hand in marriage. He would jump in front of a car for her. He would protect her with his life, because Tamako was just that important.

 

Oh, like a buffoon, he just realizes, like an idiot--

Tamako was most probably his first love. A childhood puppy crush on the hot older sister down the street. It was so typical and so cliche that he was too embarrassed to admit it.

Because even he knew that Tamako saw her as nothing more than a brat.

 

Was this the world's most hopeless love story?

Maybe that was fine, too.

 

-

-

 

"You're making cookies? With all those injuries?"

Tamako greeted him in the morning with a bedraggled mess of hair. Wearing only a loose shirt that probably belonged to Grandma, she hung over the kitchen counter.

Fumi had his apron on and a cookie cutter in his hand. He had just put down the rolling pin when Tamako emerged from upstairs.

 

He flushed madly.

 

"Wear something!" he barked at her, throwing the spare apron in her general direction.

"Hey hey, don't throw things, you're getting flour everywhere."

 

-

"Nee-chan, the first batch of cookies are done. Could you help me take them out? Gloves are in the usual spot. Put the next round in right away, and bake them immediately."

"Aye, sir," she responded. Doing just as told, she set the piping hot tray on the kitchen counter before sliding in the next tray. "The breads in that other oven are almost done, do I take those out too?"

 

Fumi's hands moved quickly.

With movements too quick to follow, he parted bread dough into equal parts, stuffed them with the fillings, and set them in line with the tray.

"Next batch is done!" he called out, "after you exchange them, there are croissants in the fourth oven. Lower the heat in the fifth oven to thirty five degrees, don't forget to double back to the first oven for the cookies."

"Woah woah woah hold up!" Tamako shot over, "I agreed to do the heavy lifting, but can't you slow it down for li'l old me?"

"We won't make it in time for opening!" he pointed at her fiercely, "you have long arms, so make use of 'em!"

"What a slave driver!"

 

-

 

He moved on to the counter, to the batches that had been sitting on the table for nearly an hour. Peeling the baked goods off the cooking sheet, he set them into plates, trays, baskets-- then carefully set them onto the displays.

His movements were small and careful, quick but not clumsy.

 

He was too small to reach too much of everything, so there were boxes set up everywhere for him to gain that extra height.

There were injuries on his arm this time, so Tamako had been in charge of setting in everything that was higher than he could naturally reach.

 

Tamako was not at all trusted with the delicate pastries, which were understandable.

Fumi held every confection like it was the most precious thing on earth. He would look at them as if they were children, setting each of them down, barely touching them with his bare hands.

 

There would not be a crease in its form, nor a smear in the cream.

That was simply how much he loved what he did-- he adored presentation, he admired the beauty of things. He paid attention to the littlest of details in order to make the best cakes.

 

Tamako watched the boy from day one, and he knew just how much the details meant to him.

She couldn't help but stare at it, endeared.

 

-

 

"Fumi-pon, r'ya seriously okay?"

"Oh just look, they've messed him up!"

"What what, what did I miss? Why does Fumi-pon look like he gone pick fights with a truck?"

"Butakko again, of course, she's the only bitch low 'nough to hurt our baby."

 

 

In any other place, any other establishment, a group of female delinquents would be terrifying. Much more so if they were mutually fawning over the seven year old shopkeeper

All of them had altered uniforms one way or another. One of them was tanned like a ganguro. All of them didn't have the sense to leave their weapons outside!!

Fumi seriously just thought they were all utter pains in the ass.

"I'm not a baby anymore," he pouted, brushing off a hand that was patting him on the head. "And it doesn't hurt anymore... don't poke me!"

"Aww, Fumi-pon is getting rebellious now."

"You guys are the last people I ever want to hear that from!"

 

It was like having a lot of gossipy aunts around you in a family reunion. Fumi was only seven years old, but he acted a little more mature than an average seven year old...

"And you used to be so cute too... you would waddle after O'Tama crying 'Mama-oneechan!', ohhh I miss my Fumi-pon!"

"Stop calling me a baby already!"

Blushing bright red and patted on the head like a puppy, Fumi shoved them all out the door, near tears.

 

"Hey, Fumi, call me Mama-oneechan again!"

"That was! Tha- that was, just, because! You know! I couldn't pronounce it right!"

"Pleeeeeaase?"

"Shut up! If you're not buying bread, get out!"

 

-

 

Grandma Kiyo and Kiyofumi. Some say that Fumi was put there because their names were similar. Others say that Grandma Kiyo needed an extra hand to take over her bakery, and she was growing too old to handle the workload each day, so Fumi was deposited there as a freebie worker.

The real reason? Well, probably because Fumi was too obedient of a child to require care and attention, too independent a boy to fit into a household of other children.

He picked up the art and science of baking much too quickly, and it immediately became a passion he dreamed to pursue.

It made perfect sense that he wanted to grow up in this same line of business.

 

-

 

"Uncle Yukihira, could you teach me how to cook?"

"Huh?"

Fumi leaned over the counter with raw interest in his eyes.

 

Uncle Yukihira looked over his stove, disbelieving. Pouring the fried rice onto a place and handing it off for Tamako to serve, he turned back to the child.

"You sure?" he asked, "last time I tried teaching anyone anything, we added that monstrosity of a Special to the menu."

"Hey shitty geezer, you're not supposed to badmouth me when I'm right in front of you."

 

Fumi laughed at their interaction.

 

They had made up as quickly as every time before it, and now things in Restaurant Yukihira were just as usual. Fumi sat on the counter, Grandma Kiyo beside him as they enjoyed their meal.

"Nee-chan is really bad at cooking, so I thought maybe, if I got better at cooking, I could help out some days!" Fumi told them, "the bakery closes in the afternoon, so in the evenings I can come and help... I mean, Nee-chan always helps me set up in the mornings, and, and, Grandma hurt her legs last week, so I thought I could, y'know, make dinner at home some day so she doesn't have to walk over here."

The entire restaurant was quiet.

 

He turned around, realizing the inherent silence. Was it something he said?

"Uh," he looked away, "okay, maybe not..."

 

Then all hell broke loose.

"Fumi-pon is such a good kid!" someone sobbed. (Wait, what?)

"It's okay, Fumi-pon, if this old man doesn't want to teach you, I can!" another held his hands close, as if they were precious. She pointed offensively at Uncle Yukihira, who snapped something back in response.

"You can work at my bento house! If you stay here for too long O'Tama will become a bad influence on you!"

"You can always come to my house for dinner!"

"If you come to the grocery store I'll definitely give you a discount!"

 

-

 

Fawned with attention from all over, pampered by adults and teenagers alike.

That was the life of Eda Kiyofumi, seven years old. His days were full of love and blessing, good food and baked goods.

There were mishaps here and there, but his life was peaceful.

Until that day.

 

Chapter 2: Dreams and Dreams

Notes:

hey everyone ♡♡♡ i'm honestly so shocked to see the positive reaction this story has already gotten! I love yall so much please accept my eternal uwus and virtual hugs! I really hope you'll enjoy this story that came out of my desire for more shokugeki fanfic sksksks anyways, here's chapter two!

“Weird dreams?”

 

Tamako had picked up Fumi from school today, so they walked their way home to Sumiredoori Shopping District.

Fumi would be in his fourth grade this year, being ten years old. Tamako, being nineteen, had graduated from high school last year. Opting not to attend colleges, she took over the Restaurant.

 

“They’re not like nightmares, just…” Fumi murmured, running a hand through his hair as he started thinking back, “there’s this girl… and they’re in a really, really big hall. Like, there were red carpets, spotlights, trophies and everything.”

“Like a prize giving ceremony?”

“Yeah, like the huge ones we see on TV. There were like, chandeliers!”

 

He stopped walking. Tamako turned around, confused. Fumi lifted his left hand, staring at the back of his palm.

 

“The strange thing about it was that,” he paused his sentence, and showed Tamako his hand-- “she had this burn scar too.”

 

 

 

It wasn’t strange for abandoned children to have scars.

Sometimes it was from stray dogs. Maybe they were beaten up by adults for stealing, or they caught up in some debris and gained suspicious scars.

When Tamako found him, Fumi had a strange burn scar on his left hand, spilling largely across the back of his palm like a muted fire tattoo. The discoloration it caused to his skin made it stand out, but no one really paid it much mind.

Even Fumi wasn’t too sure when he had gotten it. As far as the child himself understood, he’d had it from the start.

 

Who was the girl in his dream? She didn’t look like anyone he knew. Why was she important? Had he seen that lady before? Why was he having dreams of her? She didn’t hold any physical resemblance to him, so they couldn’t be related. Yet, they had the same scar…

How strange.

 

-

 

“Hey, this is delicious. Hey old man, let’s put this into the menu!”

“Huh? Hey, Fumi! Stop altering our dishes!”

 

Fumi sipped the tea soup from the rice bowl, reveling in the salty, deep warmth. It was winter, so this was perfect for the season. He turned to Uncle Yukihira and smiled, all innocent.

 

“Isn’t it fine, he’s not serving it to the guests,” Tamako tried to ease the situation.

“My furikake-gohan was fine as it was!” Uncle Yukihira pointed the ladle at him.

 

Fumi sipped on the tea again, watching the banter.

 

“Where on earth did he even get the tea?" Uncle Yukihira threw his arms up in exasperation, angrily sauteeing the fried noodles in the pan.

"They call this Ochazuke, right? I've had some in the izakaya downtown," Tamako dipped her spoon in to steal a bite, "hmm! It goes so well with the mackerel!"

"When the heck did you get the mackerel!"

 

The customers in the restaurant laughed as Fumi calmly enjoyed his meal on the counter, munching slowly as he ate, entirely focused on his creation.

"Hmm, maybe Salmon would work better, or sea bream..." he mumbled to himself, "and along with the seaweed furikake, maybe seaweed tea…"

"He's already revising the recipe!"

 

Uncle Yukihira was ready to bust a vein right there. First came his own daughter who was one genuine bull in the China shop that burned everything she apparently touched, then came this wild horse that strived to change everything about his dishes when he felt like it! Can't he have an obedient child for one minute?

 

"I wonder if there's a way to make Salmon as crispy as a biscuit."

"Can you just keep quiet and eat your food."

 

-

 

“That lady in your dream, do you know her name?”

 

Tamako took the plate from the kitchen counter, dropping it off at the customer’s table before stepping back in to hear the response.

“Nuh-uh,” Fumi shook his head. Taking an egg from the counter, he cracked it with one hand and let it sizzle on the oiled pan, “but she was getting an award for a cake.”

“Cake?” Tamako echoed, surprised.

 

Tamako wasn’t the biggest fan of anything too sweet, but she was always open for tastings of Fumi’s creations. This was the first time she had ever heard of prizes for foodstuff of any kind.

“An award-winning cake… I only caught a glimpse of it, but it was super, super pretty,” Fumi said with a glint of awe in his eyes, “I wonder how it would taste?”

 

“I’m interested too,” Tamako sighed, “it’ll definitely be more delicious than that egg you’re frying.”

“Huh... oh no, it’s burning!”

 

As Fumi scrambled to save the egg, Grandma Kiyo chuckled from her seat on the counter.

 

“It sounds awfully like an old story I’ve heard…” she began to reminisce, “about seeing vague, repetitive dreams of a person you don’t recognize.”

Eyes were turned to her.

 

Grandma Kiyo sipped her tea, calmly continuing her mildly eerie story, “they say that if you don’t hold any hints of a resemblance to that person… they may possibly be your fated counterpart.”

Fumi blushed. Tamako looked about three times more interested.

“Ah,” Grandma Kiyo corrected herself, “but if you do resemble them in any way... then perhaps, that person was your past incarnation.”

 

Fumi looked at the scar at the back of his hand-- and suddenly it all made sense.

 

“Hey, did you hear that, Nee-chan?” he jumped, excitedly, “my past life was an award winning patissiere! That’s so cool!”

“Wooah!” Tamako responded with a tone of amusement, usually used to entertain the child,, “does that mean our little Fumi is going to be someone amazing some day? I’m so looking forward to it!”

“Ah, you don’t think I can make it, do you!” Fumi accused.

“Oh, you can tell?” Tamako grinned shamelessly.

“You’re terrible!”

 

-

 

“Y’know, at this rate I might be better off having Kiyofumi inherit the restaurant instead,” uncle Yukihira murmured to himself, “when he’s around, we actually sell good food.”

“Hey, your daughter is right over here!” Tamako snapped at him. “And don’t sell me short, I actually do make good food! Like, sometimes…”

 

The guests at the tables laughed at that. Sure, Tamako’s had some interesting breakthroughs, but many would agree they largely prefer not to be on the other end of most of her attempts.

“Fumi-pon is definitely the better cook!”

“He can cook, and he can bake, and he’s adorable! He’s the ideal wife!”

“Hey, don’t advertise him.”

 

 

The old men and ladies loved Kiyofumi, and honestly, who could blame them? Fumi was the ideal son. They’ve lost count of the number of times they were envious of Grandma Kiyo, to have such a golden egg at her beck and call.

In fact, he was almost entirely in charge of the bakery now. Grandma Kiyo was ready to retire anytime, at complete ease. Who wouldn’t be jealous?

 

“I’m rated lower than a ten-year-old?” Tamako couldn’t believe her ears.

Uncle Yukihira sighed.

“It almost feels like a waste to have him stay in this little shopping district.”

 

-

 

Fumi was passionate about many things.

Making sweets was one thing, cooking was another thing. He wasn’t lacking in his studies, and worked as hard as he could.

It happened one night, in the kitchen.

 

Stepping on a box to reach the table, the boy glided a palette knife through the chocolate on the tray. For hours, he simply practiced tempering chocolate.

When the clock struck for midnight, he decided that was enough.

 

Climbing another stack of boxes to reach the freezer, he retrieved a freshly done cheesecake from the top, deciding to use the chocolate as icing coating.

His attention drawn to the delicate cake, he closed the freezer door, and blindly reached for the second step down.

 

"Huh-- Uwaaah!"

The foothold he had been standing on came loose, and he fell backwards, hitting his head on the fridge as he collapsed.

"Oh, that hurts…"

A gasp ripped from his throat, and he sat up straight.

 

The cake he had been holding was entirely ruined, splattered over the ground face down, creating one hell of a mess. He couldn’t suppress the despaired wail that spilled from his throat.

Usually, he had Tamako do the lifting work, but even so, he had never messed up this badly. Looks like the special cheesecake won’t be on sale tomorrow...

 

He sat sprawled on the ground, boxes around him.

With a deep sigh, he brought up the willpower to at least clean up a little before Grandma Kiyo comes to check on the noise…

 

He tried to stand up-- only to flinch at a sharp pain at his ankle.

Had he sprained it during his fall?

 

A shadow moved. It was from above his head, so… he turned around, tilting his head upwards along the way.

He could only watch the steel microwave come down, and the next thing he knew was black.

Chapter 3: Injuries and Scars

Fumi woke up in the hospital, a few days later.

And from there, he wasn’t too sure what happened. The doctors told him it was a side effect of the concussion, and it wouldn’t matter to much.

 

He spent one day speaking only a word at a time. Another day he only heard muffled sounds. After that, he was fine and almost ready to be discharged.

 

He remembered eating.

He remembered the tasteless, stale dishes. They were warm and filling, but weren’t delicious at all. He often wanted to go home, to knead dough or to stir fried rice in a pot.

Anything but the hospital’s awful food that didn’t taste like much.

(That was only the beginning.)

 

-

 

His dreams become more frequent.

 

It was that Patissiere lady again, but she was not smiling. This time, she cried. She held her eyes, fell to her knees, and sobbed.

In the dimly lit kitchen of her patisserie, alone, she mourned for herself.

 

The scar on her right wrist, disfigured and ugly, stood out from her pale skin. There was a seam across her vein, scabbed and red but healing.

She threw her cake onto the ground and threw her fist into her glass shelf of trophies, screaming.

 

-

 

Fumi wasn’t too sure about her now.

Wasn’t she an award-winning Patissiere? Why was she so broken? What happened to her that Fumi hadn’t seen? (What did he not remember?)

 

 

“Fumi-pon, are you listening?”

He snapped out of his trance. The girls were here to visit him today.

 

They were all grown out of their gal phase, but their nicknames for him never outgrew. The one that had spoken to him was Rase-cchi, who used to have a fake tan (and now has a real one for being one great athlete or something).

 

“I’m listening,” he said immediately, a jolt in his voice. He was definitely not listening.

 

“You look like you used to look when Butakko messed you up!” she laughed warm heartedly, “it’s been a while, eh?”

Fumi pouted, “it’s not fun getting head injuries all the time…” he murmured, “and, Koga-neesan has already apologized to me about a million times…”

“Oh, you call her neesan?! No fair, call me neesan too!”

“Me too! Me too!”

 

Fumi sighed. They always kick up a fuss when it’s about him. When will he ever be able to live without being treated like a baby, he wonders…

Tamako stepped forward, ignoring the chaos before her, and placed a Tiffin carrier on his overbed table.

 

Fumi stared at it, curious. It didn’t particularly smell like anything...

 

“You’re probably bored of the hospital’s food, so Grandma Kiyo made you some rice gruel. She couldn’t make it to the hospital today, so I’m here to deliver it!”

He sparkled almost immediately. It’s Grandma Kiyo’s rice gruel! It’s the amazing secret recipe of love that everyone yearns for!

 

“Woah, that’s the happiest I’ve seen him all week!” Tamako gaped, “so apparently this was a good idea. Note that down, girls.”

“Aye, boss!” they responded, full of humour.

 

-

 

Tamako opened the steel box, a metallic shriiing splicing across the table as she removed the cover.

 

Even from his seat he could feel just how warm and homely it was.

But something was weird.

 

The delicate topping of chives and onions. The soy sauce mixed into each creamy grain. The little bits of flavourful cubed chicken that would never fail to make his mouth water in anticipation--

 

(it did not smell like anything.)

 

 

 

Something was wrong.

 

 

“Ohh, that smells so good!” Rase-cchi fawned over the dish, her drool sliding off her lips as she near moaned greedily, “can I have a bite, please?”

“Nuh-uh, this is for Fumi only!” Tamako playfully whacked her in the shoulder, “but as expected from our Grandma Kiyo, I really can’t resist!”

(Huh?)

 

 

Fumi took a deep breath.

The cold of the air conditioner. The feeling of the icy air through his nasal passages-- and yet. He could smell the warmth of the food, the thickness of the smell emanating from that little bowl-- but there was nothing.

 

(Weren’t hospitals supposed to smell like medicine?)

 

 

Fumi stared at the bowl of rice gruel, and something hits him.

Something so, so terrifying, he froze up and didn’t, didn’t want to believe it.

 

(It doesn't smell like cooked rice. Doesn't smell like chicken soup and doesn't have the aroma of white pepper and chives.)

 

He picked up his spoon, and without giving his thanks, he scooped up a spoonful and deposited it in his mouth.

He could feel the burn of the much-too-hot rice on his tongue. He could feel every grain as he chewed and swallowed, the sticky texture and the bits of chewy meat he would find here and there.

 

(But there was nothing.)

 

It was not salty. It was not sweet. He could see the bits of powdered pepper, could feel it tickling his nose-- but it was not spicy.

It tasted like nothing.

(It tasted like nothing.)

 

 

He took another bite and nothing changed. He took a sip of the soda Tamako had on hand, only to feel the spicy tingle and none of the sugary satisfaction.

He felt disgusted.

 

It tasted like nothing. Smelled like nothing.

 

So he put the spoon down and buried his face into his hands, trying his hardest not to cry.

 

-

 

He still didn’t know her name, but the lady looked in the mirror and Fumi, for the first time, saw her face clearly.

 

She had hair a shade of brown just like his own. Her eyes were a deep blue, but now glazed over with a misty white cloud.

Cataracts? Ah.

(She was blind.)

(She was blinded.)

 

 

She felt around the table, found her hair tie, and reached up to her own head. She always had her hair in a french braid-- perhaps she was going to try and get ready for her day despite everything.

But it couldn’t happen, and Fumi watched her numerous attempts helplessly. She would miss a strand, her hands would get tangled, or she would lose track of the process.

 

Finally, her arms were too tired, and she gave in with a deep, shoulder-sagging sigh.

She had always tied her own braid blind anyways, so what was the difference?

The psychological damage in losing her eyesight, perhaps.

 

And it hurt her to realize that she couldn’t even do such a simple thing on her own anymore. The tears at the edge of her eyes were hastily wiped away, as if there was anyone around to see.

(There wasn’t.)

 

 

She was alone.

 

(The wedding ring that used to be on her finger was gone.)

 

 

Beside her, the newspapers she couldn’t read piled up on the table.

And on the front page was a special feature, a sensational scandal, a world-wide tragedy, telling the story of how a renowned patissier lost her eyesight after hitting her head in a construction incident.

 

(The newspapers sure had a field day with this article.)

(Is that all she was now? News to bring in readers? Guess she really didn’t matter to the world after all. Reduced to just a fallen piece of really good news, she was abandoned by the Culinary World.)

 

And unable to further herself in her journey, she fell into despair.

 

(What happened to her after that?)

Fumi saw a blade in the washroom sink, and a grim understanding sank into him.

 

-

 

“He can’t taste anything, or smell anything at all.”

 

When the diagnosis was finally given, Tamako stood straight up, horrified. Fumi himself simply sat down on his bed, releasing an understanding sigh, as if he had expected it from the start.

It was true. He didn’t have much hope after the rice gruel.

 

(In his past life, he lost his eyes. Now, he loses his tongue and his nose? Does god really have it out for me, I wonder…)

 

“Is it permanent?” Uncle Yukihira was much more composed, but his arms were folded and his brows were furrowed.

The doctor nodded grimly.

 

“It is a rare condition,” he told them, “it is not life threatening, but it is disruptive, so if he learns to cope with the differences, he will still be able to live a generally normal life herein.”

That was a relief. After all, unlike blindness or muteness, this would not visibly or too strongly impact his future life.

 

(Or so they believed.)

 

“May I talk to you three outside?” the doctor said, addressing the three adults in the room.

 

Fumi was being excluded. Maybe because he was a child.

(She was ostracised too.)

 

He tried not to think about it.

Chapter 4: Losing and Accepting

When the initial shock came and went, Fumi took a walk in the hospital, accompanied by a friendly nurse.

 

He walked past many things. A small baked goods store, set up in the hospital for anyone that craved a warm tea. There was a convenience store too.

There were children playing football in the garden. A nurse chatted with a man in a wheelchair. There was a young couple, and the guy was on crutches.

 

It reminded him of his past life. Memories came back to him as he walked-- she had a brother who lived his life in the hospital. If he wasn't wrong, the brother died when he was thirteen from whatever illness he was down with.

That was another grim memory. Didn't she have any happy ones to share?

 

 

He walked past a waffle store, and paused.

No one could simply walk past a waffle store.

 

The heavenly aroma of butter in the air. The cream crackling and the sugar sizzling on the iron. The flood of honey that mixes in with the chewy, yet crunchy batter-- the subtle, salty creaminess of half-melted butter in the midst.

 

Who could resist?

Or so he thought.

 

He had barely even noticed the store there. It was a little pop up stall, with a few customers in the line.

(But there was no smell.)

 

 

"Fumi-kun, do you want one?" the nurse crouched down to ask him. "Tamako-san left me some money for you to use, so it's alright, go ahead if you want one."

She had urged him so kindly, Fumi almost felt compelled to buy one just because she said so.

But it was not enticing. It did not draw him in. He didn't feel like eating it.

 

"No, I'm okay."

 

(It wouldn't taste like anything anyways.)

 

He didn't want to feel the despair of not tasting it. He might end up hating waffles forever.

 

-

 

“Welcome home, Fumi!”

He was released from the hospital a month from the incident, and headed straight to Yukihira Diner for a celebratory dinner.

Almost the whole shopping district freed up time to make it there.

 

Fumi was shoved hastily inside the store, to be met with the colourful sight of poppers, streamers, and huge handmade signs.

It was all so homely, he couldn’t help but smile.

 

“We missed you so much! This district just isn’t the same without you!”

 

Someone hugged him a warm welcome, and he laughed. They then began to fight over who got the next hug and who got the third.

It was an atmosphere he missed in his hospital stay.

 

 

“Now that we’re back, let’s party! Here, have some juice. The adults are going to drink!”

“For what?!”

 

 

The lively party began quickly, and Fumi heard the sizzle of a stove as an extra large portion of fried rice for everyone was dished out to be served.

The world muted out.

 

He had thought something was strange when he walked in. It was a subtle difference, something he would never have noticed if not for his new condition.

 

Yukihira Diner smelled like the hospital now.

(It smelled like nothing.)

 

What did it usually smell like?

 

Food, fried chicken, eggs, flour and soy sauce. There would always be the fresh smell of rice, or the sweet waft of butter or oil in the air.

(It was a smell he took for granted.)

 

Now it was all gone, and the loss was bigger than its presence.

There was a void in his chest, and with each step the emptiness sagged like a gaping hole, bleeding and throbbing with each heartbeat.

 

He sat down on the counter.

“What will you be having, Kiyofumi?” Uncle Yukihira asked cheerfully, finishing up the last plate of karaage and handing it off to Tamako.

 

What will you be having…?

His usual? No, if he ate ginger pork rice now (he was craving it somehow) and couldn’t taste anything, he would definitely, definitely cry. He didn’t want to be any weaker than he looked right now. His head wound was still tender and his eyes red from crying. His lips sore from biting and his fingers aching from how hard he clenched his fist.

Did it matter what he had? He couldn’t taste it anyways.

(What was the point of eating if he couldn’t taste? What’s the point of good food if flavour couldn’t be passed on?)

 

 

“I’ll,” he stumbled over his words, conflicted.

He turned to the menu on the wall. He hadn’t looked at the menu in years. It was always the same thing, after all-- he knew the menu by heart.

And one thing caught his eye.

 

He turned back to Uncle Yukihira, and somehow, a cheeky thought rose in him.

 

 

Nothing here smelled familiar. Probably nothing will too. But everyone looked so happy. He's so tired of crying.

So he brought a forced smile onto his face and told himself to forget everything, if only for a number of hours.

 

(That’s right… there was no point being so depressed about it. It’s a celebration, he shouldn’t be a killjoy. He should order something to make himself forget about it.)

 

“I’ll have a Chef’s special!” he declared, raising his hand.

“Huh?!”

 

-

 

It was hard to think of the things that were different.

The bakery always smelled heavenly in the mornings. The oven and the burnt cheese. The flour, the sugar, and the baked butter. The toasty warmth of fresh goods from the oven, the caramel and the custards… it was a smell anyone would fall in love with.

 

His woke up in the morning, to be faced with a world that no longer felt like home.

Was smell such an important sense to have? He wasn't sure anymore. He never thought about it.

 

He drank a glass of water.

(He never really realized that water tasted like something too. Maybe it tasted like slightly sweet plastic. Now it doesn't taste, only feels, like a stream going down his throat.)

(He misses the taste of water.)

 

-

 

He kneaded the bread dough, the familiar motion accentuated by the memories that slowly, surely came back to him.

His hands moved further, deeper, richer. Quicker.

 

She still remembered how to do it, and like a mother leading him so gently, she was showing him the ropes first-hand.

He wound them into pretzels, sprinkled them with sugar, and baked them in the oven. It would then be topped with marron glace and orange honey syrup.

He turned to a new recipe.

 

Mixing in a generous amount of apple jam and cream custard, the sponge batter came out beautifully. Topped with apple caramel sauce and decorated with sliced apples-- it was by far the most beautiful of his works yet.

(Not him. Her. He was taking her knowledge and she was putting it back into practice.)

(But, he could use this.)

(After all, it was so beautiful.)

 

 

He took a slice of apple cake for himself.

It was unnerving. According to her memories, right now the kitchen should smell like something short of apple heaven. But he could sense nothing.

 

When the gooey, juicy cake soaked his tongue and melted like ice cream, he couldn’t help but notice how disgustingly tasteless it was.

Even though the texture and mouthfeel of it all was so impossibly perfect.

 

(Did he seriously just think a cake was disgusting? Really?)

 

 

"Fumi, you're already back to baking? I thought the bakery’s staying closed for a couple more days?"

 

He shrieked, surprised by the sudden visitor.

 

“That smells so good!” Tamako leaned over his shoulder and snatched a honey-crusted apple, “aren’t these more amazing than usual? What’s up today, experimenting?”

Fumi flushed a little, “I-!” he stumbled, “well, I mean… I just… had more ideas during my stay in the hospital. But… I guess, even if I make them, I can’t taste them anymore, so I don’t know if they’re delicious…”

Tamako reached down to his spoon and scooped a forkful into her mouth.

 

All time froze and thunder seemed to strike something inside of her.

 

“Hey, Fumi,” a dark shadow cast over her face, and her eyes were set straight, stern and serious. Her tone was low like a warning as she put the fork down.

Fumi stepped back. Oh no, was it a bad cake after all? Maybe he had made a mistake somewhere… he took extra care of measuring the ingredients with the scale, though.

 

“What is this?” she asked.

 

Fumi fiddled with his fingers, looking away, “Uh, it’s a… apple custard cake, with custard cream and apple jam mixed into the sponge. And… other necessary cake stuff… uh, I’m… sorry is it, bad?”

Tamako was staring down at him like he was speaking utter nonsense. This was probably the first time Fumi’d come face to face with Tamako’s staring down at something incomprehensible face.

 

She picked up another bite.

This time, the moment it slipped past her lips, she hummed contentedly, holding her cheeks delightfully.

 

“What is this?!” she asked again, this rhetorically, “the juice bursts out with every bite, and it just gets sweeter the longer it stays in my mouth. It melts like ice cream even though it’s a sponge cake-- hey, Fumi, can I have the rest of this?”

 

Eh?

“Huh- uh, yeah…” he murmured, confused, “so it tastes good?”

 

“It might taste better than everything else you make, actually.”

“Hey, I take offense to that!”

 

-

 

To the rest of the shopping district, what happened to Fumi was freakish.

 

Grandma Kiyo’s house was old. After her son moved out many years ago, she hadn’t had the strength to reorganize or clean up anything.

To a common household, it was considered preposterous to put heavy objects, like an oven, high up. For Grandma Kiyo, her old microwave had simply been on the fridge because she didn’t have the strength nor time to take it down.

 

So when it finally came toppling down, on little Fumi of all people, the first thing that happened was that the entire shopping district banded together to help Grandma Kiyo do an entire out-of-season Spring Cleaning for the bakery.

 

When Fumi came back, the machine was gone from the house, deposited as scrap metal. The furniture was moved around to enable more space and less cluster. Ovens were put down on the lower shelves so Fumi didn’t have to climb as much to reach around.

Needless to say, when everyone heard about his new disability, they were devastated.

 

Imagine their shock when the bakery opened once again, with the boy much better at baking than he was before the incident ever occurred.

His disability was meant to impair him, especially his cooking prowess. Even adults and legends of the past had a noticeable crank downwards when such a disability hit them.

 

It was almost terrifying that Fumi adapted so easily, so quickly.

(And he was only ten years old?)

 

No one could understand why his baking skills got better instead of worse. Most praised him as a genius, not thinking much of it. Some felt creeped out and avoided the topic. Both reactions were understandable.

No one would understand the truth, anyways.

Chapter 5: Best and Worst Dishes

“Fumi’s been making high-level sweets recently, hasn’t he?”

“Maybe someone should tell him about the market price…”

“Oh shush, you.”

-

 

“Welcome to Kiyo’s Bakery with a tiny bit of Love, or whatever that sign says because the sign shop owner keeps giving us new ones with different names, how can I help you?”

Saiba Jouichirou’s been through plenty of eccentric shops, but this takes the cake.

 

The sign out there read ‘Kiyo’s House’. In search of somewhere to dine in, he came across Sumiredoori Shopping District when the lavish smell of baked goods attracted his attention. Deciding on a whim to make a detour, he turned in.

He really wasn’t expecting the degree of desserts he would find, much less coming from a ten-year-old shopkeeper who stepped up from his spot to greet him.

 

The chocolate shone. There were savarin in the coolers, and macaron lined up by colours at the counter, perfectly baked.

This place looked professional.

 

Jouichirou spotted the ‘out for lunch’ sign in the boy’s hand, and realized the boy was about to take a break as well. Maybe he had come in at a bad time.

 

“Welcome, Mister,” the boy repeated, craning his neck up because the man was so tall, “are you new here? Is this your first time in this district? Did you come looking for something or should I recommend something?”

 

A sudden burst of questions. Jouichirou wasn’t sure how to respond to an overeager kid like this.

The boy blinked when the man didn’t answer after a while.

 

“Uh, I’m fine,” Jouichirou managed to find his voice. He caught a distinct smell of chestnuts and baked tart from the kitchen. His mouth watered simply from the aroma. “This store smells really nice… it’s like a house made of sweets.”

The little boy laughed at that.

“Is that so?” he asked rhetorically, “that’s right, I’ve just finished icing the mont blancs. Want to try one?”

“Eh?” Jouichirou was taken aback, “I’d love to, but unfortunately I haven’t had lunch…”

“Eh? Then, you shouldn’t go hungry! This shop won’t run away, so you can come back later, I’ll keep the mont blanc chilled for you. Did you come to this shopping district in search of a restaurant? Then, if you don’t have a preference, let’s have lunch together, mister! Ah, just a sec, I left the oven heated.”

 

Jouichirou had honestly never met a child like this one.

He wasn’t pushy, but he had a way with words that dragged people into his pace, and before he even realized, Jouichirou had agreed to go out and have lunch with this child he had just met.

Well, that was fine anyways. Not like there was anyone around to recognize him or anything…

(He was interested in that mont blanc, though.)

 

-

 

“Welcome...ah, Fumi. And mister, party for one? Have a seat at the bar.”

“Ah, sure.”

 

Shopping districts were small, so people often knew each other. Jouichirou still found it surprising how everyone he met seemed to know Fumi.

The family restaurant known as Yukihira was pretty packed. Maybe this was a good store? After all, the kid seemed to quite eagerly recommend this place.

 

The store owner set a glass of water before them.

“So, what’ll ya have?”

 

Well, it’s a family restaurant, so it’ll probably have anything… he looked up, to the signs of the menu. They were pretty generic dishes.

He’s not expecting anything amazing, so anything would be fine, wouldn’t it? He looked through the menu to find anything he felt like eating-- then the words right at the end caught his interest.

 

“How about that one? The Chef’s Special?”

Yeah, he regretted that choice right away.

 

-

 

“Fumi, you can’t just eat rice gruel for lunch every day!”

 

Jouichirou downed a hefty amount of water. Uncle Yukihira had served him a plate of (actually decent) fried rice as a service for being Tamako’s test subject.

What he didn’t expect was for the boy beside him to simply be eating rice gruel and water. The woman that made the awful fried rice was now reprimanding the kid, all while Jouichirou watched and the other customers laughed.

 

“Does it really matter? I still get full anyways,” the boy answered defiantly.

“It’s not healthy!”

“Anything is healthier than everything else you make, Nee-chan.”

“Are you getting cheekier?”

 

Tamako leaned over the counter to pull on the boy’s cheek. The boy hissed in response, dodging with his bowl of rice gruel in hand, declaring his rights to it.

“You didn’t let me eat the Specials anymore, but I’m not letting you take away the cheapest thing in the menu from me!”

“Ya ain’t paying for any of this so why does that matter?!”

“It’s exactly why it matters!”

“Eat something healthier! Or more delicious!”

“No!”

 

Jouichirou watched the interaction, and with them, the customers laugh. It was a strange sight for a world-class chef like Jouichirou.

She sucked at cooking, and yet the customers loved her. There was a sense of family in this shopping district-- a bond formed on and beyond the table.

She didn’t need delicious cooking to make people happy.

And above all, that was a surprise to Jouichirou.

 

-

 

“Hey, this mont blanc actually deserves a spot in high class restaurants. Why the hell are you putting this measly price on it? Is this legal?”

“Eh? So the price is too low?”

“Holy crap, why did none of you guys tell him?”

 

-

 

“Here you go, Jouichirou-san. A nori-bento to go.”

Jouichirou wasn’t too sure what was more surprising. The fact that Fumi was working in Yukihira Diner today or the fact that he did not order anything.

He simply stared at the lunchbox, unsure if he should take it.

“Don’t worry, I made it!” Fumi smiled brightly.

 

So Fumi could cook, and he could also bake… surely, quite a jack-of-all-trades he was. With the right polishing, his passion could really bear some great fruit.

“Are you sure?” Jouichirou hesitated to take the meal, “I told you yesterday that I’d be setting off for another part of the country today. I’m not too sure when I’ll be back again.”

 

It was packaged in a proper, home-use tupperware box to keep warm. Yukihira’s take-out boxes wouldn’t last long enough for a rough trip around, after all.

Fumi laughed, “of course. You can just return it when you come back!”

Jouichirou blinked.

(What made the kid think he was going to come back?)

 

Fumi had wrapped it up in a napkin. He walked over to the other side of the counter and raised it as high as he could so Jouichirou could take it from him.

Reluctantly, Jouichirou just took it as a gesture of a stranger’s kindness.

 

“Hey, Jou-san,” Fumi said to him, “next time you come, can you teach me how to cook better stuff?”

Now this was a surprise. How did Fumi know Jouichirou was a good cook?

 

“Well,” Jouichirou was not a teacher type at all. In fact, cooking itself was a twitchy subject for him-- could he really teach someone the joys of cooking if he did not know of it himself? “Well, I’ll think about it.”

 

-

 

“Hey, Jou-san, do you think Nee-chan is weird?”

Jouichirou walked Fumi home. The kid was a ‘spontaneous worker’ in the Yukihira’s Diner, which apparently means he can come and leave as he pleases or something, and it was right about time for the bakery to get off lunch break.

(Working hours were weird in this Shopping District… but Fumi’s a kid so that’s okay, right? Wait. Why is a kid managing a store--)

 

“Of course I do,” Jouichirou answered immediately, “her cooking currently ranks at the top of worst dishes I’ve ever tasted in my life. It’s gonna be hard to find something more disgusting to top that…”

Fumi laughed, “if she hears you, she could punch you, y’know!”

 

Jouichirou held the kid’s hand as they strolled down to the other end of the shopping district. They brought up small conversations, laughed, and chatted about nothing.

(Weren’t children supposed to be more rowdy? Fumi’s so well-behaved.)

 

“Nee-chan has awful taste buds, so even if I make something I can’t let her taste it cause all she says is yeah, it’s yummy, even if I give her something burnt,” Fumi pouted, “only Uncle Yukihira would tell me if it tastes good, but then he doesn’t like sweets so he can’t taste the cakes.”

Jouichirou found that amusing. “You could hand them out to the neighbours.”

“Then they’d come every day!” Fumi whined, “I’m never doing that again.”

“Oh, so you tried.”

 

This brought back memories. Jouichirou would always have his friends taste-test his dishes back in the Polar Star Dormitory. He remembered having tasting session with Gin and Azami, where they would relentlessly critique each other until Azami cried.

But Shiomi’s curries were always good… meal times were a cinch back then.

 

“Guess you have to stick to tasting your own dishes for a while, eh?” Jouichirou sighed, “well, the best taste buds to rely on are definitely your own!”

“Uh…” Fumi scratched his cheek, “well, that’s… kind of the problem… Jou-san, you probably wouldn’t know, but I uh…”

“Huh?”

 

-

 

“You’re telling me you make all of these cakes, perfectly sweetened-- hey, you gotta tell me the secret to this raspberry sauce-- without your sense of taste?”

Jouichirou wolfed down the dark chocolate cake in a second. Fumi simply smiled, tipping in more tea for the cup.

“That’s actually blackcurrant, and to counter the sourness, it’s cover in creme brulee and topped with bitter chocolate glaize… the base is made with croissant dough seasoned with cinnamon, pepper and star anise--”

 

Fumi paused as he caught Jouichirou staring straight at him.

“Uhm, did I say something wrong?”

 

Jouichirou stared at the cake as if it were some fearsome object.

“Did you… come up with this on your own?” he sounded frightfully in awe.

(No.)

“Y-Yes!” he panicked. “I mean, not exactly,” I came up with it in my past life as a patissier and I just kinda remembered the recipe and made it but it was actually perfected with the help of my ex and my teammates and uh, and uh--

 

“This is impressive,” Jouichirou looked up, “really impressive.”

Fumi shrank at the praise, trying not to flush too brightly out of embarrassment.

 

“To think you can do this much even without a sense of taste…” Jouichirou mumbled, almost to himself, “and without professional training, either.”

 

Fumi stiffened. Was Jouichirou suspecting something?

 

“Hey, Fumi…” Jouichirou suddenly looked at him, face set in a serious expression. “Won’t you consider joining a culinary school?”

 

...Huh?

Chapter 6: Past and Present Pursuits

“He really said that to you?”

Grandma Kiyo picked up her cup of tea, taking careful sips.

“Well… why not, then?”

 

Fumi spat out his tea, choking and spluttering all over his sleeve while Kiyo watched, holding out a handkerchief for him.

Finally, Fumi yelped, “seriously?”

 

Grandma Kiyo placed her cup of tea on the table, breathing out a soothed sigh. Nothing like a cup of tea after a long day…

 

“But,” Fumi began to wipe down the table, staring at Grandma Kiyo like she’d just swallowed a frog or something, “if I do, I won’t be able to work at the bakery… and it’s not like I can burden you with all the baking in the early hours again…”

“Nonsense, Fumi, you may call me a Grandma but I’m not that old yet! I’m still in my late forties!”

“There are people who retire around that age, Grandma.”

“Well, in a year or two you’ll have to head out anyways,” she assured him with a smile, “you seem to have little interest in your studies, so there isn’t much of a point to stick to the local junior high school… if you truly want to take over the bakery when you’re older, you should learn to make them professionally.”

 

-

 

“And… so she said.”

 

The shrine was quiet. It always was.

Sitting on the steps, feeling the breeze that was as chilly as the evening winds should be-- he breathed in the vaguely ash-scented air and listened to the chime of the shrine bells as the gale rocked them.

 

“That sounds interesting, doesn’t it?” Tamako hung around the offering box--she is not supposed to be sitting on it, Fumi thought grimly, but didn’t point it out.

(Oh shrine god, if you must give her a curse, please don’t make her cooking worse.)

“Hey, you want to be a-- uh, what was that thing? Patty? Hamburger?”

“Patissier?”

“That, yeah,” Tamako hopped off the offering box and settled down beside Fumi on the steps. “There’s only so much Dad and Grandma Kiyo can teach you, and there’s little you can do now without your sense of taste.”

Ah, that was true. He’d even asked Jouichirou to teach him cooking… but Jouichirou could only be in Japan perhaps a few times a year. Fumi would learn too little.

 

But he was still ten… did he really have to rush this decision?

(Did he even still deserve the liberty of this decision?)

 

“I don’t think I should be saying this, since I almost dropped out of school…” Tamako put a hand on his head, “but I think you should go and learn all you need from the teachers in a proper cooking school.”

 

-

 

He took a bite of the strawberry shortcake. The gentle sponge, the frothy whipped cream, and the crisp strawberries.

(Disgustingly tasteless.)

He put the plate down.

 

“Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten my own creations in ages,” he chuckled to himself miserably.

(Why did he still have a passion for cooking? For baking?)

 

He could only bake so well now because of his past life’s memories and experiences. He himself was only a mediocre, second rate at best.

Did the current Fumi really still love to cook? Isn’t he just cooking and baking because he felt obliged to? Because he had the bakery to run? Because he knew the recipes?

Why is Fumi trying to become a Patissier anymore? He can’t even taste anything.

(Is this really his dream?)

(Isn’t he just living for his past life’s dream?)

 

 

He whipped the meringue. Poured the custard into moulds and let them set in the fridge. Piped out the macarons and slotted them into the oven.

He ran around here and there, muttering to himself.

“The pudding will be ready in two minutes. The choux will be done in three, but they’ll need to heat in the oven for another three minutes. The cookies in the back will be cooled in another thirty seconds, the strawberry confiture in the third pot need to be stirred, then--”

 

There was so much workload for one child, but perhaps due to his past life’s experience, it was easier to work alone. When Tamako came around, the only thing she did was wash the crockery.

Now that Fumi lost his senses, he needed much more concentration to get work done well. If he lost track of which recipe he was doing, he would put in the wrong amount of sugar or set the wrong tart with the wrong toppings.

 

As time went by, Fumi began to forget tastes.

Was a spoonful of sugar too sweet? Would a pinch of salt work on raspberry tarts, or was that simply for cheesecakes? Did waffles go well with coffee or tea?

 

He wasn’t too sure anymore.

He knew the answers by heart, but in reality he didn’t even understand them.

He felt like a robot, simply following instructions without truly discerning why he was doing it in the first place.

(Did he really find this fun anymore?)

 

 

“What are you doing?”

“Eeek!”

 

Tamako wrapped her arms around Fumi’s neck, leaning her weight into the smaller boy’s frame. Her chin on his forehead, she caught sight of the strawberry shortcake on the table and her eyes shone with interest.

Fumi flushed at how close Tamako suddenly was. It wasn’t rare for Tamako to act so intimate with him-- after all, Fumi was like a little brother to her. She would treat him like a stuffed toy any day.

(But especially after he’d gotten his past memories, these moments were getting a little embarrassing. Though, he really doesn’t hate it at all.)

 

 

“Oh, I love this one! Is there jelly in the sponge?”

Suddenly she was eating the strawberry shortcake. When did she--

“The cream tastes like mangoes! So is this a mango strawberry jelly shortcake?”

“Wait, Nee-chan, don’t just take the stuff I’m trying out…"

 

Fumi could never be too careful with ingredients. What if some things had gone bad? The milk had gone sour, or there was a strange stench that polluted the ingredients? He wouldn’t even notice.

So before any other tasting would happen, Fumi always tried the first bite. If nothing happened, he would offer it to someone else to ascertain the taste.

Though, there probably wouldn’t be a problem with the ingredients Grandma Kiyo selected, he was still worried…

 

“It’s fine, Fumi! It’s delicious,” Tamako assured him.

“You call everything I make delicious.”

“Exactly!” she beamed, innocent and sweet. She scooped up another forkful and hummed as she swallowed another sugary bite.

 

One arm around his shoulder, Tamako held the fork of strawberry toward his mouth.

“Here, Fumi! You can have the strawberry.”

 

Fumi stared, surprised. But the strawberry, for anyone and for Tamako as well, was her favourite part of the cake.

 

Rather than question it, Fumi’s face brimmed into a smile, his eyes softening at the care he was given.

He lost his sense of smell. He lost his sense of taste. He was being weird, suddenly cooking all sorts of weird dishes and coming up with strange new cakes one after another.

(And Tamako didn’t care at all.)

 

 

He leaned in, and in one mouthful, engulfed the strawberry, chewing through the pulpy texture and enjoying it joyously.

“Is it yummy?” Tamako asked him, the smile on her face wide and beautiful.

 

Fumi looked at her almost dumbly.

(Of course it isn’t. I can’t taste it. Good ingredients are wasted on me.)

 

She was expecting an answer. Her smile expected a positive answer. She was enjoying herself-- she wanted Fumi to enjoy himself too.

(Did she sense how depressed Fumi felt? Could she tell? Was he too readable?)

(Was she trying to cheer him up?)

 

 

Fumi had lost a lot of things. And now, when the hope of his dream is dangled before him again-- there are too many reasons why he shouldn’t take it.

But at that moment, Fumi thought it really didn’t matter. Tamako smiled so sweetly at him-- did anything really matter more than this?

 

(Who cares that he can’t taste a thing?)

(I don’t need it.)

(He doesn’t need to taste things. He already knows how they would taste.)

(She was a world class patissiere, after all.)

 

 

He chuckled. Now his worries just seem so stupid. Why was he thinking so hard anyways-- he was only ten years old. He should act like it, shouldn’t he?

“It’s super yummy!” he grinned.

 

 

(Was he really having fun?)

(What a dumb question.)

(With Tamako around, everything was fun.)

Chapter 7: Brown and Blonde Hair

Notes:

Happy New Year!

“If I go to a Culinary School away from home, the shop will have to close for a while… well, Grandma can still open shop a few times a week, but I’ll be worried…”

Grandma Kiyo laughed.

 

“Don’t just laugh!” Fumi pouted, “I’m worried about leaving the Yukihira Diner to Nee-chan too…”

“It’s fine, the people in this Shopping District have iron stomachs after all.”

“Jou-san, you shut up.”

 

Laughing dryly, Jouichirou served up a plate of yakisoba for the customer, proceeding quickly into the next order.

 

Jouichirou had taken to visiting the shop every few months, (whenever he was in Japan, really. Apparently he’s worried about the customers if they always had to eat Tamako’s cooking,) and eventually, he assimilated into the kitchen.

He was a great, awesome cook. No one could deny his presence in the kitchen, not even Tamako who at first declared that the kitchen was ‘her territory’.

 

Jouichirou and Fumi made a quick pair in their free time, though he spent the most time trying to salvage Tamako’s creations.

And just like that, months turned into quick years, and they grew closer. They learned more things about each other.

 

 

Then Tamako and Jouichirou became an item and Fumi saw the gears of history turn.

 

He wasn’t too sure how to feel when they finally exchanged vows under the veil. It had been a beautiful day with the sun, but a rainy day in his heart.

Their rings matched, shining a beautiful silver against the moonlight.

(Sometimes, Fumi raised his hands to the moon, and for a moment he almost sees it. He sees the ring she used to wear, that hurt her so much.)

(The pain was so great, the hole was even in Fumi’s heart.)

(Oh, to the almighty, all-powerful god above, I pray that you bless their marriage, that their love will run like the river, ever-flowing, ever-lasting, forever.)

 

 

-

 

Fumi watched every step of them growing closer. Their bond was built on the foundation known as cooking-- a pure and solid love between crazy cooks for on two ends of a spectrum. And somehow, Fumi didn’t hate it too much.

Okay, scratch that. He hated it.

 

“Jou-san, can you stop stealing Nee-chan from me?!” Clinging onto Tamako’s neck, Fumi glared at Jouichirou, who blinked back as if he were confused.

Jouichirou laughed good-naturedly at that, “kids like you should just go into the corner and eat cake,” he said snidely.

“Adults like you should just scram and go make a living,” Fumi hissed back.

 

Sparks of war flared between them, and Tamako almost wondered what on earth she’d done to deserve being in the center of these two. Were they fighting over her? Seriously?

“Both of you can just go in the corner and have a five minute time-out,” she declared.

“But Tamako!” Jouichirou whined at the same time Fumi wailed with “but Nee-chan!”

 

Syncing, they glared at each other for a long second before ‘hmph’ing off into separate corners of reflection.

The customers laughed, because it was just another rambunctious day at Yukihira’s, nothing out of the ordinary.

 

-

 

Tomorrow would be the day Fumi left for Tootsuki Culinary Academy.

 

At the fresh age of twelve going into thirteen, and for the first time in this life, Fumi was leaving the Sumiredoori Shopping District.

He didn’t have many things to begin with. The Middle School Division didn’t have any Entrance Exams, so he got in easily. He got the uniform already, and other than casual wear for the dorms he had virtually nothing to pack.

(Then, he was shoved a bunch of ingredients and cooking utensils along with a picture frame or three, and his bag was too full for comfort.)

 

 

He’d spent his last day baking, then exchanging goodbyes with the shopowners (who cried like he was moving overseas but he was going to just smile and pretend he wasn’t hearing the ‘please marry me instead of going’ one-liners.)

“Hand this letter to the dorm mother when you see her,” Jouichirou handed the boy two envelopes, “and the other one to any teachers that give you salt for anything.”

 

Fumi stared at it.

The blue envelope with a star on the stamp side, that was for the Dorm Mother… the plain, more formal-looking envelope without any writings on the front, that was for the latter issue.

“What’s this? Blackmail material?” he asked. “Can I burn it?”

“You’re so not cute,” Jouichirou said dryly.

 

Fumi smiled. “I’ll try my best not to use the second one,” he assured the man. “I need to be able to solve problems on my own from now on, after all.”

He wasn’t going to rely on the adults back at home from this-- he’s leaving the nest, it’s only natural that he becomes independent from now on. He’s already thirteen!

Jouichirou patted him on the head, giving a fond sigh, “yeah, you do that.”

 

Then Fumi turned the tables, “that aside, Jou-san! You better take care of Nee-chan while I’m gone!” he pointed at the much taller man, “if I come back and there’s even a scratch on her you’re banned from my bakery!”

“Oh, what a nightmare,” Jouichirou deadpanned.

“I’m being serious here!”

 

Jouchirou laughed heartily, “I’ll protect her with my life! Or so I want to say, but she can literally throw hands with a bear and bring it home as dinner by herself, so I think she’ll be fine.”

“Ah,” Fumi could only say, “you’re right.”

 

It’s funny to say that the boys are the weaker ones in this house.

 

-

 

“What’re you two doing?”

Fumi found Uncle Yukihira and Tamako at the back of the restaurant, by the garden. A towel over her shoulders and some weird-smelling stuff in Uncle Yukihira’s hands, they sat at the veranda, chatting.'

 

“Dad’s bleaching my hair,” she told him, very informatively.

 

Tamako’s hair was always a strange thing. It’s not as if Fumi could see it, but her roots were always prominent. Like a lily on her head, deep brown spreading out into ash blonde locks.

“Don’t you usually do it at the salon, though?” Fumi asked, sitting down beside her and inspecting the strange white cream. It stinks.

“Sometimes, but not always,” Tamako told him, “and if I leave it to Nanamin all the time, she’d do weird things to my hair.”

 

“I personally thought the curls were beautiful though, best week of my life,” Fumi said snidely.

“I’m never falling asleep on the chair again,” Tamako hissed.

 

“Enough fooling around, kids, it’s going to be uneven,” Uncle Yukihira chastised them, and they sat up straight in alarm. Even Fumi.

“Why don’t you ever bleach it fully, though?” Fumi asked, “not that it isn’t cool like this.”

“I just like it that way,” Tamako said, “some people do partial dyes too, right? Uh, what are they called…”

“Highlights?” Fumi filled in.

“Yeah, whatever.”

They shared a laugh.

 

Fumi had never really questioned it anyways-- it just didn’t quite matter. But for their last day together before he left for school, this was fine. Just the normal dumb bickering, meaningless chatter, and nothing important he had to miss.

“You wanna try it, Fumi?” Uncle Yukihira suddenly suggested, a cheeky grin on his face.

“That sounds interesting!” Tamako piped up, “blond Fumi!”

Fumi felt his life in danger.

 

-

 

“I think it looks weird,” he said bitterly, reflexively reaching for his hair.

“I think it looks awesome!” Tamako was proud of her word, and Uncle Yukihira was getting pats on the back for a job well done.

 

Fumi’s hair was, after a few hours of their consistent pampering, a strange blend of blond hair and brown roots. Just like Tamako.

 

Jouichirou burst into laughter at the scene.

“One last souvenir before you go, huh?” he had the gall to joke, “but it doesn’t look too bad, you stand out more now!”

“I don’t want to stand out.”

 

Jouichirou, like the evil monster he was, found inherent joy at Fumi’s expense.

“It’s like I’m having my Middle School debut, I’m not a chuuni, c’mon,” Fumi whined, “suddenly showing up with dyed hair and everything, what if they think I’m a country bumpkin trying too hard?”

“It’s fine, it suits you,” Jouichirou assured him, “maybe someone will show up with pink hair or something, you never know.”

“In what universe would anyone dye their hair pink?” Fumi was near tears by now, “that stuff only happens in anime!”

(Later, when Fumi met Shinomiya Kojirou, he would dryly remind himself that after all, with his reincarnation in mind, things in anime do in fact happen.)

 

Fumi’s last day at home before his first day was loud and noisy. Full of teasing, last-minute changes, and messy situations he had no idea how he even got himself into. It was all so dumb but he couldn’t help but love it all the same.

 

It was just like them to send him off with a smile. 

Chapter 8: Mistake and Mistakes

“This is only our first class, so I won’t mark it down,” the teacher warned with a stern voice, “but those that failed today’s dish, be warned that the days ahead will be much harder than this.”

 

Tootsuki Culinary Academy was very well known for a few things.

The very low percentage of graduates, for example, but that was mainly in the High School Division.

 

In the Middle School division, if you had a reputation, enough cash, or some degree of skill, you can survive all three years without trouble. There were really low chances of failing enough grades to get expelled in the Middle School Division. Everything was relatively easy until the Entrance Exams for High School.

(Everything was relatively easy.)

 

Fumi stared at the glaring red E on his grade, and couldn’t help but sigh.

 

-

 

His first day was, in a nutshell, an absolute disaster.

His nerves got the best of him, his classmates were clumsy assholes, and everyone seemed to have something to say about some no-name from some no-name bakery in no-name shopping district in some no-name town.

(Damn those elitists.)

 

Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have burned that pot of miso soup. Maybe he couldn’t tell the difference between those two eggs when the teacher was teaching them about the difference in peppers. Those were all basic mistakes.

 

“I really can’t tell anyone, huh,” he sighed. Hiding something as important as ‘I don’t have a sense of smell and taste’ in a culinary academy was almost a crime, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice. He wouldn’t even be able to get into this school if anyone knew.

Running a hand through his hair, he’s distinctly reminded that he’s not at home.

 

Seeing ash blond locks on his head made him homesick. His hair just reminded himself of Tamako, and that was hurting him. He wanted a hug, but no, he’s not a baby anymore, he can’t act like a spoilt brat.

He headed to his next class, biting back a sigh.

 

He just needed to be careful. He just needed to be careful, and do everything as if he were at home-- normally. There was no way he could fail all these basic dishes. He’s made them at home before and he’s made even more of them back at his old life.

She was a professional at this. This should be easy, with her memories.

It should be.

 

-

 

“The basic of the basics: any chef that wears cologne is not to be trusted.”

 

Half the room shot back in surprise, and Fumi’s hand tightened against the counter. He bit his bottom lip, because the teacher was glaring down at the class, evidently displeased with what he was witnessing.

The boy beside him snorted, and Fumi only felt so much more uncomfortable.

 

“I will let it slide, as it is the first day for all of you, but anyone who continues to do so for the next week will receive strikes of violation,” the teacher warned, “we will not be cooking today. All of you need a basic rundown of what a chef is.”

And they all sat down, the teacher’s loud voice booming through the classroom as his sharp remarks continued.

 

Fumi was starting to hate all this now.

As someone without a sense of smell, personal hygiene was a worrisome factor. Making sure to put on cologne was important, because even he couldn’t tell if he had body odor. People were just too polite to mention it.

 

He didn’t have this sort of trivia knowledge back in his first life… maybe there were still things he didn’t remember. It wasn’t as if Jouichirou mentioned it. Surely it didn’t affect the taste of the cakes he baked… or maybe they did, but amateur tongues wouldn’t care for the difference.

As the teacher rambled on, Fumi found himself under the stern glare of a boy a few tables away.

 

Fumi looked at him from the corner of his eyes, and promptly winced.

 

How did he not notice that pink hair until now? Why was it glaring at him? Has Fumi done something wrong? Oh god.

Fumi tried his best not to look back in that direction, because the pink-haired boy’s gaze was boring holes into his spirit. Was that boy even listening to the lecture?

Oh, someone save him.

 

-

 

“I’m Shinomiya Kojirou, nice t’meet ya.”

The boy spoke with a scowl, and his tone indicated how much he didn’t trust Fumi at all. This pair work was absolutely not going well.

Shinomiya had an accent. Not a very thick accent… no, he was hiding it. Imitating a city tongue… but it was still obvious at the ends that he was trying.

 

“My name is Eda Kiyofumi,” he introduced himself, and god did it feel weird to say his full name for once, “I hope we’ll get along.”

He really did hope. Rubbing at the back of his palm, nervously tracing the burn scar, he tried not to shrink under that scrutinizing gaze.

 

Shinomiya gave Fumi another once-over and turned away, back to the kitchen counter.

“Can’ya cut the carrots? I’ll cut the onions.”

 

Fumi flinched at the sudden order. Oh, they should probably get to work, right.

(But why was Shinomiya in charge? Maybe he saw how nervous Fumi was, determined he was of no help, and decided to be the responsible one?)

 

Fumi wasn’t a fan of being underestimated, but it was obvious that Shinomiya was the more capable one in this situation. If Shinomiya wanted to be the main chef, Fumi could only quietly go with it.

Shinomiya seemed like the type that didn’t like being under anyone, after all.

 

“Yes, sir,” Fumi responded, more out of obligated need.

Maybe if he followed orders, he’d be calmer. He really needed the calm right now, or he’d--

The knife came down on his hand, a little too close to his skin-- and a burst of red spilled onto the chopping board.

 

Fuck.

 

-

 

“You said that ya wanted to be a Patissier, so why didja come to a culinary school?”

And there it was. The confrontation.

 

Fumi was rushed to the infirmary, and the wound was tended to very quickly, but by the time he made it back to the classroom, he and Shinomiya had received an E on their grade for failure of submission.

It made sense that Shinomiya would get angry, though they both agreed it wasn’t exactly Fumi’s fault-- but Fumi was the careless one.

 

 

Fumi was utterly terrified. He’d been surrounded with nothing but scary older girls since he was young, but boys his age were terrifying too.

“Desserts are an essential part of cooking,” Fumi reasoned, trying his best to be calm and willing himself to not stare at the obnoxiously pink hair, “I want to specialize in everything, not just cakes, so--”

“Even a kid can bake,” Shinomiya scoffed, “ye obviously ain’t used to actual, real cooking. Ya’r one’a those that get expelled real early in d’term.”

 

One could not become a Patissier if you only knew how to bake. One could not become a great Chef if you did not know how to plate a dessert.

 

Fumi was irked by that. Sure, he did terribly today, but he really was just having a bad day, okay? He’s all the way in unfamiliar territory and he can’t even smell any of the apparently good food in the vicinity.

 

“I’ll try my best,” he said with a forced smile instead of making a comeback, because there was really nothing he could say.

He sucked right now. He’s only ever baked masterfully, cooking was never and still isn’t his forte. Even amongst the amateurs, his progress was lackluster.

But this was only day one. Surely, surely…

 

“This profession ain’t a game!” Shinomiya raised his voice, almost angered, “I came to Tootsuki, hoping to see some sorta difference, but everyone here’s just a joke after ‘nother! If ya’ll won’t take this seriously, you’re better off all being expelled!”

 

He was right.

 

This was supposed to be the best culinary academy in Japan. What’s with all the amateurs and absolute brats in this building? They should already know the basic of the basics, so why was everyone here messing up like babies who’ve entered the kitchen for the first time in their lives?

For someone who’s truthfully aiming for the chef hat, all of us must seem  like we’re making fun of him.

 

The boy with pink hair marched off, and Fumi couldn’t find in himself the energy to say anything in response to that.

 

Chapter 9: Fail, Fail and Retry

Notes:

me, suddenly realizing that Fumio's name is legit one letter away from 'Fumi': fUCK

either way, I'll be slowly transitioning him from Fumi to Eda from next chapter on! Will say this before he chapter begins, but at this point in time there has only been four years since Jouichirou left (four years since Doujima Gin's generation graduated), so he's still pretty infamous there.

To put things into perspective, Shiomi Jun was a 1st year Middle Schooler when she first entered Polar Star, and Jouichirou etc were 3rd year High Schoolers. Now Shiomi is a 3rd Year High Schooler.

Good news, depressing stuff ends this chap!

On his way up to the dorms, he found many people making their depressed way down. From their uniforms, he realized that they were mostly from the High School Division, or seniors from the Middle School Division.

Fumi felt out of place. Why was he the only first year around?

 

They all held cooking utensils of some kind, and one even held a dejected bowl of noodles, whining softly, “but this can’t be…”

(Was this entrance test thing really that hard?)

 

Looking at his luck for the day, Fumi really could see where this was going.

 

-

 

“Hmm, it’s been a while since I’ve had a cake as an entry, but unfortunately, I can’t let you pass with just this,” the dorm mother, Daimidou Fumio, told him.

Her arms were crossed, her brows furrowed contemplatively.

 

“It is certainly an excellent cake, but there is nothing in here out of the ordinary. You could get this in any cake shop in town-- and that is not what I’m looking for,” she put him down as nicely as she could, “come back when you’re older, kid. You’ve got potential.”

 

Yeah, Fumi really had the absolute worst roll in the dice today. Please, someone give him a break. He’s come all this way and all of a sudden, he’s got no place to sleep tonight? Ugh.

He peeled off his gloves (that were put on over the wound over his finger in case of bacteria getting in while he cooked) and bowed as respectfully as he could.

 

“Thank you very much,” he said. “If you don’t mind, could I--” Could I try again tomorrow? Fumi wanted to say, but he couldn’t bring up the will to say it. Would anything be different tomorrow? Or would it all stay the same until Fumi realizes that this is really as far as he can go?

(Fumi isn’t her after all. Maybe she had the talent to cook. Fumi… maybe Fumi didn’t. Maybe Jouichirou was wrong to have hope for him.)

 

“You can try again tomorrow, if you want,” the dorm mother told him, as if reading his thoughts. She gestured at the group of seniors who were camping in the forest near the doorway, “you can keep trying, but unless you give me something that would wow me, you’re getting sent back out the door like everyone else.”

 

All of them? That’s a crowd, Ma’am.

There was a whole field trip going on in that outer corner of the forest. They set up lights and tents and everything. Did they come prepared?

 

“There are more sleeping bags to spare in the shed, so just take one if you need it,” she added on.

She’s used to this, Fumi bitterly realized.

 

“Ah, thanks very much,” he stuttered out again. Then he remembered, “ah, wait, Daimidou-san!” 

“Call me Fumio,” she added on on instinct.

Fumi paused, because their names were apparently a letter apart?

 

Quickly shoving the thought aside, he dug around the pockets of his bag, and produced a blue envelope with a star on the stamp side.

 

“Here you go, uh, Fumio-san,” he handed the slightly crumpled letter to her, “it’s a, uh, letter for you… from Jou-- Sai-- huh? What was his full name again? Uh! It’s from someone I know, he’s like a uh, brother to me?”

“Wow kid, you’re a mess,” Dorm Mother Fumio mused at the stuttering mess of a child in front of her, “so something like your guardian? What would they want with little old me?”

 

And she ripped the seal off, retrieving the letter-- and stopped, shocked.

Fumi blinked, confused. What was in the letter anyways? He couldn’t help but lean over curiously--

 

Hey Fumio-san! Please take care of this kid for me.

-J

 

Two sentences, one piece of paper. What kind of a letter is that?

 

“This absolute moron!” Dorm Mother Fumio threw the paper on the ground in a fit of rage, “you haven’t given us any news in years and you have the gall to not tell us your address?!”

Fumi shrank away at the sight of the raging woman, but he thinks he understands.

“You!” Dorm Mother Fumio raised her voice, and Fumi shrieked at the sudden address, “what’s your relationship with Jouichirou??”

 

“Huh-- what? My relationship with, Jou-san, uh,” Fumi blew into a panic, hiding behind something tall-- oh, it’s a senior that came down because there was too much noise. “He’s my uh,” he spluttered, “my sister’s… he’s my brother-in-law?”

 

There’s a pregnant silence as the information sank in.

 

 

“Saiba-senpai got himself a girl?!”

“Saiba-senpai?!”

“Did someone say Saiba-senpai?!”

“Saiba-senpai? Where??”

 

 

Fumi shrank until he was just a curled little ball on the ground. Oh no, did he say something wrong? Is Jouichirou a taboo topic here? Yeah, he was a student here only three or four years ago, it made sense that there were still people that knew him in this dorm.

(What exactly did Jouichirou do in this school? He never told Fumi, he only told Tamako...)

 

 

“Hey, you guys, you’re freaking him out!”

 

Fumi had used a senior as a wall just now, and now said senior was lecturing the band of busybodies that had made their way down the stairs.

“I know all of you are crazy over Saiba-senpai, but be reasonable,” the senior said, calmly, “questions come one at a time, at a later date.”

 

With separate groans of dejection and a few whines about how ‘Sekimori-san’ was being ‘stingy with the new kids’, the crowd dissipated and returned to their rooms.

Fumi was officially scared of teenagers.

 

“Now then,” Sekimori-senpai put a reassuring hand on Fumi’s head, but didn’t tell the kid to get up or anything, “what to do, Fumio-san?”

Fumi looked up, a tear in his eye almost hopeful.

 

Sekimori was probably from the High School division. He was significantly plainer in appearance compared to everyone else thus far. Japanese in demeanor, he had black hair, and fox eyes.

Instead of a school uniform, he was wearing a traditional japanese chef uniform, a sushi coat. It was evident what his specialty dishes were.

 

“Well, if Jouichirou wants me to take care of a kid, I could make an exception, but then that wouldn’t be fair…” Fumio hummed, “but then again, Jouichirou wouldn’t ask for it if there wasn’t a reason.”

“Eh- no, it’s fine!” Fumi flustered, quickly saying, “I don’t… it’s okay if I sleep outside, I’ll just, I’ll just uh, try again tomorrow!”

 

Why was he stuttering so much? That’s embarrassing.

He clambered up to his feet and took a step back.

 

“I did tell Jou-san that I was going to try and be independent once I left, so I can’t keep relying on him,” Fumi said, after calming down and taking a few breaths, “thanks again, Fumio-san, and thank you for the help, Sekimori-senpai.”

He didn’t wait for their response before leaving, but he was fairly sure he got his point across.

 

-

 

He snatched up a sleeping bag, found a corner with the rest of the seniors, and went to sleep after a nice, campfire dinner of canned food.

According to the rest of the seniors, they could even make sure miserable food amazing to eat. Fumi wasn’t sure, he couldn’t tell. He just knew it was filling, complimented it, and excused himself to retire for the night.

 

Everyone here aimed so high.

There was a senior from the next town over, heir of some famed Udon House. Udon was his soul food, apparently, and he wouldn’t let Fumio be until she acknowledged that too.

Then there was this other guy, a brute. His father was someone who once made a name. He wanted to climb up the Elite Ten seats, and get the name spread out to the world one more time, even if he had to claw his way up with bloody fingers.

They all had aspirations, dreams, and such good reasons to have overflowing determination.

 

 

Fumi had none of that. He just wanted to enjoy himself.

 

 

His fingers found themselves at a familiar number, and before he’d realized, it was calling for the warmth he missed.

“Hey, Fumi! Guys, guys, shush! It’s Fumi!”

 

Hearing the hustle and bustle of Yukihira through the phone was enough to make him crack into a smile. He could hear Tomita-san yell for “Fumi-pon, we miss you!” in the background, and Grandma Kiyo’s calm voice of “oh, I can’t hear him,” in the corner.

“Uh-- Hey,” he tried hesitantly, and immediately the world blew up once again.

It’s Fumi! It’s really Fumi. he’s so far away! Are you eating? Tell me you ate something good! Did you eat the Dorm Mother’s cooking or did you go for the bare minimum please take care of yourself! How is your first day at school?

Fumi could only laugh at the chaos.

 

“Fumi, how’s the school? We checked the site and it’s  huge,  you’re not lost, are ya?”

“No, no, I’m not lost,” Fumi insisted quickly-- and he realizes that his nerves are gone. The weight that pressed deep in his chest, making him feel nauseated-- it was gone. Now he could breathe, now he was calm. Now he could speak normally. “But I did fail the entrance for the dorms, so I’m camping outside with some of the seniors today.”

“EhhhHH?!”

“No way, Fumi failed the dorm test??”

“Preposterous, how could our Fumi-pon fail anything?!”

Fumi laughed again. They really had so much confidence in him, it made him sort of embarrassed to be so loved. Maybe they had something to do with how shaken he felt about his failures today.

(Oh, was today his first ever failure? Is that why he was so scared?)

 

“I’ll try again tomorrow,” and this time he said it with a lot more confidence. The pain in his finger didn’t bother him as much anymore. “I won’t fail this time.”

“Of course! You’re the pride and joy of our Shopping District, after all!”

“Go for it, Fumi-pon!”

“Show those city boys you’ve got spunk!”

“Tomita-san, we’re technically a part of the city too.”

“But everyone else in that school probably live in castles their whole life! They’re total rich boys!”

Fumi listened to the cacophony as everyone on the other end fought for the phone, and sometimes even argued over something stupid.

 

It was Sumiredoori at its finest, and he loved it.

 

“So, Kiyofumi, made any new friends?” Uncle Yukihira spoke into the phone this time. Seems he’s left the crowd to talk from the bar.

“Hey, Fumi, have you cried at anything yet?” Jouichirou teased loudly, “classes are usually harder on the first week, y’know, cause they wanna scare the wimpy kids off first.”

Fumi flushed bright red at that. Okay, no way was he telling Jouichirou he cried today.

 

“Of course not!” he shrieked, then apologized to the seniors on the other side that looked over in concern, “I’m not a kid, I don’t cry!”

He rubbed at his eyes again. Oh, they were definitely going to be red tomorrow.

 

He heard them laugh from the other end of the phone, and somehow a part of him warms up. Maybe, just maybe, things would be alright after all.

“It’s hard,” he said, his voice weak, “but… but I won’t run away yet.”

 

He heard Jouichirou give a deep, understanding hum.

“Keep going, kid,” he said, “you’re the kind of person that can make it up all the way. You’re the kid I acknowledged, after all.”

 

Fumi isn’t too sure why that made him so happy. He blushed madly at that, and although Jouichirou couldn’t see him, he covered his own face.

 

“Oh, stop being embarrassing, Jou-san!” he whined, “hand the phone back and let me talk to Nee-chan already!”

Somehow, for a very long and very happy moment, Fumi felt like he could actually do it.

Chapter 10: Yell and Yell Louder

“Shinomiya, could you taste this for me?”

“It’s too salty! Do it again!”

 

“No! You’re supposed to add milk if it’s too salty!” he slammed a carton of milk on the counter.

“How the fuck is that supposed to--” he stopped, tasted it again, and made a defeated noise before throwing his hands into the air, “yeah, this works!”

 

The second day of teamwork went much better. Formality be damned, Fumi yelled out every single question or qualm he had, and had Shinomiya answer everything.

After all, being bold and rude went two ways.

 

 

“Eda! The pot is burning!”

“You’re frying those things for five seconds too long, focus on your own end!”

“The pot is fucking burning!”

“I heard you the first time!”

 

 

The teacher was justifiably irritated. Yes, he encouraged individual and team learning, because some here were amateurs and some had experience from home-- but this was just ridiculous.

Those two have been yelling at each other from across the table for the past hour. Are they incapable of speaking without yelling?

 

“I said to add sugar! Why did you add honey!”

“It tastes better with honey.”

“Says who?! Stop changing the recipe, Eda!”

“You’ll never get good food if you’re too cowardly to experiment, Shinomiya.”

“And you’re always going to fail if you keep putting weird stuff in the stew!”

“I dare you to eat my food and say it’s disgusting, pinky!”

“If you make me get another failing grade for no reason you’re going to get it, you brainless dunce!!”

 

 

They growled fiercely at each other for a long moment, For a second sparks flews, fires raged, and a war was upon them. Then the timer on the counter burst into rings, and a hand shot out to shut the alarm.

Immediately, and without another word, they split off into separate parts of the cooking area, and resumed cooking their separate parts of the dish.

 

“Pinkymiya, stir-fry will be ready in fifteen seconds.”

“Dunceda, the cheese will take another twenty. Look after the meat or something.”

 

The teacher let out a long-suffering groan.

 

They got an A in the end, which is so appallingly ridiculous that the teacher can’t help but pinch the bridge of his nose in defeat.

 

-

 

“Garlic!”

“No! Ginger!”

 

The two stare at each other like a scene right out of the climax of an epic battle scene. In unison, they whipped out their knives-- turned around, and rapidly began cutting.

 

“I finished first!”

“No, I did!”

“You didn’t clean up!”

“Garlic is harder to clean up! Your peeling was wasteful!”

 

The two bickered at each other loudly, shoving peeled food in each other’s faces as they essentially argued out amazing dishes after another. The class was scared of it at first, but by the end of the day they just gave up.

The scariest thing was that those two had already set themselves at the top of the class now, by a rather long shot. They’ve got two teachers giving them flawless remarks and the rest gave them nothing short of As.

 

“What the heck?” someone in the table next to them asked.

“They’re fighting over their secret ingredient,” his partner told him, having been in the same class as those two in the classes prior, “don’t get too close to them. Stupidity’s contagious.”

 

-

 

“Why’re you walking in the same direction as me?”

“I’m not. You are.”

 

Shinomiya and Fumi-- Eda, as he should be calling himself from now on-- walked up the hill to the Polar Star dorms. Shinomiya lugged with him a cart of a suitcase, whilst Fumi's-- Eda’s-- were already at the dorm’s shed, where Daimidou-san had agreed to keep them safe during school hours.

They walked in awkward silence.

 

“What the heck is up with you anyways,” Shinomiya growled, “yesterday you were all meek. Now you’re a freaken’ tiger allo’va sudden.”

Eda Kiyofumi rolled his eyes.

“I showed you, didn’t I?” he said, “I’m serious about being a chef. That’s what you wanted to see in this school, right?”

And Shinomiya snorted. “Yeah,” there was a ghost of a smile on his lips, “compared to yesterday’s total fuckup, you were useful today.”

Eda shoved the boy in the face, “who’re you calling a total fuckup, you absolute country bumpkin?!” he growled, “get your superiority complex out of here. You’re gonna get your ass handed to you the minute we reach the dorms!”

“Like you aren’t?” Shinomiya retorted, “you bipolar dunce!”

“Pinky!”

“Airhead!”

“Bumpkin!”

“Clumsy!”

“Rooster-hair!”

“You take that back!”

“No!”

 

-

 

“Eda-kun,” Sekimori narrowed his eyes, observing the two before him with a frown, “and Shinomiya-kun, right? You’re awfully late.”

 

In unison, the two point accusingly at each other, “THIS guy--!!” They paused, and snapped to each other in muted horror at the synchronous moment.

It’s already dark out. The two were covered in mud and riddled with tree branches from their apparent race across the forest in order to one-up the other.

Sekimori sighed.

 

“Well, I’m glad you don’t look as nervous as you did yesterday, Eda-kun,” he mused with a smile, and Fumi flushed at that. “You’ve made a friend.”

“He is nOT--” he started at the same time Shinomiya snapped, “we are NOT--”

 

The two proceeded to growl at each other again.

 

“Now, now, you two,” Sekimori waved his hand between them, “we just made dinner, so you guys can join us if you’re hungry.”

 

 

Beyond the door was a ruckus, and one could tell that there was a crowd in there, having a rather loud dinnertime.

“Eh--” Eda held his hands up frantically, “it’s fine, I wouldn’t want to impose-- I mean,” he stuttered, “I’m not a part of the dorms just yet and-- the seniors out back in the forest might--”

“And there it is again,” Sekimori pointed out, highly amused, “the rambling.”

“Bipolar,” Shinomiya hissed.

Eda flushed bright red, “I’m not!”

 

 

Shinomiya and Sekimori laughed at that. Eda was ready to antagonize the pink-haired bastard another time, but right then, the Dorm Mother walked to the entrance and hummed at the sight of the two newcomers.

“Great timing, you two!” Daimidou Fumio grinned, “I made enough for the dorm kids, but not enough for myself. You two, fix me a dish and a dessert, would you?”

“Wait, Fumio-san, they’re probably hungry too, so--”

“Aye, ma’am!”

 

Before Sekimori could get another word in, Eda and Shinomiya marched right in the dorms, their primary cooking utensils in hand. They followed the Dorm Mother into the kitchen, and caught the attention of a few eyes from the dining hall.

Sekimori groaned, palm on his face.

 

They set themselves on opposing sides of the kitchen counter.

“This isn’t a team assignment,” Eda reminded him.

“Of course not. Heck if I’ll let you drag me down on the dorm test of all things,” Shinomiya returned sharply, holding out his knife and inspecting its sharpness, “which one do you want? Since I’m nice, I’ll let you choose first.”

“You sure you’re not the one that’s going to drag me down?” Eda growled at him, “I’m taking the dessert. Sweets turn out bad when the person making it has a shitty personality.”

“Shut it, Bipolar.”

“Piss off, Pinky.”

 

Flawlessly, they set off to work. Without even a break in their steps, barely knowing what ingredients were even available, they began cooking.

There was a whistle of awe in the audience, and Fumio noticed that there was a crowd in the doorway. Those that had finished eating had gathered for the show, including some of the seniors from the High School division.

 

“The pink-haired kid,” a girl mumbled, “beef, onions, milk, flour, cheese, and-- brandy? He’s using a lot of dairy… is he making a stew?”

“Soupe à l'oignon,” a boy understood quickly, “he’s making onion gratin. They’re usually made slowly over hours in a slow cooker-- is there a time limit, Fumio-san?”

“It’s my dinner, I’m sure they’re sensible enough to make it quick,” the Dorm Mother waved them off, “if they rush it and it tastes bad, they’ll just fail, after all.”

 

“What about the other kid?” someone mentioned, “oh, that’s the one that was here yesterday, wasn’t he?”

“Oh! He’s the guy that’s probably Saiba-senpai’s protege?”

“Really?”

“Did someone say Saiba-senpai?”

“Seriously? That’s guy’s Saiba-senpai’s--”

In one smooth movement, Eda lifted his knife-- and slammed it down on the chopping board, straight through the apple he was slicing, and leaving a scar on the wood.

 

All movement in the kitchen ceased.

 

 

Eda Kiyofumi breathed in, breathed out-- he wrung out his hands, massaging stiff points in his wrist before cracking an air pocket in his wrist.

Then he sighed, and turned to the audience.

 

“All of you are distracting.” He said, voice flat, expressions stern.

 

Their lips sealed shut almost instantly, a few taking appalled steps back. A senior at the back dragged two people away with him, out of concern for their well-being.

“He’s right,” Sekimori spoke up, setting his arms on his juniors, “Eda-kun is a nervous one, so let’s all keep it down and stay away, or the next thing we know we’ll be picking up fingers from the kitchen.”

At that, they all paled.

 

 

Sekimori probably meant that Eda would start accidentally chopping his own fingers instead of the apple, as clumsy as he was, but the audience didn’t know that. Some of them scurried off and others shrank into the corner.

“Bipolar,” Shinomiya hissed.

“I have anxiety, okay?!” he snapped back.

 

Chapter 11: Gain and finally, Succeed

Notes:

I feel like I spent way too long getting our little guy into the dorms! Ah well.

Next chapter onwards we'll spin back into the spirit of the Shokugekis and schooling blues. I'll be introducing more canon characters soon, too, though there's not a lot of them to go for atm.

From now on I'll officially be calling him "Eda" and the dorm mother "Fumio", so look out in case there's confusion! His old nickname won't be coming up for another while anymore. What do you think would be a good nickname for him, based on his food specialty?

 

Thanks again for all the lovely reviews, I adore them all so much.

Shinomiya passed his test so easily, he made the other participants look like utter jokes. He even sent a smug grin in their direction for good measure. Cleared within the first bite, he retrieved his room key, set a hand on his luggage-- and turned back toward the kitchen.

Eda was eyeing the oven, a finger tapping impatiently at his arm. It wasn’t going to make the crust bake any faster, but there wasn’t much else to do.

 

“Not going to settle down?” Sekimori asked from beside him, and Shinomiya hummed in response. Sekimori smiled warmly. “Are you worried?”

Shinomiya raised a brow, “who’s worried,” he hissed, then flinched and lowered his head in apology, “ah-- sorry, senpai. I mean, I’m interested, but definitely not… worried."

Sekimori laughed.

 

 

With a sigh, Eda let his eyes leave the oven, and he made his way to the counters to clean up. Baking of any sort always seemed to leave an incredibly messy and powdery aftermath, but Eda seemed to deal with it easily enough, knowing exactly what to do to get the stubborn sticks out of the corners.

Eda mumbled under his breath. “The caramel glaze was two seconds out of time, so it’ll be a little bitter. The tart had a pinch more sugar than required-- the apples are fresh, and… they’re a different type… they look like Granny Smith apples… a cooking school would have those, right? Then they’re less sweet than the ones back at home...”

 

Shinomiya shushed the upperclassman that was still laughing. Eda was muttering something-- his food’s in the goddamn oven, what could he be deliberating anymore?

 

“If it’s too sweet,” Eda opened the fridge and took a long, good stare at the contents, eyes darting about every ingredient possible. “Need to fix it, need to fix it-- something bitter? No, that would ruin it. Whipped cream or ice cream? Ah, no cream. Ice cream might not be enough… oh.”

He took out a lemon.

 

-

 

 

“Would you care for some dessert, ma’am?”

He removed the cloche. They could already smell it from the oven, but the burnt sweetness of caramelised apples filled the room and soon a crowd was around them again, all craving a similar midnight snack.

 

Eda smiled, setting the lid down at the side. He hadn’t said a cheesy line like that since his past life as a patissier. Hiding his left hand behind his back, classic dining etiquette for ugly scars, he gestured with his right hand.

“Tarte tatin and warm lemon tea, do enjoy.”

 

And the crowd around them resounded in a series of oohs and aahs. It’s a culinary academy that focuses on various aspects of food, with dessert being a minor element among many. Needless to say, they didn’t see beautiful, very girly dishes like these very often.

The apples were sliced, arranged, and charred just slightly-- set atop the brown tart crust, it was a glamourous, blooming rose. Atop of it, half-melted vanilla ice cream drowned the creases, raspberry sauce and blueberries peppering every which angle.

 

The dessert came right out of a three-star restaurant, from the splendorous presentation to the breathtaking aroma. One whiff could make a girl fall in love-- even Sekimori instinctively gulped, salivating was a natural reaction to this.

 

“You’re seriously serving an old granny like me such a princess-like dish?” Fumio mused, “it’s like tea time right out of a fairy tale.”

Eda shrank a little at that, smile straining-- “I… I mean…” he found Sekimori and ducked behind the senior, “part of the dessert is the presentation… and-- yeah.”

“Have some confidence in your own dish, dammit,” Shinomiya poked him at the side of his head, “this is why you’re always failing.”

“Shut up, Pinkymiya.”

“Why is that the only thing you can say fluently?”

 

 

Fumio sighed at the two. Seemed like she was in for a very strange duo again… it’s rare enough that children from the middle school division want to join the dorms-- even less of them come to any chance of passing.

Shinomiya is an exception among exceptions. Now, what about Eda?

 

She took a sip of the warm, inviting lemon tea. Sour and so soothing-- but it was, like yesterday, nothing out of the ordinary.

Then she took a bite of the apple tart, and the world just bloomed.

 

-

 

 

“No, not my calvados!”

“You little punk, you smuggled in brandy?!”

“This is a culinary school and Jou-san gave it to me! It’s perfectly legal! I think!”

 

Fumio burst into nothing but praises after her first bite. Her second bite and she called it divine, and by her third, she was no longer talking. She was simply absorbed into eating, taking sips of the tea here and there and generally having a luxurious time. She wouldn’t let anyone steal a bite of her food.

 

After that, whoever was around just raided the kitchen. Someone scrounged for the leftovers of Shinomiya’s dish, and others pried around for hints of whatever magic Eda did with his.

Needless to say, having a horde of seniors investigate the area you were previously in is terrifying. Even Shinomiya had to agree with that.

 

Once they found the alcohol, though, Shinomiya joined in on the yelling at Eda.

 

 

“I didn’t put a lot in, I swear! You can’t even taste it!”

“So you did add some?! How did we miss that?”

“Ahhh, my secret ingredient!”

“It’s confiscated!!”

 

 

Sekimori watched Shinomiya and Eda bicker from across the room. When his eyes met the Dorm Mother’s, they smiled.

Life in the dorms was finally going to be noisy again with these two additions.

 

“Eda,” Fumio spoke up, “you’re on a roll today, aren’t you? I’ve never been a fan of desserts at night, but I just couldn’t stop myself!”

At that, Eda stopped right where he was (Shinomiya crashed into him, having been running after the kid,) and stiffened with a bow, “uh- ah, thank you for the kind words!” He flushed a little, “I’m.. sorry I couldn’t make it less sweet than necessary!”

 

Fumio chortled heartily, reaching to the key closet and tossing a pair in the boy’s direction.

Eda, in a panicked fumble, played hot potato with it before ultimately dropping it. Shinomiya dove down to catch it, and they both breathed out a sigh of relief.

 

Then it registered.

 

 

“Welcome to Polar Star Dormitory, you two!” Fumio grinned, “get your things and settle in, cause from today on, you’re part of the family!”

 

Chapter 12: Stay Calm and... nevermind

“We’re going to learn the basics of choosing good ingredients today.”

And of course, after a good day comes another wave of bad luck.

 

 

“We’ll have a test after class, so you should listen if you want a good grade.”

 

Of course they were going to learn this in a culinary academy. It’s the basics of the basics. You’d obviously learn that in your first or second year, right? After all, a chef that can’t tell between fresh and spoiled meat is just asking for food poisoning.

(And of all days, he’s not with Shinomiya in this class!)

 

It’s okay-- it’s okay, he can do this. He has a whole lifetime of experience in this. There are plenty of ways to tell good ingredients without smell and taste. There’s also natural instinct, which he is fairly sure he has an upper hand over the others… if he stayed calm, he would be fine.

If he stayed calm, he would be fine.

 

 

...If he stayed calm, that is.

 

 

-

 

“I leave you alone for one class and ya failed it again?” Shinomiya groaned, “it’s harder to flunk out in seventh grade, but you’re swoopin’ down speedier than a barn owl catchin’ mice, geez.”

 

“Your accent, Shinomiya.”

“Nunya!”

“I don’t speak country bumpkin!”

 

Shinomiya noticed a few things about the strange boy over the past days.

Of course, his obviously dyed hair was something everyone stopped to look at, but the burn scar on his left hand was always the second thing people observed about the boy.

 

He’s failed about five classes over the past three days. In a way, that’s certainly an achievement.

 

Every time, Shinomiya would find him under the table, curled into as small as a ball he could be. Eda would bury his face into his knees, with his arms wrapped over the front, left hand hidden from view.

In fact, Shinomiya found him there like that after his first class (and his second, and his third,) and wondered if it was some weird Ayakashi of the kitchen. Turns out it was just a wimpy human being with anxiety.

 

 

“How on earth did you even fail ingredients class?” Shinomiya threw his arms up in exasperation, sitting down on the chair and leaning over the counter, “it takes talent to get an E in that one.”

 

Or maybe I just don’t have a sense of taste or smell and can’t tell shit, Eda thought to himself. That teacher definitely has something against me.

 

“Are you seriously crying?”

“M’not.”

“Heck, you are. That’s it, I’m out of here.”

“Piece of shit.”

“Crybaby.”

“Asshole!”

“Midget!”

 

 

That’s how the teacher found them later, yelling at each other in various degrees of derogatory language you shouldn’t be using in a school.

Needless to say, they got tossed out.

 

-

 

“Great timing, guys! Shiomi-senpai is letting us taste her newest creation!”

Coming home to the dorms that day was a surprise. It’s their first actual ‘let’s go home to the dorms’ ever, since they just recently joined.

 

“It smells like India in here,” Shinomiya actually wipes the drool off his face, “what is this heavenly aroma--”

 

“Behold, first-years!” a senior gestured dramatically at the girl who was hauling a pot out of the kitchen, “our Curry Goddess, Shiomi Jun-senpai!”

The girl was surprisingly strong for her size. She refused any help (she’s a capable woman, thank you) for the pot, and as she set it on the dining table, she climbed onto the stool and huffed proudly.

 

 

“Line up if you want any, boys!” she declared.

She was tiny. There were only two thirteen-year-old’s in this dorm-- Eda and Shinomiya-- but this girl was smaller than them! Heck, is she really almost eighteen?

 

 

“Shiomi-senpai’s curry brings all the boys to the yard,” a senior quipped, proud of the joke. Then he turned to the two new students, “quite literally. So if you want any, you should hurry.”

Shinomiya didn’t need a second reminder. The sheer sight of the line made him leap to action.

 

Eda stayed there, watching the scene with a little amusement.

They’re trying each others’ dishes? He found that rather interesting. It was one of the many things Jouichirou told him to look out for in this school, after all.

 

“Curry…” he mumbled to himself. Known as one of the most complicated dishes in the world, with more than a million different ways to make it… He’s only had sweet Japanese curry in this life. He kinda misses the spicy authenticity of Indian curries…

 

 

“You gonna try some?”

Eda flinched, hiding a squeak as he ducked behind the wall.

 

“Sekimori-senpai,” he addressed after recognizing the senior, “uh… I think I’m fine.”

“Really?” Sekimori’s slit eyes didn’t open, but his eyebrow certainly raised. “You’re missing something amazing, you know? Curry made by the exclusive curry expert of Tootsuki’s current Elite Ten.”

 

 

So she’s a curry expert… wait, Sekimori is a first year in high school. Shiomi is in her third year… you’re telling me this guy is younger than the loli?!

 

 

“The Elite Ten?” he asked instead. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get a decent answer if he asked about her height. He’d learned his lesson about that back at home. Better dumb than full of bandages, after all.

“Did Jouichirou-san not tell you of it?” Sekimori was rather surprised. “The Elite Ten Council-- that’s the official title for the best ten students of the high school division.”

“There are ranks?” Eda whimpered a little.

“They’re like a student council,” Sekimori explained, “in this school, your value lies in your cooking skill. If you’re a great chef, even the teachers can't order you around. Jouichirou-san didn’t graduate, but he was, at some point, the Second Seat.”

 

Eda whirled at that.

“He was among the best in the entire school?” he was aghast-- that hoodlum, always disheveled man that sometimes made atrocious dishes comparable to Nee-chan’s hilarious failures? Him?

 

“Some say he was only the second because he was too free-spirited to be trusted with the responsibilities of the first seat,” Sekimori clarified, and Eda almost thought he was hallucinating here.

 

Jou-san does make surprisingly good food, according to everyone in the shopping district...

 

“Shiomi-san is Sixth seat, but that’s only because she’s too frivolous and obsessed with spices to go for other dishes seriously,” Sekimori said, “in her generation, third to seventh generally have the same levels of skill. So this curry’s something like a once-in-a-lifetime experience, you shouldn’t miss it out.”

Sounds tempting.

 

 

Someone in the distance moans in delight, and someone else starts sobbing. Okay, what sort of monster curry is that? Shinomiya, you shouldn’t touch it! You'll turn weird!

 

 

Eda swallowed his saliva.

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t… understand it at all. Everyone was fighting over the last dredges of the curry, and it’s evident from faces that the smell drove them mad with desire. The smiles on their faces, the pleased expressions--

Eda turned away.

“I’m fine,” he said, and he picked up his bag, making his way toward the stairs. “I’m not a fan of curry. Can’t tolerate spice.”

 

That’s a white lie, but he couldn’t think of a better excuse.

 

 

Sekimori kept a curious gaze on him for a few moments, but he turned away quickly, not suspecting any more. Perhaps Eda had a bad day.

Shinomiya watched him leave, and his eyes narrowed.

 

-

 

“You’re so anti-social,” Shinomiya, not bothering to knock, barged right into Eda’s room and pointed at him, declaring, “you should interact with the seniors, you know. We’re all living under the same roof now.”

 

Eda was two seconds away from taking off his uniform, so he pretended he wasn’t almost caught indecently, made a mental note to lock the goddamn door next time, and glared. “And this is your business, how?”

They were stuck in a staring contest for all of ten seconds before Shinomiya revealed a bowl of curry in his hand.

 

 

“You want any or not?”

Wow, he’s being nice. I want to punch him.

“No thanks,” Eda responded quickly, “you can have it yourself.”

“What?” Shinomiya was obviously baffled, “dude, I helped you get some. It’s good. You’re wasting an opportunity just because of your shitty social anxiety and--”

“Look, it’s none of your business what I want or don’t want to eat,” Eda cut him off sharply, “my social anxiety has nothing to do with it, but call it what you want. Could you get the hell out of my room? Thank you.”

 

 

Shimoniya spent a furious, anger-holding moment just contemplating why he even tried-- then he slammed the door. “Whatever, then!”

 

 

 

And Eda sighed.

 

 

“Why didn’t I just take it?”

Chapter 13: Town Trips and Tea Tasting

“Wake up, Eda!”

“Wuh??”

 

Shinomiya was a total country hick. This meant waking up with the nonexistent rooster crows, expecting everyone to do the same, and having no sense of what holding a grudge apparently is. He’s probably forgotten all about Eda’s yesterday temperament.

(Though, that changes a couple of years down the road but that’s besides the point.)

 

Eda had barely two minutes to… pull a hoodie over his PJs, he’s wearing shorts anyways, and then slot himself into slippers… before Shinomiya dragged him out with a list, a shopping bag, and some cash.

 

 

Apparently they need to get groceries in the morning?

 

 

“Sekimori-senpai is having a Shokugeki today, so he’s leaving it up to us to get him his ingredients for today.”

 

And Eda already wanted to go home.

“What’s a Shokugeki?” he asked instead, because yes, that is the more important thing right now. “Where is Sekimori-senpai?”

“A Shokugeki’s like an official cooking match thing,” Shinomiya reported to him, sounding resigned, “Sekimori-senpai’s already at the fish market, so we’re getting uh, his tea and his special whatever sauce thing, which he, ordered from a store, I think.”

Shinomiya was swallowing his words with uncertainty. That didn’t sound good.

 

So Eda straightened, and taking a few quick steps forward, he snatched the paper off the guy’s hands, erecting a sharp yelp of surprise.

 

 

 

“You’re lost,” Eda declared, after looking at the paper.

 

And Shinomiya groaned. Throwing his arms down in defeat, he just popped off.

“I don’t get the city, okay?! What’s the point of so many buildings? The signs only point two directions! What is up? Do I fly?? Do I dig if it says down?! Why does every road look like suspicious terrorist alleys into hidden secret bases I should never want to go near??”

 

 

“You need a new brain, Shinomiya,” Eda admitted very frankly, “is this why you woke me up? Cause you didn’t want to be alone when you get blamed for being late?”

“No!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

 

Shinomiya’s further protests are shoved into the back of Eda’s mind. They begin walking, and this time Shinomiya trailed behind Eda.

Eda evidently knew the route better. The map was a little more than an address and “walk straight at Soul Waffles’, it’s at the end with a sakura tree and a green sign, you can’t miss it. Winky face.”

“Did you just read the kaomoji out loud?” Shinomiya asked, flabbergasted.

Eda ignored him.

 

 

Soul Waffles’ was in the other direction, they passed it by two minutes ago... Where the heck was Shinomiya going? He led them a one-eighty and found himself not too sure where it was anymore.

Eda sighed.

 

“Shinomiya, I need your help.”

 

Shinomiya’s shocked expression made his fighting instincts rile up, but he held back from punching. The pink-haired idiot may be useless at directions, but he should be able to have a nose for sweets, if that’s the only thing Eda could trust right now.

 

“You smell butter anywhere?” he asked, “or honey. We’re going to look for the waffle store we passed by a while ago…”

“Yeah, uh,” Shinomiya stumbled, still unable to believe that Eda asked him for help. He pointed in a vague direction, “that way, I think. The smell’s all over the place, but I think it’s that way.”

 

Oh, good.

And Shinomiya was so baffled by the sudden request, he probably didn’t think much of why Eda had asked him about it instead of doing it himself.

Smells should be all over the place right now, in theory. Mixed in with the flavours of the market, the dew of the morning, and the petrichor behind the sunlight.

 

 

In a moment, they were in front of the rather homely little waffle store.

 

 

Sekimori was pretty smart, waffle stores were good landmarks. Everyone could smell them from a mile away, even if they got lost.

Eda bypassed the store and continued along the way. Then he turned around and Shinomiya was staring at the store with glittering eyes.

 

He groaned longsufferingly.

 

-

 

“You just got the plain butter one?”

“Was the cheapest.”

“The cheap-- you’re an aspiring chef and the price is the biggest thing on your mind?!”

“Hey, mister mama’s boy with a lot of pocket money, not everyone likes to eat good food as much as they want to make it.”

 

 

They finally make it to the store, and just dropping Sekimori’s name hands them a bagful of whatever that special brew of tea leaves were. Then two bottles of shoyu, a bottle of sake… were they allowed to buy that? Is it because they’re Tootsuki students? Woah, privileges.

 

It was all paid beforehand, but when asked, the shopkeeper did tell them the price.

Both of them positively felt their souls escape at the sheer sum. And this was just for the ingredients the classic kitchen wouldn’t have stocked! Yikes.

 

Either way, Tootsuki really wasn’t messing around.

 

 

It reminded Eda of his past, in those major kitchens, in those special food stores, where you had to bring additional materials in on your own, or make them there within the time limit.

(It was always a pain to have to make jams halfway through everything…)

 

 

“Hey, Eda!”

He jolted back into reality, and Shinomiya frowned.

“You have a terrible habit of just drifting off into space every once in a while.”

Eda had to sigh, especially because Shinomiya was right. He’s such a ditz, he can’t daydream like this, it’ll become a habit.

“C’mon, we gotta get back before seven.”

And they went.

 

 

-

 

“Thanks for the help, you two.”

“It’s no problem, Sekimori-senpai.”

 

They return to the dorms, and Sekimori-senpai is already there. There’s a vegetable garden and a chicken pen out back, as well as a barn with horses, so some of the other seniors are already awake to tend to the plants and animals.

After being shown around the place today and yesterday, Eda wondered if he could claim one of the freezer rooms for himself… right now there’s a senior meat expert renting it, but it would certainly be useful to prepare sweets...

 

Life had already begun in the dorms. Some were waking up, either for an early shopping trip or to prepare their ingredients for today. Some were just early risers, enjoying the misty ambience with a cup of their preferred beverage.

People like Shiomi-senpai never seemed to sleep at all.

 

 

Eda set the bag of tea leaves on the table, admiring the clean morning kitchen. Shinomiya set the breakable items on the ground, near the wall.

“Would you two like some tea?” Sekimori offered, inspecting the goods and taking out a small jar of tea leaves, “I guarantee the taste. It’s my special blend, after all.”

And they both stopped, rigid in place.

 

“Really?!” Shinomiya responded first.

“Your own blend?” Eda asked, confused, “so that shop is…”

 

Sekimori explained quickly, “I have my own workshop in my uncle’s place-- that’s the store you went to-- because I don’t have a place to dry tea leaves here. I’ll probably taste Shiomi-senpai’s spice room if she leaves it when she graduates… Anyways, wanna try?”

They nod furiously, very eager.

 

Making your own tea leaves-- ah, yes, this certainly was peak culinary research! Not that realistically anyone would bother to do that shit unless you’re opening a tea house or something, but still!

 

 

They settled down as Sekimori began stemming the tea leaves.

“The waffles were great, huh?” Shinomiya asked as they washed their hands over the sink.

“Huh? Uh, yeah,” Eda answered half-heartedly, “you got the chocolate one, right? What are you, a kid?”

“Oh, that was totally uncalled for,” Shinomiya groaned.

“Sweets before breakfast is uncouth for a Japanese,” Eda said, using a slightly lilted tone to sound obnoxious.

“Hey, you got one too!”

“I do it to study.”

 

 

Shinomiya went on a screeching rant, and Eda snickered playfully. He found the flour on the shelf, which he had left a few days ago. There wasn’t much left of it because he brought it from Sumiredoori, so he may as well use it up now…

Ah man, I want a waffle machine. And vergeoise.

 

 

“If you want to use the kitchen, don’t be shy and just go ahead,” Sekimori said all of a sudden, and Eda flushed, as if he’d been caught planning something uncouth.

“Really?” he asked, “Like… seriously?”

 

“Of course, they’re there for us to use,” Sekimori assured him, “if you want other tools you can get new ones and shelf them, then label them for their specific use. Some people prefer their own knives or have their own machines in their workshops, but everything in the kitchen's free-for-all as long as you clean up.”

 

Shinomiya blinked curiously from where he sat on the dining table.

Eda is already reaching for the fridge, inspecting all the ingredients around. There’s unsalted butter, of course, then there’s eggs from the dorm chickens. Sugar and other stuff is a constant in all kitchens, but what’s with the lack of vanilla essence?

 

 

(Yet, for some reason, there’s a bar of chocolate…)

 

 

“Oh, dark chocolate. Lucky me.”

 

 

Eda pried off his hoodie and rolled up his sleeves.

Rubbing a hand over the burn scar on his hand, he inspected his work area and licked his lips, a little excited.

 

“Then, don’t mind if I do.”

 

Chapter 14: Crepes and Luxury Cuisine

“Chocolate banana crepes, here you go,” Eda set the plate before the pink-haired boy, who spluttered, flabbergasted.

 

“You just told me I shouldn’t eat dessert for breakfast!” Shinomiya argued, “and why is it chocolate again? You trying to pick a fight??”

Eda hummed to himself, reaching to make another crepe with the leftover batter, ignoring the pink-haired boy completely.

 

 

“Here you go, Shinomiya-kun,” Sekimori put the cup of tea on the table, beside the crepe, “enjoy your meal.”

“Y- Yessir!”

 

 

Shinomiya let it set that all of a sudden, he was getting served some sugary breakfast. What’s this situation?

 

“Here’s your portion, Eda-kun,” Sekimori put another cup on the table, “could I have a crepe, too?”

“Thanks, Sekimori-senpai,” Eda responded, flipping the crepe in the pan. “I’m making this one for you. You might want to make yourself a cup while you’re waiting.”

 

 

Shinomiya took a bite out of the crepe, only to recoil.

“It’s bitter!” he complained, “dark chocolate?!”

 

“You’re supposed to take large bites out of a crepe, not nibble the corner,” Eda turned around exasperated. “Just drink some tea.”

 

Shinomiya grumbled moodily as he drank some of his goddamn tea.

Then he just sparkled.

“It’s really good tea,” he said, and Sekimori gave a thumbs up. Shinomiya glared at the crepe for another moment-- then he ate another bite.

 

Then he screamed.

 

 

A whole bunch of seniors ran toward the kitchen, only to find Shinomiya crying on the table, Sekimori enjoying a… is that a crepe? And Eda is poised like he’s fending off a demon possession, two ladles before him in a cross.

“Uhm, what’s going on?”

 

 

-

 

“Chocolate and green tea are always a match made in heaven,” one of the seniors explained, after getting a rundown of the situation. “Is Shinomiya dead?”

 

“Yeah, he apparently just hates admitting anything I make is delicious,” Eda explains, wiping down the crockery and returning them to their rightful shelves.

“I mean, you did pour caramel sauce all over his crepe,” Sekimori laughs a little, “it was overkill. You could probably win a Shokugeki with your level of skill, you know?”

 

 

“A Shokugeki, huh…” Eda considered. “You exaggerate. It’s nothing much, I just threw the dish together with what was available.”

 

“You could’ve thrown together a simple pancake instead.”

“But then it would conflict with your tea, wouldn’t it?”

 

 

There’s a moment of silence. The seniors stared at the boy, surprised by what they’d heard. Eda himself didn’t seem to notice. He cleaned up the workspace, and sat down to finally enjoy his tea.

 

 

“Even with as little ingredients as you did, you tried to accommodate the accompanying beverage,” Sekimori said, and he sounded quite exasperated, “why?”

 

Eda looked up, not really understanding the question.

“Because the choice of tea would really affect the taste of the sweets,” he said, and he sounded like he’s had to explain this many times, “I wouldn’t want to ruin the flavour of your tea, Sekimori-senpai.”

 

 

Eda didn’t really understand why they kept looking at him like he’d grown another head.

 

 

Then Shinomiya burst to life, roaring something among the lines of ‘fuck this’ and began wolfing down his food.

 

Eda smirked victoriously. “So it’s delicious, huh?”

“I’ll acknowledge you just this once,” Shinomiya growled at him, grinding his teeth and sneering, “only because it’s a dessert, okay?”

“Bow down and sing my praises, you pink-haired sore loser.”

“Oh you’re a cheeky bastard when you aren’t hiding under a desk, you pipsqueak!”

“Hey that was uncalled for!”

 

 

-

 

 

They went to see Sekimori-senpai’s Shokugeki after that.

 

His opponent was the President of the Japanese Cuisine Research Society or something, and they were having a Shokugeki over a sushi machine. Some latest model technology, apparently, and Sekimori really wanted it.

 

 

“Basically the seniors didn’t want to share so now they’re fighting?” Eda repeated the explanation to Shinomiya, and the boy nodded.

“His opponent is a third-year, and they’ve been at odds for a while on who’s the better sushi master.” There was Shiomi-senpai, adding her own input, “Sekimori-kun has more experience despite being younger… well, just watch.”

 

 

Shinomiya stood at the front, but Eda stayed curled in his seat, content to watch from where he was. Shiomi was the only one sitting normally, because everyone else was cheering bloody murder behind them.

 

“Go kill them dead, Sekimori!!”

“Cook that damn fish like a master!”

“Dude, this is a sushi contest.”

 

Eda hoped that the people staring wouldn’t start throwing toilet paper at them for being noisy… he hugged his knees closer. They’re not going to, right?

 

“A little before you came in, when Jouichirou-senpai was around… we would have Shokugeki like these too, and we got most of what we have in the dorms today from there, including land.” Shiomi fiddled with her fingers, speaking only to Eda.

Eda turned to her curiously. She had curled into her seat too, trying to make herself smaller in case people started throwing things at them.

“We had a lot more connections back then, but we’ve lost most of it after he left, so now we've got too many people and too little facilities to accommodate everyone.”

 

Eda blinked. Speaking of which, they seemed to have a lot of customized workshops, but they’re not all big enough to share, especially sensitive ingredients like spices. Maybe Polar Star was never meant to have a large residency.

 

Is that why the dorm entrance test was so strict?

(Does that mean that, if I want a dessert workshop, I can get one if I win against someone with money?)

 

“So Sekimori-kun is trying his best to get us more supplies with his own help,” Shiomi smiled, “I’m glad that I’ll leave behind good, dependable juniors.”

And Eda couldn’t help but smile back at that.

 

-

 

 

Sekimori won, of course, it was a total shutout.

Eda sat there, jaw on the floor.

 

 

Their dishes shone in the light, and even from the crowd, he could hear the salivating figures craving for just a bite, just a bite.

 

What sort of magic could reverberate from a dish, so widely the crowd could taste it with their eyes? Eda never thought it was possible until today.

It wasn’t the aroma, or maybe it was.

 

Eda couldn’t smell a thing, couldn’t begin to imagine how any of it would taste-- yet, he found himself envious of the judges that were able to enjoy such a masterfully put-together dish, and satiated their senses with the flavour of that perfection on a plate.

It made him miss his own senses, not for the first time.

 

 

-

 

They got themselves a sushi machine, and as a celebration, they had sushi for dinner.

 

Everyone fawned over the delicately cut sushi as Sekimori and another senior had a sashimi battle on the counter. There were people plating themselves a Kaisen-don, and there was a bunch stewing up some miso soup for the crowd.

Eda observed the scene with interest, admiring their knife skills.

 

 

“You’re not gonna grab some sushi?” Shinomiya asked him.

 

“It’s a war zone over there, I think I can wait,” Eda chuckled, “but look, Shinomiya. Sekimori-senpai has his own knife for sushi, and so does the other senpai.”

“Sushi knives are delicate, after all,” Shinomiya responded. He grimaced at the sight of the seniors in the distance, clambering over each other for sushi even though there was plenty to go around.

 

 

Eda tapped his fingers on his arm, thrumming a scale like a piano.

 

 

 

Ah-- he was no longer restricted to the bakery, was he? He could go further than the civilian dishes he had to make at home. It’s just like what Fumio told him on his first day-- they aren’t looking for dishes you can get in just any store around.

They’re looking for the extraordinary, dishes that sock you in the gut with the understanding that this is gourmet, this is luxury, this is a different world.

 

 

Here, Eda could go the extra mile, and really, truly, aim for the height his past self reached.

Here, Eda could really fly-- and it’s taken him a painfully long while to realize it. Maybe today’s Shokugeki was just that amazing. He wanted to make a dish like that one too, just to be a part of the magic.

 

(Surely, here, he could do it.)

 

 

(Surely.)

 

Chapter 15: Effort and Failing Expectations

“So I had an unofficial Shokugeki with a classmate yesterday and I won, so he gave me a lot of money.”

“Dude what the fuck.”

“I got money.”

“You extorted money from a classmate?”

“I won it.”

“You beat the shit out of him and stole all his cash-- this ain’t Pokemon you flower-haired Dairy Queen!”

 

And that’s the scene Sekimori walked into at three in the afternoon. Eda was sparkling, amazed at the small stack of bills in his hands, and Shinomiya was, as usual, shouting his head off.

He can get the general idea from listening to their yelling. But seriously, do they not have a mode other than yelling, screaming, and bickering?

“This is the first time I’ve seen a literal stack of bills…”

“Who cares! Go and apologize and return it you cretin!”

“But I need tools! And ingredients! And--”

“Earn your own keep!”

Sekimori sighed, and slammed two cups of tea on the table. Maybe if they drank some freaking leaves they’d be quiet for one day…

 

The two juniors sat down immediately when Sekimori glared at them.

 

-

 

“It’s understandable,” Sekimori acknowledged, “your food forte is rare even in Tootsuki, so it makes sense that you can't really practice without your equipment and the proper workshops. The school isn’t equipped for high-class sweets making, either, so…”

“He’ll have to get it through Shokugeki?” Shinomiya asked.

“Well, that’s the general code of things in this school,” Sekimori said, “you can join research societies, or you can buy your own. Or you can nab it from the less skillful through Shokugeki.”

 

Eda hid under the desk, listening to the conversation.

He was forced to return the money, (the classmate said it was okay and offered a few new cooking utensils in return, because he had money to spare anyways and it was a fair match regardless,) so now he sulked.

 

“There’s no rush, Eda-kun,” Sekimori assured him, “you’re still a first year in Junior High. By the time you get to high school, you’ll have won a whole, fully equipped kitchen to yourself, and you’ll be able to practice anything, whenever. You Just need to be patient.”

 

And Eda held him onto that statement.

 

-

 

“Eda Kiyofumi and Shinomiya Kojirou, you get an A!”

 

It’s been almost a month since classes first began, and the two have built up quite the reputation.

Shinomiya, who’s gotten the most consecutive As in the entirety of the grade. Amongst the others of his year, he’s a guaranteed head above them all.

 

And then there’s Eda.

It’s a little hard to describe him. Some people call him a rough and stubborn delinquent that probably belongs in a gang; others say he has the hands of an angel, impossibly gentle and impeccably elegant.

And some others say he’s the most hopeless, cowardly chef they’ve ever seen.

The opinions differ, but most of them have a consensus on one thing-- the fact that he has the most Es in the entire grade, and his As can be accounted to a number of lucky breaks that somehow far surpass his peers by leaps and bounds.

In a nutshell, he makes no sense.

 

“Dude, yer gonna flunk out if ya keep this up!” Shinomiya pointed sharply at him, “what will you do if you get a partner other than me?!”

“It’s-- it’s not like it’s-- I don’t-- but people are mean!” Eda stuttered, curling up into a ball right in the middle of the room, “I don’t fail classes on purpose!”

“Are your nerves made of the world’s most brittle spaghetti?!” Shinomiya yelled at him, “it’s been one month in this school, get a grip already!”

“You say it like it’s easy! What’s with that analogy, it makes no sense!” Eda shouted back, tears in his eyes, “I’m trying my best, okay?”

“Well, try harder!”

“You unsympathetic jerk!”

“You limp noodle!”

 

Their fights were something that everyone in the school were very well aware of. It’s actually very hard to miss, considering unnecessary screaming in an empty classroom wasn’t exactly commonplace before those two.

You can’t get expelled with bad grades in Tootsuki’s Junior High section. It’s possible if you fail literally every subject and class or show no interest in cooking as a profession, and have a terrible track record in delinquency, that sort of thing, but in normal situations, even the worst can stay for a few years.

They show a very broad degree in leniency until third year, where the exam then is strict to the point of falling flat out of society if you’re not careful. They probably view the Junior High section like preschool-- it’s just a starter for the babies, apparently.

Which means it’s quite pathetic that Eda is doing so badly.

 

“I’m passing more of my individual classes, okay?!” he whined, “like, I passed two more than usual this week!”

“Wow that’s a fucking achievement now can you please try and pass the other five classes?!” Shinomiya snapped back, “how the heck do you fail French! And Italian! You’re perfectly fine in practice!”

“I can’t see anything when I panic, okay?!”

“Then why don’t you cook blind!!”

 

Eda froze, shock still.

Shinomiya stopped, confused.

 

They didn’t speak after that.

 

-

-

 

He spun the angled spatulas in his hand.

 

Bringing them down on the chocolate, he began tempering. Scraping it across the board, slicing it off the spatula, and going over it again.

Over and over, the same motions.

 

“What’s he doing?”

He’s not the only one up at 3AM, but the seniors tended to crowd around outside instead of interrupting his work. He appreciated it, but I can hear you.

“It’s called tempering, it’s a way to make chocolate really glossy.”

“At this hour of the day?”

“It’s a skill. The kind that you can only get better at with experience and tenacity. So daily practice is a staple, even if it looks boring.”

 

There’s a lot more people than usual…

 

He scraped the chocolate into a bowl, mixing it across the side once more before he set the thermometer into the mixture.

His eyes are focused, set in a neutral frown as he poured the chocolate over a whole cake. Flattening the surface into a shiny gloss, he let it spin on the tray for a moment before topping it off with lemon slices, white icing, and a single mint.

 

He stared at it for a while-- then he turned to the crowd, who all flinched.

And his serious demeanor crumbled, “uh- uhm, do you guys… need to use the kitchen? Am I in the way or…? I’m sorry.”

 

They all stumbled over in various degrees of just utterly stupefied.

One senior chortles at him, “no, no, we were just fascinated!” she assured, “you really look like a totally different person when you’re baking, after all!”

 

Eda blushed a little, turning away.

“I… just finished baking a cake, so if… if you wouldn’t mind…”

 

“Can we try?” a senior asked, raising his hand excitedly, “it looks amazing! PLease, can I have a bite? Like please? Please??”

“Eh?” Eda flustered, “I mean, of course but-- it’s not anything impressive compared to your works…”

“No, no!” the girl snapped, pointing at him, “negativity, begone!”

“Woah, it looks even more beautiful up close!”

“Look at the chocolate, it’s literally gleaming! I’ve never seen chocolate glaze this shiny before!”

“Really does show how effort and experience impacts a dessert…”

 

The upperclassmen sat around the table, distributing dishes and taking turns to admire the cake before they gave their thanks, cut themselves a slice, and enjoyed the food.

 

“The lemon zest! The bitter chocolate!! Aaahh this is heaven!”

“Sour and bitter, dude I might get addicted to this. The vanilla cream balances the flavours just right…”

“I kinda want tea with this.”

“Hot lemon tea!”

“No, Earl Grey!”

“Jasmine!”

“Guys, this definitely goes best with coffee!”

 

 

They bickered over the table, fighting over improvements and showering a raining pelt of compliments all over the place.

Feeling a little nostalgic, Eda can’t help but giggle at the sight.

 

Chapter 16: Dissociate and Associate (Bond)

Eda swirled the mixture in the metal bowl, his thoughts muddled.

 

So why don’t you cook blind, Shinomiya said.

 

 

He was being sarcastic, he didn’t mean it-- there’s no sense in holding it against him when there was no way he could’ve known how hard it hit him.

He sighed.

 

(She cries into the table, her hands shaking. She should know this, she should know this-- she should know how to do this, it’s muscle memory-- so why? Why is everything not turning out well?)

 

He piped the buttercream, delicately, gently-- and each petal of the pink cream formed a rose. Humming lightly, he set the cupcake on the counter, and moved on to the next one.

 

(She burns her hand on the oven door, because she’d misplaced her mittens. She ruins the chocolate she’s tempering, because she can’t see, can’t see, can’t see.)

 

He poured the chocolate glaze generously over the cake, arranging a row of cranberries along the rim, sprinkling nuts over the top. He let the icing dance across its corners, and masterfully, topped it off with a chocolate flower.

 

(She swipes her hand across the counter, and delights in the way everything just shatters to pieces, falling into indescribable pieces on the floor.)

 

 

He took out the tray of cookies from the oven, sliding in the next batch of batter before adjusting the heat, and then he let the machine start.

Taking off his mittens, he set them on the counter. He moved to the fridge, and prepared another round of icing.

 

(She tears herself apart, laughs into madness, because she’s lost everything.)

 

And he continued baking into the sunlight, because his sight was all he had left.

 

 

-

 

 

“What is all this?!?”

Fumio-san woke up to a whole bakery happening in the kitchen. Batches of cupcakes and cookies went in and out of the oven, and the boy in charge was still making more, as if hypnotized by a dead baker’s soul.

 

Eda froze shock still, hands still half in the air.

He dropped the tray he was holding.

Then he panicked.

“I’m sorry!”

 

Fumio marveled at the sheer amount of pastries. There hadn’t been such an avid patissier in the dorms since before the Golden Age, so it was a bright change.

 

“I’ll replace all the ingredients, I promise!” he was still so flustered, near tears, but his hands are moving like an expert across that cupcake, setting the icing in a little bouquet of white and pink flowers.

“It’s fine, did you even get any sleep?” Fumio asked him, reaching for one of them and looking over the icing flower with interest.

“Huh? It’s already morning??”

“Yikes, you’re that bad, eh?”

 

Eda didn’t waste a single movement. As if he’d done it thousands of times, he turned the cupcake in his hand, and piped the cream in a perfect, practiced motion. It’s a perfect flower every single attempt.

 

His eyes were sharpened, focused.

His hands were tender on them, detailing every inch of it with fingers so careful, aspiring only for the best, without a single misstep in his motions.

He was a nervous, anxious child, but he certainly cared for his creations as if they were the world’s most precious gems.

 

Fumio really couldn’t hate it at all.

 

 

-

-

 

In the Polar Star Dormitory, there was only one High-School Third Year, Shiomi Jun. Then there are three Second Years, and five First-years, including Sekimori.

There are nine residents in the Junior High section. Other than Shinomiya and Eda, there are seven, and they’re all in their third year.

This added up the total residency in the dorm to nineteen.

-

 

“Oh lord almighty King of Sweets, please bestow upon us your delightful creations!” the senior got on his knees, screaming into the kitchen.

 

Eda himself was curled up under the desk (again,) shivering in some sort of fear.

There was a whole army’s worth of sweets on the kitchen island, and it’s evident that the whole crowd was raving for it.

 

“I woke up to the smell of heaven,” Shiomi emerged from nowhere, “I have the sharpest nose in the dorm so I can’t be wrong. This is the smell of freshly baked goods! And they’re really well made!”

 

Fumio stood at the doorway, inspecting each hungry ghost, subtly muttering something about how these kids never wake up as early as this voluntarily.

“If you want any, you’re going to have to help Eda-kun here clean up, okay?”

 

“Yes, ma’am!”

“With great pleasure!”

“I call dibs on the one with the big rose!”

“I want the chocolate one with the flower! That’s mine, okay?!”

“Cookies! All the cookies are mine!”

“My sweet tooth is cryingg!”

 

Oh god, Eda shivered under the table, fearing for his life and recounting his life’s choices-- the seniors have all gone rabid.

 

 

-

 

After that, everyone dragged him out of there to shower him with praises.

 

He whined through all of it, because compliments or not, the embarrassment of the attention made him want to curl up with the horses and disappear.

“I want to keep this rose as an heirloom.”

“Stoooooop iiiit already, pleaseeeee.”

 

A while later, Shinomiya managed to form a barricade around them so the seniors wouldn’t smother him to madness.

 

Eda was the kind that just continued baking when he was lost in his thoughts, and Shinomiya chewed him out on using so much of the storage at once.

Eda whimpered under the table the whole time, but after that, Shinomiya started barking orders at the seniors to clean up, and Eda laughed.

Seemed like Shinomiya was the kind to get crankier the more pressured he is, and really, he seemed the type. Waking up early to chaos could really set him off.

 

“Eda! Don’t think you’re off the hook! You’re going to help, too!”

“Ahhhh!! No, Sekimori-senpai, save me!”

“There’s flour everywhere! God I thought it was just your hair but half your head is flour! Go take a goddamn shower!”

“But I’m going to be late for class!!”

“Fuck if I care!”

 

-

-

 

“Training Camp?” Eda asked the senior, lugging a bag of sugar at his front, “you, Sekimori-senpai?”

 

“All of us High-School first years, actually,” Sekimori answered him, hefting up a bag of flour and making his way over, “it’s this weekend, and we’ll be gone for five days. Not all of us might make it back.”

“You sound like you’re going to war.”

“We are. If we fail even one thing over the course of those days, we’re immediately expelled.”

“What?!”

 

Another senior laughed at his surprise, walking past them with two bags of flour. The rest of the crowd patted the boy’s head in assurance, holding their share of the huge load into the building.

 

“Don’t worry, Sekimori will probably survive.”

“I’m worried about the others, actually.”

“Sekimori’s a monster, after all.”

“This is the life of Tootsuki high, you know? One mistake and you’re busted for life.”

“You’ll see it one day. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“Yeah, it’s worse.”

 

Maybe the seniors were just teasing him, but Eda just felt his self-esteem shrink further into his chest and for a moment, he just felt smaller than Shiomi. Can he curl up, cry, and go home now?

 

He’s not used to all this competitive business. Can’t cooking be educational and fun? Oh wait, the bakery she interned under last life was something like this, too…

Ahhhhh, stress and pressures, why do you exist? Let me live peacefully!

 

“Oh, you guys, stop teasing him.”

“Woah, he really curls up into a ball.”

“He’s like an armadillo.”

“Isn’t it a pangolin?”

“Let’s just call him a turtle. Turtleda!”

“Edangolin!”

“Dango?”

 

Eda looked up from where he was crouched, wondering why the seniors seemed so excited making up weird puns for his name.

 

Meanwhile, Shinomiya was just name-calling… what’s with people here and calling him weird things?

(Before this, he never quite had an identity beyond being the endearing little ‘Fumi-pon’-- and that was a name Tamako gave him. Before Granny Kiyo gave him his name, Eda Kiyofumi, he was truly nothing.)

(He’s got a lot of names now, eh?)

 

 

“Hey, Dunceda!” Shinomiya yelled in the distance, “hurry up! The storage isn’t going to fill itself!”

“Oh shut it, Shittymiya! This is heavier than it looks!”

 

 

The seniors laughed at them, someone whispering the name ‘Bipolarda’ in the background. They chased each other up the mountain, before racing down to get another sack, lugging the hellish climb up over and over.

Watching them, Sekimori smiled.

 

 

They sure had a delightful set of juniors this year.

 

Chapter 17: Practice and Growing Stronger

“Where’s Shinomiya?”

“He’s having an unofficial cooking duel with some girl in his other class.”

“Huh?”

The knife jittered against the chopping board, fluid and rapid movements flying across the table. Chives, onions-- he crushed the garlic, and moved over to the rest of the vegetables, expertly slicing through the right preparations for each.

 

“Hey, look at that.”

 

Eda’s eyes were tight and firm on the table. He tapped across the spices, and picked out one, inspecting the label. A million calculations drove across his mind, and he picked out two more, along with an orange and a stick of cinnamon.

 

“His knife work is amazing.”

“And quick.”

“Even though he was so nervous he messed up chopping apples in class?”

“Oh, he’s prepping the beef now.”

 

Eda was supposed to meet Shinomiya in the cooking classroom after class. He’d rented out the area for practice, so they had the classroom to themselves until evening.

It’s bigger and more equipped than the dorm kitchen, so they were pretty excited about it. Then Shinomiya went and ran off on him to unofficial Shokugeki with some girl from his Italian class... 

Eda decided to go on without him. Working alone did wonders for his cooking pace. He loved to work privately, without any pressuring eyes judging his every action.

 

(And in the next moment, he notices the figures outside the window and his entire ladle flies out of his hand, soaring across the room.)

 

Anyways, (he goes to retrieve the ladle,) he was going to take the time to experiment the new spice combinations he learned in class, anyways.

“So allspice is called that because it smells like cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and others all at once,” he reads from his notes. Not that he’d understand that part… “I think it was used in chai tea? And gingerbread cookies…”

 

“What’s he mumbling about?”

“Shhhh!”

 

“Ah, right--” Eda remembered, “it’s kinda like pepper but it’s sweet or something. Okay then,” and he plucked open the cap, sprinkling it over the pot before he tossed in the other spices, and a flower-shaped spice, before closing the lid over everything and letting it simmer.

And he sat down at the counter, breathing out.

He stared at the lights, mind blank, staying like that for a whole ten minutes before he stood up, stretched, yawned, and began cleaning up.

 

“He’s so laid back…”

“I mean he just made stew, so that thing needs to simmer for a couple of hours.”

“Guys, are we really going to just stare at him? Go on, ask him if we can borrow some space for our own practice.”

“But you know how he is. Talking to him feels like we’re being bullies.”

 

The door opened, and Eda walked out, turning toward the three in the hallway. The three squeaked, shooting away, and Eda chuckled a little.

“Uh, I’m sorry,” he scratched his cheek bashfully, “but I’ve-- me and Shinomiya-- we’ve rented the classroom out for today… oh, uhm, I-- but I don’t think he’ll make it, so you guys can use the space-- I mean, you can… go ahead… if you want to practice too. If you uh, don’t mind me using a few tables.”

They stared at him weirdly. And one of them, a boy with long, light burgundy hair, chuckled at the sight.

“Sorry, you could hear us from inside?” he asked.

“Ah-- yeah, oh, you weren’t being loud, don’t worry, I just-- have good hearing,” Eda shrank a little, hands at his chest, looking away.

“Regardless, Eda-kun,” the burgundy boy spoke up again, “it’s your classroom to use, but if you wouldn’t mind us taking a bit of the space to practice as well, we’ll gladly take you up on the offer!”

And the other two cheerfully agreed on that, assuring the timid one that they would try not to make too much noise to disrupt his work.

“Uhm…” Eda spoke up as they made their way back into the cooking classroom, “you’re from my class, right?”

And the boy turned around. God, his hair is so long. It reminded Eda of Jouichirou’s hair, so unnecessarily purple (but Jouichirou had a darker purple) and long, how the heck do you cook like that?

“I’m Sena,” he introduced himself, “we have Dessert, Gastronomy, and Spanish together. I think it’s the first time we’ve actually talked, huh?”

And Eda blushed a little, “I- I’m sorry! I just… I’m usually… nervous so I don’t talk to people…” he stuttered, fiddling nervously with his fingers, “uh, nice to meet you. I’m Eda.”

“Nice to meet you!” Sena laughed, “you really treat everyone differently compared to how you treat Shinomiya, eh?”

“Shi-- Shinomiya’s an exception! He’s annoying!”

“Oh look guys, I made him speak up loudly!” Sena cheered, turning to his other friends. “I’ve achieved a level of impossible!”

Eda flushed bright red, “don’t tease me!”

They closed the door behind them, and from there, the cooking began.

 

-

-

 

“This is delicious. I didn’t know you could make proper dishes, too.”

Shinomiya finally returns to the cooking classroom, and Eda is talking to some guy with obnoxiously purple hair.

 

They’re tasting his pot of beef stew-- and the dish they’d agreed on practicing today together. They’d just had a course on spices in class so they wanted to try it out… so what is this?

 

Shinomiya stands outside, watching the scene.

“It’s delicious?” Eda says, sounding slightly flustered and pleased by the praise at the same time. There’s a light blush dusting his cheeks, the same way he gets when the seniors start worshipping his cakes. Then he smiles. “That’s a relief.”

“What’s the secret ingredient?”

“Oh… it’s-- I put it in on a whim, so I’m not sure if it would have tasted nice, I’m sorry for using you as a guinea pig by the same just-- I uh, couldn’t find a reason to say no when you asked to try it and--”

 

Burgundy boy started chuckling at his rambling.

Shinomiya glared, somehow irritated by the scene before him.

And he stepped it, knocking twice on the door to announce his presence, simply to be spiteful of the nice atmosphere in the room.

 

“Why on earth are you putting tea into beef stew, you crazy branch?”

Eda quickly perked up at the new entrance. He immediately burst out in fluster, face burning slightly red, “don’t call me a branch!”

“I told you not to get started without me!”

“Well the fuck was I supposed to do? You’re the ditcher here and I wasn’t going to waste a whole day’s classroom rental!”

“Cook something normal!”

“Shut up! I want to study too!”

“Bake a cake!”

“You’re the one that complained about the dorm smelling like pastry all the time!”

 

-

 

Sena Hiromi chuckled into his hand.

He’d heard plenty about the seemingly bipolar (not literally) Eda Kiyofumi, and he was just as the contradictory rumours made him out to be.

Though it started out as him and his two other classmates interrupting the boy’s work, the boy eventually came over while his pot was simmering and offered tips.

 

Once the boy got comfortable around you, he was a master.

A very clumsy master, but a master nonetheless.

 

It turned into a lesson about knife handling, decorative cutting, and the proper way to steep tea. It was rather amazing to get a little crash course on all that from a fellow student, but it didn’t change the fact that it was useful.

It was when his classmates had left, and Eda was trying out his finally completed beef stew, when Shinomiya finally made an appearance.

 

“It’s not just any tea! It’s Earl Grey!” Eda yelled, like that made it any better.

“It’s still tea! What on earth were you thinking?!”

“It’s a spice too! I think!”

“Were you even thinking of how it would taste?! It’s a miracle the tastes melded well. Are you a genius or an absolute moron?”

“I- uh, didn’t think anyone other than me would be eating since I thought you weren’t coming so, I thought it would be fine--”

“You’re going to give yourself food poisoning one day.”

“If food is how I go I would go with a smile on my face!”

“Which bloody screw is loose in your head?!”

 

He came in picking a fight with Eda,but he hadn’t stopped glaring at Sena at all. Ah, someone’s jealous. That’s cute.

 

“I’m Shinomiya,” he introduced himself, the bite in his voice clearly trying to indicate that Sena wasn’t welcome here at all.

Sena smiled brightly. “I’m Sena. Nice to meet you.” He puts a hand on Eda’s shoulder, stepping a little closer. He delighted in the way Shinomiya’s face scrunched up with annoyance. “Eda-kun here was just teaching me a few things. He’s really good.”

“Oh, joy,” Shinomiya twisted his expressions into the most forced smile he could express, purely out of sheer rage. 

He reached over and tugged Eda unceremoniously over to his side.

“Hey, Shinomiya!” Eda staggered and balanced himself half on Shinomiya’s arm and half on the table.

Shinomiya managed the smile of the nastiest witch in the world. “Your rental’s up. We don’t have much time left in the kitchen, so if you could please leave us to do our practice?”

 

It’s impressive. Sena’s never heard so much honeyed sarcasm before.

 

“Practice? If I wouldn’t be a bother, could I join you?” Sena says, twinkling with the excitement of an absolute little shit that loved to cause trouble, “if I do say so myself, no one can beat me in Western Cuisine. This is right up my alley.”

Between them, Eda only looked more confused each second that went by.

 

Unbeknownst to Eda, this was the beginning of a slightly different form of rivalry between two chefs.

 

Chapter 18: Sending Off and Scouting Out

"Here you go, Sekimori-senpai," Eda put a small pouch into Sekimori's hands.

The five first-year High-schoolers had their bags and their utensils in hand, ready to leave for the training camp from hell. A few of the other dormmates have woken up early to see them off on the way.

"What's this?" Sekimori asked, "it smells nice."

"Ah, no fair! Sekimori gets a present from Eda-chan?!" the other lunged at him.

"Chan?!" Eda squeaked, dashing behind Shinomiya, "ah-- there, there's enough for everyone! Just... just share..."

The other senior bonked his pal on the head, "stop bullying him!"

"Cookies!" one of them realized, "organic cookies! I saw him making those last night!"

"What?? Eda-chan's cookies!"

"Cooookies!"

Sekimori pulled it away immediately. "Not until we're on the bus!" he warned, "oh god, you made the right choice in giving this to me. These guys would finish it before we even leave."

"Good luck!" Eda said.

And they waved their seniors a hopefully temporary goodbye.

 

-

 

"Eda-chan, I found what you were looking for!"

Shiomi's covered in some brown dust and there's a crease on her cheek that means she fell asleep on her desk again. But her eyes are bright and her entire demeanor radiates energy that shouldn't be there for five in the morning.

The two youngest were in the field, and some of the seniors were coaching them through the dos and don'ts of caring for the vegetable farm.

Upon Shiomi's interference, though, Eda jumped in surprise. Shinomiya barely caught the flying watering can before it landed on a particularly beautiful head of cabbage.

"You found something?"

Eda made his way past the farm with an excited smile on his face, pawing off his gloves clumsily. The sun hat sits awkwardly oversized on his head, and he pushes it to rest on the back of his head as he nears the senior.

"Yeah!" Shiomi raised a tablet in her hands. "This much is a cinch for me!"

"Thank you, Shiomi-senpai!" Eda beamed.

"Ah yes, praise me!" Shiomi huffed, hands on her hips in a show of status.

"Stop making a ruckus and show us the information already," Shionimya groaned at them, snatching the tablet away (to the whine and chagrin of their senior) and setting it at eye level so he and Eda could look through it together.

 

It's a display of all culinary research societies.

Shinomiya scrolled through it curiously, Eda leaning over his shoulder to get a closer look. It was arranged by membership, with Chinese, Italian, and French sitting near the top of the rankings.

There's a filter for the genre, and Shinomiya let Eda select the dessert option. There weren't many, but there's a handful-- from chocolate, to Candy Appreciation, to Japanese Sweets.

"There aren't many, huh?" Eda said, slightly disappointed.

"They're all small clubs too, except chocolate," Shinomiya observed, "I guess dessert just isn't popular compared to the other cuisines. Let me check the French one, c'mon."

"No, I'm the one that asked for this information. No stealing," Eda grinded his teeth at the taller boy, snatching the tablet away.

"Now you two, no fighting. Look through it together."

Shiomi cleared her throat, recomposing herself.

"As I've said before, the difference between the junior high and high school research societies is that the junior high ones are headed by volunteer teachers and chefs, and high school ones are led by the students themselves."

"Which is why you can challenge the high school research societies, but you shouldn't challenge the junior high ones," Eda said, remembering that detail very clearly. "I think we learned that in class, too."

"But it's not impossible, right?" Shinomiya asked, "it's just a little harder."

"No, that's not the problem," Shiomi chided, having traumatic flashbacks, "I mean, it's part of it. But those advisors are necessary volunteers. If you make them leave, you should have a replacement advisor ready."

"A replacement advisor?" Shinomiya asked, "if we're taking over a research club why do we need a replacement?"

One of the seniors laughed at that. "Have you never been in a club?" He said, without any intention to offend but Shinomiya made an insulted noise anyways, "all clubs need advisors, just to make sure it actually does work instead of fooling around all day."

Shinomiya hummed confusedly, "like a babysitter? Is that why the high school division research clubs don't need one?"

"Yeah, because in high school, other research clubs will keep you in check," Shiomi said, a confident smile teasing the corners of her lips, "it's a club activity down here, but a warzone up there."

Eda chewed on that information.

"The high school section sure has a lot of privileges," Eda said, "training camps, autumn elections, research societies without advisors..."

"Eda-chan, people usually see those as the exact opposite of privileges," Shiomi responded, slightly exasperated, "they're hell."

"Really? I think they might be fun."

"It's hell," she repeated. And in a very 'oh, guess I can't help it' manner, she pulled on her lab coat and produced a whiteboard out of nowhere, "now, let me explain just exactly what goes on in those events."

Everyone immediately tuned her right out. Shiomi could go on for days on just talking alone and they all knew that already.

 

Eda hummed, face scrunching up in contemplation. He folded his arms together, and Shinomiya rolls his eyes at the side, setting the watering can down at the side.

"Don't be intimidated now," a senior assured them. Holding a basket of fresh vegetables, she cheerfully handed everyone a tomato. "Youngsters like you should keep their spirits up around here, ya know?"

"Youngsters, say," Shinomiya looked at the tomato incredulously, "why's ya speakin like grandma?"

"There it is, Miyamiya's country accent," she teased, pointing at her with a tomato-holding hand before depositing the fruit into Eda's hands. Shinomiya sputters, and she giggled.

"Don't call me that!" Blushing, he turned away and angrily crunched into the tomato--

--and his entire face lit right up.

"What's this? It's so sweet." His house always traded for tomatoes instead of growing their own, so he'd never had the opportunity to taste one so freshly plucked.

"Oh, that's a nice smile," a senior holding a camera smiled, "that's one for the books."

"Is it just me or you're taking more pictures now than last year?"

"Well, I feel like we're watching out kids grow, y'know? We haven't had someone so young in the dorms in the while."

"What are you, our mom?!"

"Yummy, right?" the senior grinned proudly at Shinomiya, "our Polar Star veggies don't lose to the ones you find in the boonies, eh?"

"Don't call'em the boonies," Shinomiya sneersed. Turning to the boy who was still wearing his sunhat for some reason, he gestured at the tomato in his hand, "hey, Eda. don't just hold that now. Take a bite."

Eda turned contemplatively to the tomato in his hands.

 

Instead of eating it however, he smiled a little sadly at it. "Fresh veggies always taste better than store-bought, of course. It'll obviously taste better."

"Just eat it," Shinomiya repeated, and the other seniors looked expectantly at him.

"No," he stuck out his tongue. Pulling off his sun hat with one hand, he snatched the tablet from Shinomiya and grinned, "I'm gonna go scout out enemy territory, so I'm keeping this as a snack. Thanks, senpai!"

Shinomiya fumbled for a second upon losing the tablet.

"Enemy terri-- hey, you're going to the research societies?" Shinomiya gawked, pulling away the bandanna around his head. "Then wait for me, I'm going too!"

The seniors waved at them as they raced each other back toward the dorm. Today was an off day for classes, so they definitely had plenty of time to scout research societies like the curious teenagers they were.

"Remember to hose yourselves down first!"

"Be careful, kids!"

A camera flashed, and all eyes turned to the senior with the camera again. With a smile, he simply said, "that's one for the books, too."

 

-

 

Shinomiya was climbing up the floor to peek into the window of the second floor-- the room they assume was the Western Cuisine research society-- so Eda took a walk around the empty hallways where the science labs were.

On an impulse, he decided to take a bite into the tomato he was given.

For a second, he honestly enjoyed the crisp, cold crunch of the first bite.

Then his face scrunched right into an unpleasant grimace as he held back the urge to spit the morsel of fruit right back out.

It was tough in the fleshy parts, gooey in the seeds-- he was sure the pure sweetness and faint sourness that should've been there would've made it pleasant.

He was sure these were pleasant textures, but he could only force himself through the bites, the tomato bitter on his tongue and registering only as-- rubbery. Rubbery, and--

"Gross," he whispered, covering his mouth, swallowing it slowly and resisting the urge to openly gag.

It's rude, he knows-- but the tears were already in his eyes from the effort. He already knew he couldn't make it through the rest of this tomato.

Internally whispering a string of inherent apologies to his seniors, he tossed the tomato into the trash.

No one saw him do it.

 

He dusted his hands, taking a drink from the water fountain, and went back to where he'd left Shinomiya a few minutes ago.

"Oh, you ate the tomato?" Shinomiya asked him, having just made his way down from the second floor banister.

"Yeah," Eda lied, a hand rubbing at the burn birthmark around his wrist as he pulls off a flawless smile. "It was really sweet."

Chapter 19: Knife Scars and Burn-Scarred

"Sekimori!" one of the Polar Star first years called out, barging into his hotel room. "Hey, Sekimori! We're going to be late, what one earth are you still--"

His voice died out halfway.

 

Sekimori was crouched over his knife case, its contents scattered about and-- shattered. There was broken glass spilled over the ground, and the boy was clutching his hand in silence.

"Someone sabotaged my knife case," he said, his voice strangely calm. "Probably when I left it out after morning service. My mistake."

His arm was covered in blood, the hand held out strangely still.

"I-" the senior backed away, his face pale as a sheet. 

There was blood all over the hotel's carpet flooring, and Sekimori's hand was doing much to staunch the blood from whatever injury he was trying to hide. 

"Shit. Don't move, I'm getting a medic!"

Sekimori appreciated it, but they're both late for the lunch service, so he can't help but feel guilty about it.

He grabbed his tea towel, knowing it's the most absorbent fabric he has nearby, and kept putting pressure on the wound.

(There was nothing he could do now.)

 

-

 

"What do you mean, Sekimori-senpai got expelled?!"

Eda was honestly heartbroken.

The high school first years finally came back after their week at training camp, and their atmosphere was very akin to a line of soldiers marching back from war.

They're exhausted, upset, and only able to force a smile because of the enthusiasm of their juniors and seniors in greeting them home. They were down to three people, so when it registers, the air becomes dreadful really quickly.

Let's just say the dorm was absolutely miserable.

 

"Yeah, he got injured. He didn't tell us what happened, but it's gotta be those punks from the Japanese Cuisine Research Society!"

From what the seniors were saying, Sekimori's hand was badly cut up-- shreds of broken glass and stray metal got into the wound. It wouldn't leave lasting effects-- scars at most, but he was forced to stay off that hand for a good few weeks.

Eda fidgeted at that, kneading the burn scar on his hand. He knew very well what hand injuries did to chefs-- especially knife experts like Sekimori.

Which also meant that the senior's chances to get through camp went right down the gutter.

"You mean they're getting back at him for winning last time?" Shinomiya snapped, "those petty bastards!"

"This is war, dammit!" The seniors were equally frustrated.

Sabotage obviously isn't allowed, but in a dog-eat-dog environment like Tootsuki, there were two rules-- all is fair if you don't get caught, and all is fair in the name of the Shokugeki.

"They made it back, didn't they? After all that shit they pulled-- let's go and teach them a lesson!" someone else suggested, "we can bet Sekimori's return on this one since we've got Shiomi-senpai on our side."

"Don't, you idiot. We'll get expelled for misconduct."

"Plus, hiding behind Shiomi-senpai's skills is a shitty thing to do, too."

"Well, they started it!"

"Yes, but we didn't have proof."

"There's a reason Sekimori left without blaming anyone-- they seriously would've expelled all of us back there if we really punched the guy's face in, alright?" someone chided, "even if we were damn well justified."

"And if it turned into a Shokugeki there, we would've lost big time with Sekimori's hand like that. All odds were against us."

"To think they'd go as far as to sabotage another chef's knife case of all things, though..."

 

Eda's eyes met Shinomiya's. Seeing their seniors huddled around the table, upset and tearful-- it just rubbed them the wrong way for a lot of reasons.

Even Shiomi couldn't keep her spirits up. She was used to seeing students leave in the grueling school year-- but injustice like this was hard to swallow.

(But Sekimori's presence in the dorm was too important to miss out now.)

The problem with another Shokugeki at this point lay in the fact that only Sekimori himself could stand a chance against the Japanese Cuisine Research Society, and Sekimori, as an expelled student, no longer had the right to issue one.

And sending Shiomi out to deal with them would just work on the flip side for the first years-- because seriously, are they sending out big sis to deal with the scary bullies? That's pathetic.

 

Eda sighed deeply-- and Shinomiya turned around, stepping toward the door. Knowing exactly what he meant to do, Eda followed him a second later, but they're both stopped by a very sharp-eyed senior.

"Eda-chan and Miya-chan, you two sit down and don't go anywhere."

"Hey! No running out, kids! Stay put."

Yikes. One plan is no longer viable. 

 

"Sekimori doesn't want any of us getting involved," the senior said, his eyes stern as he says this. It's evident he doesn't like to accept this himself, but he has to. "So we just have to accept it. People get expelled all the time in this school-- so we just have to suck it up."

And that just stung right where it hurt.

Sekimori was the best chef in their year-- but he got expelled due to unfortunate circumstances. That's just how it is.

"And you're fine with that?!" Shinomiya yelled, slamming a hand on the table. "It's not fair!"

"Nothing's fair in the real world, Shinomiya," the senior cut him off sharply, "if you fuck up, you're out of the kitchen. And if you get fucked by your own luck, you gotta leave, even if it's highly unfortunate. That's just how it is."

 

Eda didn't say anything to that-- simply because it's true.

Tootsuki was just a rather exaggerated depiction of the cruelty of a real kitchen. Make too many mistakes and you need to get out. But if you get injured, there's no begging out of it, you still have to go for your own sake.

(Just like her, who had to leave after losing her sight. It was her own bad luck that caused her to lose everything. There's no one she can blame for it, life just sucked.)

It's not purposefully cruel-- it was just the fact in the situation.

And this time, Sekimori had to face that reality on his own, as a chef in his own right.

 

"We're not doing anything," the seniors decided, because that's genuinely the best for everyone. "It's unfortunate that we've lost Sekimori-- but this was the end of the line for him and that's it."

Eda looked to the side.

Shinomiya was biting on his bottom lip, looking away with nothing but frustration in his expressions. It was a clear sign that he just couldn't accept this injustice.

And maybe, just maybe-- that wasn't a bad thing.

 

Eda wondered briefly, if he was once like that too. 

Being able to feel so honestly frustrated about losing a friend in the culinary field instead of simply, quietly being resigned and accepting of everything. 

His head wanted him to cry, wanted to go and cry and bring his undeniably favourite senior back to their dorm where he belongs. 

But his heart, the one attuned to the cruel environment of his past life-- is already accepting all this with a handful of salt. Maybe because he doesn't quite remember how that tastes anymore- but he's surprisingly calm about it. 

In a competitive kitchen, people leave every day, no matter how much friendship is brewing between the chefs. That's just how it is.

A part of Eda subconsciously understood that, even if something burned in the back of his mind, reminding him how much he wanted his honest feelings to take over. 

 

Maybe his sense of taste wasn't the only thing the head injury took from him that day. 

Along with his memories came the steel-hearted mindset of a real chef, and with it came the loss of some of the innocence he used to have.

And that thought unsettled him. 

Chapter 20: Lost and Found.

Summary:

"I am not lost," Eda insists. Shinomiya scoffs at that, so Eda snaps, "I am NOT lost! Stop distracting me so I can read the map already!"

Anyways, they're lost in the shopping district and it's totally Shinomiya's fault.

Eda picked up a can of sprite from the vending machine, popping it open and taking large gulps. It’s a hot day out, so it’s refreshing, and really cheers him up from the dreadful mood of the rest of the day.

They had a long weekend, so they spent it traversing the shopping district nearby. They’d come here once to get tea leaves, but never quite looked around well.

 

Shinomiya grimaced.

He had his own can of juice in his hand, but he seriously didn’t understand Eda’s apparent obsession with soft drinks. They were essentially bombs of carbonated gas to him, but Eda enjoyed it like the only thing he thought was worth drinking.

“When you drink soft drinks, soft drinks eat you back,” Shinomiya sneered. “Work o’the devils, them things.”

(Sometimes when Shinomiya speaks, he mixes in his dialect halfway through, and Eda would be left wondering if that was Japanese for half a moment.)

“Isn’t that pineapple,” Eda muttered back, starting to walk again.

(Like geez, let him drink whatever he wants. At least he can feel a soda on his tongue.)

 

He knew the road back to that one waffle store from a couple weeks ago, but Shinomiya, like the aimless moron he is-- needed to be tugged back in the right direction about thirty times throughout the trip.

“It’s that way.”

“Are you sure?” Shinomiya would stare at him skeptically, like he doubted hard. “Like very sure? Super sure? A hundred percent? Without a doubt or dime in a dozen-- wait that’s the wrong quote, nevermind. So, you sure?”

“Stop asking that!” Eda threw his hands into the air, genuinely frustrated at this point, “I’m gonna start questioning my sense of direction, too!”

Shinomiya scoffed. “What, so you weren’t sure?”

“I am sure about it but stop making me think it isn’t!” Eda snapped. At this point, Shinomiya was really annoying him for the sake of it and he was about eighty percent sure that was the intention. “Stop talking and let me focus!”

Seriously, he hated walking around with this guy.

“Wimp,” Shinomiya spat with a scowl.

Eda crushed the can in his hand. Oh, that is it.

 

-

 

After a few punches, a whole ruckus, and getting a security guard called on them for disrupting the relative peace of the town park, they sat on the bench, facing away and bickering lightly while trying to pretend they weren’t cussing each other out.

“Dickhead.”

“You can’t even get the right amount of salt for an egg sometimes.”

“Shut the hell up, you burned water last week.”

“I did not burn it, it just boiled over!” Shinomiya hissed sharply, turning around. “And you’re the one that didn’t notice.”

“Don’t blame me for your mistake.”

“You were literally next to it, and I was outside!”

Eda turned around, ready to give this brat a piece of his mind again about that one incident-- Shiomi got cranky all of next week because the gas stench was everywhere and they had one hell of a lecture-- but they’re interrupted.

 

“Are you two fighting again?”

 

They turned back-- and, on the other end of the small crest of trees, there was a small brick-road path leading up the shopping district down toward industrial areas.

Sekimori stood there, an arm in a cast. His free hand held a paper bag of what looked like groceries, and he was wearing casual clothes for once.

“Sekimori-senpai?!” they exclaimed, really not expecting to see him.

“You didn’t die in the last chapter?” Eda muttered to himself. Seriously, do people usually show up so soon after their tragic expulsion?

“Sekimori-senpai!” Shinomiya said, louder than necessary. He made his way over the bench, rushing forward to greet the senior. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

Sekimori sighed at the sight.

“I’m glad I got to see you two as well,” he said. There was a permanent frown on his expressions, making his smile just a little fainter than the norm.

Eda steps over, taking the seniors groceries from him. No sense making the injured hold the things, after all.

“Do you live around here, senpai?” he asked, then realized the stupidity of the question, “ah-- I guess not. You wouldn’t be staying in Polar Star if you were.”

Sekimori hummed in response, a faint smile finally curling at the edge of his lips.

“I’m barely released from the hospital, so I’m staying at my uncle’s tea shop for now,” he told them, as if his cast needed any further explanation. “I can’t head home until I’m done packing up everything I need.”

 

Head home, huh.

Never would he have thought those words would sound so sad.

 

Shinomiya had only barely given up on the endlessly circulatory argument regarding Sekimori’s expulsion, but he wasn’t about to start it up again. It would be insensitive to do in front of the person himself, after all.

“So… what are you two doing out here?” Sekimori asked.

And like he’d pressed the correct button, both of them just burst like a bunch of children shoving each other over to tattle first. Eda went first, pointing jarringly at Shinomiya and declaring that “we’re lost because Shinomiya is an idiot!”

“Me?!” Shinomiya reacted like he was getting doused with cold water, “you were so damn sure we were headed the right direction!”

“I would’ve been fine if you could quit distracting me!”

“Excuses!”

 

Sekimori held up a hand, and they immediately shut up.

 

“So,” Sekimori continued, like world war didn’t just break out for a second in front of him, “where were you guys headed to anyways?”

At that, they paused.

It was as if they suddenly realized what they were talking about, and the air settled into something slightly awkward.

Sekimori raised a brow at that.

Eda and Shinomiya’s eyes met for a brief, awkward second-- then Eda sheepishly admitted, “the seniors kicked us out in case we tried to do something bad. We thought we’d go to your uncle’s tea shop, actually.”

“We figured we could find you there,” Shinomiya added.

“Can we go over?” Eda jumped, eager to ask before Shinomiya could. He hesitated toward the end, though-- “Or would it be imposing?”

Sekimori hummed, amused. They were acting like children starved for his attention, and he honestly found that incredibly endearing.

He was only gone for a little while, but he had to say-- he sort of missed their company, too. Their arguing was starting to sound more nostalgic than annoying. Seriously, he’s growing soft.

“Well, that’s fine, just come over and stay for lunch if you want,” he decided, checking the time on his phone. He ought to text his uncle while he was at it. “You'll have to be quiet, though. It’s a tea shop, so the ambience is important.”

They cheered a little too loud and excited for his comfort-- but he found himself smiling at them instead of chastising them.

They were really growing on him, and that really made the pain in his chest ease.

 

-

 

“Eh?!” Shinomiya exclaimed, immediately being shushed by Eda who shoved a hand over his mouth.

Despite that, Eda also questioned rather loudly in shock, “you’re not permanently expelled?!”

Sekimori chuckled, “I figured you didn’t know. It’s a rare loophole, after all,” he said. He gathered a few jars of spices from the shopping bag, carefully sorting them out in the cabinets. “I told the seniors right before I found you guys. Can’t have you guys getting expelled too if you cause trouble, after all.”

 

They were in the tea shop now.

It was a small store, but it had a kitchenette, a washroom, a couch, and a spare futon. It’s enough for one person to live sparsely, usually workers that stay late or when the owner didn’t want to bother travelling home for the night.

For now, Sekimori was staying here.

“Other than the usual legal requirements, there are two conditions to fulfill before one can become a student at Tootsuki,” Sekimori raises three fingers, turning to the students. “First is of course, general skills. This is usually done in the form of an entrance exam or an interview.”

Now that was something Eda didn’t know.

“Why do you look confused?” Shinomiya snapped to the boy, “we had written tests and interviews, didn’t we? All basic questions, though.”

“No?” Eda balked, genuinely confused, “I was literally sent here like normal. You’re telling me Totsuki is high-end enough for their junior high to have entrance tests?!”

“That probably means you were approved by a recommendation,” Sekimori explained, “I reckon it was Saiba-senpai for you-- though I don’t know the man myself to make that assumption, it seems to be the most likely situation.”

“What? You cheat,” Shinomiya seethed.

“Oh shut up, I didn’t know!” Eda retorted. “If you let Junior High entrance exams stump you, maybe you’re a shit cook.”

“Screw da’pie hole, ya dimwit. The interview’s a hack.”

“The interview? Oh… is it because you were trying not to sound like an indecipherable hooligan half the time?”

“Insult the accent one more time and I’ll stuff you in turkey, pudding-head.”

 

“Anyways, anyways,” Sekimori claps twice to get their attention-- it’s a little awkward with one arm in a cast, but he manages-- “then we have the second condition, which is the age limit.”

 

They hummed at that.

That’s also a classic school rule-- there’s a year or two of leeway. Grade skipping isn’t quite as much of a thing here as it would be outside of Japan, so the age limit in schools aren’t quite as broad.

“Tootsuki is a private international academy, so unlike most of the public schools around, grade-skipping is allowed to a restricted degree,” Sekimori explained to them. “I’m one of those very few that entered the academy a year early.”

“That’s possible?”

It certainly is.

“And well, the expulsion will still remain in my record, but it’ll be fine.”

Skipping grades isn’t a frequent thing in this country, and the school year begins the same as every other child born in the same year frame.

So if Sekimori was a year younger than his peers-- he would technically bypass Tootsuki’s strict entrance policies and still be eligible to apply for school next year.

“So you have the age… but what about the testing part?” Eda spoke up, “will you need to find someone to recommend you in?”

Sekimori shook his head. “There’s always a transfer exam for the high school division in Spring, though it’s only eligible for the first year.”

 

Next Spring? That would basically be the equivalent of getting pulled back a year in school-- that’s not gonna look great on records.

But then again, maybe that really didn’t matter to him.

 

“So until then, I’m going to polish my skills so I can come back twice as strong,” Sekimori told them. "The high school entrance exam is notorious for being much harder than the junior high advancements, after all. And those are really tough too." 

“Yeah, and when you come back, you can prove to those cheating punks that you’re not gonna go down so easily!” Shinomiya cheered. “We’ll be waiting for you, Sekimori-senpai!”

“Ah-- me too!”

“Yes, yes,” Sekimori patted them on the head, because their enthusiasm was very much appreciated, “now that we’ve gotten that out of the way-- let’s have lunch, shall we?” 

 

Look on the bright side-- Sekimori 'll be able to see these two get into high school when he graduates. 

It's just a year, after all.

All the more experience for him.

 

(And revenge will be served, he swears by it.)

Chapter 21: Our Home and my Home, too

“Ow,” was Eda’s very stoical, unaffected opinion on Shiomi’s special super spicy curry. “This hurts to eat.”

 

Everyone in the dorm was hunched over in agony, and at his response, they whirled around in horror as Eda took his second bite without so much as a flinch.

“God damn this, it’s too spicy!” sobbed a third-year, tears streaming down his face and snot leaking through his nose, but he bravely took the second bite only to painfully exclaim, “but damn it this is so good! I can’t stop eating!”

A few people beside him do the same, only to exclaim in agonized, fire-breathing yelps afterward.

 

Though Sekimori’s expulsion was unexpected, the other first-years survived the training camp. So in a little late celebration, the Polar Star Dorm was having a curry dinner party to commemorate.

Dressed in their pyjamas and huddled altogether in the kitchen, everyone was happily hustling around, singing and cheering. They were deep in the forest, so it wasn’t like the noise would disturb anyone around.

It was warm, and fun.

 

Eda took a third bite. He hadn’t had something this spicy since Tamako brought home a ghost pepper for April Fools last year. (Their regulars still refuse to enter Yukihira for that one day of the year.)

Due to the nature of spicy flavours, curry is usually a little more interesting to eat than anything else. Though muted, he can taste the spice, can feel the burn-- it’s just the glorious umami of everything that is usually lost on his already dead taste buds.

For curry like Shiomi-senpais’ it’s just depressing to not be able to taste her carefully composed mixture of spices. He’ll eat it if it’s served at dinner, though.

Anyways Eda mainly only ate spicy food to spite the people who couldn’t tolerate it.

Like Shinomiya, for example.

 

“Damn this why is this so good this is unfair--” Shinomiya forcefully swallowed another spoonful, trying to brave it but turning away in fear.

 

Eda set his clean plate on the sink. “Looks like there’s going to be a line at the washrooms tonight,” he commented, to which Shiomi chokes on a laugh.

“You seem fine, though? I’m impressed," the senior said.

Eda shrugged. “Got an iron tongue, I guess.”

“Not an iron bowel, though,” Shinomiya challenged.

“Worry about yourself, shithead.”

 

Shiomi laughed good-naturedly, stirring the pot of curry as she continued serving the eager residents of Polar Star.

“It’s quite upsetting that Sekimori won't be around for Autumn Elections this year,” she sighed, “I was quite excited to give my all in pitching for his nomination, too.”

“Autumn Elections?” Eda asked.

“It’s the tournament--” Eda whirled over, Tournament arc?! “--between some selected high school first years in the autumn, woah, you’re shining, Eda-chan.”

“Sekimori might not be here, but there’s still four of us!” the remaining High-school first-years declared, “we’re going to kill this tournament, we swear!”

“Well, good luck.”

“Shiomi-senpai, your unenthusiastic encouragement leaves us heartbroken!”

Eda, however, was too enamoured by the aspect of an infamous anime tournament arc to be focused on the senior’s roars of determination.

(So a culinary school can have a tournament too, huh. Gotta have expected that from this over-competitive place, but to actually be met with one is like a dream come true of sorts.)

“The Junior High section doesn’t have a lot of stuff going on, so you’ll all definitely be allowed to come watch,” Shiomi said, “look forward to it!”

Eda was very excited about it.

 

“It’s said to be the tournament that decides the innings for future Elite Ten positions,” Shinomiya explained. He sits down with a supreme Wagyu Beef Don (served up by their resident beef specialist, mob character #12,) held slightly in Eda’s direction as an offer to take some.

Eda mourns the lack of taste, but hell he was not passing up the mouthfeel of some great meat.

“Elite Ten, huh,” Eda considered, “I wonder if we’ll take some spots if we get up to the High School division.”

Shinomiya scoffed. “Aim too high and you’ll burn.”

Eda chuckled. “Hearing you obnoxiously underestimate me makes me want to prove you wrong.”

To that, Shinomiya smirked. “That’s the intention, dumbass.”

 

-

 

“You’re not going home?” Eda asked, hefting his travel bag over his shoulders. “It’s Summer Break and all.”

“I ain’t sitting in the train for hell’s hours cooking in the sun, you dunder,” Shinomiya responded sharply. “Hurry up and go already, so I can go back to sleep.”

For some reason, Shinomiya still woke up early to see everyone off as they left.

“And the real reason?”

“Mom’s not home, no point, be quiet, scram.”

“Ah.”

 

Only a handful of students are staying at the dorms-- mostly the older ones who were preparing for the Autumn Election-- so it would seem a lonely choice to stay at the dorms when the noisier ones were gone.

(And to this day, Eda had no idea why his impulses drove him to say these following words.)

“You know, wanna come by my place?” he asked, “we could use an extra hand for the summer break rush back home.”

“Huh?” Shinomiya’s baffled response was honestly an expected outcome.

“Well, you know. I juggle two shifts at my home’s bakery and my sis’ diner, so once I go home, the guys are gonna freak out about me being home. I could use some help,” he said. “Not interested?”

“Your diner isn’t my business,” Shinomiya said firmly. “Deal with your own problems on your own.”

 

Eda nodded. Fair enough. He was just suggesting, anyway. But nah, he’s not going to relent after coming this far. 

“So, you’re too intimidated to work in a busy city diner?” he grinned.

And Shinomiya visibly went ‘urk’.

“No worries, though. I’ll just have to get extra training for Jou-san on my own. See ya, and have a nice summer, Shinomi--”

 

Eda immediately fell silent. Shinomiya’s glare, paired with his exhaustion and the early morning, turned the gaze into some sort of furious abomination only seen in the depths of a horror flick.

“Meep,” Eda shrank, all confidence lost as Shinomiya approached, a volcano in his eyes.

 

“Give me ten minutes.”

 

Eda blinked, confused-- but Shinomiya was already turning around, undressing on his way up the stairs. A hand to brush his bedhead back in tentative place, he growls, pointing sharply at Eda.

“I’ll be ready in ten fucking minutes so don’t you dare bail before I’m done, you straw-boned city boy!”

Well, that just happened.

Eda couldn’t help but smile a little, taking out his phone to inform the crowd about the guest he’ll be bringing home.

 

-

 

It was funny to see Shinomiya tuck his hair back with a headband to stave off his obvious bedhead. Dressed in casual clothing, they boarded the train toward Sumiredoori.

“Come to think of it, you were having another unofficial Shokugeki with Mizuhara-san again, weren’t you?” Eda struck up a conversation.

The real reason Shinomiya was so exhausted-- was because late last night, Mizuhara Fuyumi raided the Polar Star Dormitory and issued another challenge of Italian dishes against Shinomiya.

 

(“I’ll be going home tomorrow, so one last match!” she declared, and though Shinomiya wanted nothing more than to strangle the late-night noise, they accepted the challenge, had their resident Italian specialist (mob character #8) judge it-- and ultimately, Shinomiya won.)

(After that, she was presented batches of Eda’s cookies to bring home as souvenirs to eat away her sorrows, and they all went back to sleep.)

(Eda himself had been asleep, so he didn’t hear about it until this morning.)

 

Shinomiya groaned. “I don’t know that girl’s deal,” he muttered, “she keeps insisting she wants to prove she’s better than me at Italian-- but Italian isn’t even my specialty?”

“Obviously, it’s because you keep beating her at her specialty, so she’s frustrated,” Eda said, “wouldn’t you be annoyed if someone was better than you at French?”

Shinomiya scoffed at that. “Are you daft? No one’s better than me at French cuisine.”

“I’m talking hypotheticals here.”

“Huh? What’s this got to do with pythagoras?”

Eda needed a moment to understand that. “That’s hypotenuse, dude, are you awake? Are you talking to me half-asleep? You’re talking nonsense.”

“Anyways, if Mizuhara stopped coming at me claiming to be my lifelong rival that’d be nice,” he grumbled. “She’s annoying as hell.”

To that, Eda could only curl a smile onto his features.

“Unfortunately, that’s how the best friendships always start, Shinomiya.”

Shinomiya grimaced really hard at that.

 

Eda made a mental note to seek out Mizuhara once they were back in school-- if he could bring up the courage, of course-- because he knew that this was going to be the start of a very wonderful friendship.

 

“Enough about me and Mizuhara-- what about you and Sena?” Shinomiya taunted back. “Don’t think I didn’t see you guys at the school’s practice room last week.”

Eda rolled his eyes at that one.

“We were exchanging recipes,” he argued, “he wanted to bring some new cake recipes home, and I wanted to bring something western-inspired back for our diner’s special-of-the-month, so that was the obvious choice.”

“What kind of Japanese diner wants something western-inspired? Excuses.”

“Our diner does!” Eda snapped back.

Immediately, the two were harshly shushed by the other passengers of the train, and their hands quickly came up to each other’s mouths to shut each other up.

 

Then, synchronously, in a softer tone, they bowed. “We’re very sorry.”

They were quiet the rest of the trip.

Chapter 22: Warm Meals and Calm Banter.

Shinomiya knew very little about his new friend.

From the shoddily, but evidently purposefully half-dyed hair, to the strange scar of a horrific burn on his right hand-- those were just distractions to the real personality behind ‘Eda Kiyofumi’.

Clumsy under pressure, yet confident under the right spotlight-- there was just so much to admire about this boy. He didn’t have much of a charisma, but his hardworking spirit evidently made up for that in the right places.

(Sena was one of the few that were drawn in by Eda’s glowing lead.)

 

Unlike Shinomiya, who held a dominating, clear prestige over the rest of his peers-- Eda lingered in the shadows with his mixed, mysterious reputation.

That is precisely why this boy could draw in a crowd of his own, filled with those who understand him fully-- much easier than Shinomiya could ever.

 

-

 

“Fu~mi-pon!”

Being ambushed right at the entrance of Sumiredoori was apparently not something either of them expected. A tall woman with tanned skin came right in and threw an arm around Eda’s shoulder, dragging him down.

“Rase-cchi!” Eda whined, “ow-- hey, that hurts! Let me go!”

“What’s with you, did you get a little taller?” she grinned.

 

This woman, with tanned skin and a violent streak that she never quite left behind in her gyaru days-- is Kurase Ayaka, who Eda lovingly (not by choice) refers to as ‘Rase-cchi’. If you’ve forgotten about her from the beginning chapters, Eda would now lovingly direct you forward because it genuinely doesn’t matter.

(“Huh? Her name sounds familiar from the show? Nah, you must be imagining things,” he insists. “Next.”)

 

Then, immediately turning toward Shinomiya, “woah! Nice hair!” in complete honesty, “seems our Fumi-pon’s been in your care, so thanks for that. Welcome!”

“Ah,” Shinomiya seemed to find full difficulty in dealing with pushy women, so he simply lowered his head and jutted out a polite greeting, “ah, not at all, I’ve been in his care as well... And I’ll be intruding on your hospitality for the next few days, so it is me that should be expressing my gratitude--”

“Your polite speech is gross,” Eda groaned.

“Shut yer trap, brat!”

 

Rase-cchi laughed at that, setting her hands on the boys and pulling them to either side of her. “Now, aren’t you two just adorable! C’mon, we’re all waiting for you in Yukihira’s!”

 

Shinomiya continued to growl at Eda, and Eda responded in turn-- but they made their way toward the diner, unaware of the warm look on the woman’s face.

 

“Isn’t that sweet?” Rase-cchi gossiped to a passing, similarly swooning shopkeeper as the boys headed on forward, “our baby Fumi-pon made a friend he can fight with. He’s got the delinquent spirit in him, eh? He’s just like O’Tama!”

 

-

 

“Speaking of, what the hell is ‘Fumi-pon’?” Shinomiya snorted. “Fumi-pon!”

“Be quiet!” Eda snapped back, “you ain’t gonna convince me you don’t have a nickname at home, too!”

“Okay, Fumi-pon.”

“Go die!”

 

Their argument is very abruptly (and very loudly) interrupted by the bark of an old geezer slamming the sliding doors of Yukihira wide open.

“Oh would you two SHUT UP!! It’s like BARELY DAYRISE, have some consideration for the old bones out here!!”

In unison, the two brats screamed.

 

“Oh hey!” Uncle Yukihira realizes who it is, “it’s Kiyofumi. Long time-- geez, you kids sure have some great lung capacity, stop screaming, it’s just me-- no see, we were expecting ya a little later today actually.”

 

“Geez, Uncle Yukihira!” Eda managed to compose himself, but Shinomiya was ducked behind him and they were all slightly spooked, “don’t bust the front door open like that! I thought we went over why that’s bad for the bolts?”

“Oh, c’mon, you’re fussier than O’Tama when it comes to that,” he sighed.

 

Eda unleashed a devastated groan in his direction, but turned away in defeat.

Gesturing toward Shinomiya (who hollowly whispered to himself, “this is what I imagined when my mom told me about yankees of the city battlefield…”) Eda offered his introduction.

“This is the friend I talked about, his name is Shinomiya. Shinomiya, this is my sis’ dad, Uncle Yukihira. He’s the owner of this diner.”

“Ah, yes!” Shinomiya straightened immediately, “please don’t kill me, I have money.”

“Huh?”

 

Eda shoved the bumbling idiot back behind him. Maybe once he gets out of his country bumpkin mode they’ll have a sensible conversation again. “Anyways, is Nee-chan around yet? Still a bull in the china shop with her?”

Uncle Yukihira scoffed at that, reaching out to pat the boy on the head, ruffling his hair gently. “No need to rush. She went out to the morning market with Kiyo. How about you guys settle down first?”

 

Eda sighed. Guess there’s no helping that.

 

“Well, I guess we can make ourselves breakfast or something,” Eda figured, turning to the still very apprehensive Shinomiya, who clutched his things to himself as if he was expecting a gang assault any moment now. “Hey, Shinomiya?”

The boy immediately snaps out of it, swirling back from the sight of a stray cat colony to meet Eda’s eyes. “Huh? What?”

(Seriously, his country bumpkin side comes out the worst when he’s in a low-to-mid-income district? Ironic.)

“I want to test this new gratin recipe, be my guinea pig,” Eda instead said, heading into the store after Uncle Yukihira. “Y’know, the one Sena gave me.”

Shinomiya snapped straight out of his stupor, “dude, if it was just gratin you could ask me?! It’s literally my specialty genre!”

Eda groaned, “yeah, yeah. You helping or not?”

“I am not gonna be just helping. I am revising!”

“Right,” Eda snickered, looking out. Then, teasingly, “try not to stay outside for too long though. You’d get caught by scary gangsters and dragged under a bridge then beaten black and blue and broken. My regards.”

With a smile, Eda immediately slammed the door shut, appreciating the horrified shriek Shinomiya let out afterward.

“Y- what the-- You're messing with me! Ya screwed mutter I know you’re just fockin’ with me and I swear if I get this door open--!!”

“I’m not kidding!” Eda mock-yelled from the other side of the door, to the wild amusement of Uncle Yukihira, “see this head scar-- I mean, you can’t, but I got it from gangsters when I was little! Didn’t die though.”

“Oedipus shithead!”

 

Well, strictly speaking, only some of his head scars came from Butakko and their gang when they were still a bully gal gang.

The biggest one, the only one Shinomiya’s seen before, is from the other incident with the murder microwave-- but well, Shinomiya doesn’t need to know that. Nor does he need to know that Sumiredoori hasn’t had any violent gangs since Butakko took over civil control in the area. 

It was just funnier like this.

 

-

 

Eda did eventually let Shinomiya in.

“Do that again and I’m going back to the dorm,” Shinomiya grinded his teeth, tying the apron of the Yukihira diner around his waist as he picked up the kitchen knife.

Eda chuckled soundlessly, chopping up the shallots with expert ease.

“Cremini or portobellos?” Shinomiya asked, looking into the food storage to inspect the ingredients they had on hand. A moment later, he answered his own questions, “creminis.”

“You’re changing the recipe right off the bat?”

“Says you, reaching for the leeks?”

“Hey, everyone knows they go well with mushroom gratin.”

 

Uncle Yukihira was treated to the sight of a rather impressive show of teamwork.

The two of them navigated the kitchen with practiced ease, as if they already knew the entire ingredients list by heart despite speaking as if the recipe was new to them. They chopped up all the ingredients with knifework Uncle Yukihira found himself nodding to, and moved on with barely any wasted movement.

 

“Uncle Yukihira, sir!” Shinomiya hollered in his direction, “do we have sake?”

“Huh? I thought we packed the parmesan…” Eda hums, looking through their bags. “Ah, found it. Wait, this is the smoked one. Oh well.”

The sauté begins as the movement in the kitchen doesn’t stop. Shinomiya inspects the sake in one hand, grating the cheese with his other hand.

When everything goes into the pot and Eda sprinkles a generous amount of salt into it, Shinomiya reaches over almost naturally, adding another half pinch to the pan. Neither of them quite flinch, so Uncle Yukihira wonders if that was simply a chef’s instinct on the pink-haired brat’s part, or if he was in the know.

 

“Hey, where’re the gratin bowls?” Shinomiya asks, peeking his head out of the counter as Eda pours a generous pour of sake into the heavy cream bubbling in the pan.

“They’re uh-- we don’t have those in this diner,” Eda takes a moment to swirl the mixture, “--take this for me.”

 

When the mixture is dropped into heatproof bowls and put into the oven, they don’t stop working. Without missing a beat, Shinomiya works to clean up the workstation while Eda sources breadcrumbs.

It must be the rigorous schedule of the school’s systematic cooking that made them value every minute of cooking time, Uncle Yukihira figured-- and these two might just be the school’s most hardworking pair if they were taking it so seriously even out of the school kitchen.

Most surprising of all might possibly be everything that was in that backpack of theirs. They had packed everything a Japanese small-time diner didn’t have, from the olive oil to the thyme and parsley to the at least three different cheeses that Uncle Yukihira couldn’t tell apart for the sake of himself.

 

“Don’t you think we should‘ve added some meat in it?”

“I’m not a fan of making it too heavy after all the cheese we dropped in, though,” Eda says, “how about next time we dice pork rinds and bacon to replace the breadcrumbs?”

“You need something else to give it some bite. If you’d rather not fill it with meat, a vegetable, maybe… cauliflower or broccoli?”

“Leave it to you, vegetable-sensei.”

“Be quiet. Rewrite that recipe Sena gave you.”

“Write me a new one then.”

 

They were even revising the recipe right after putting it into the oven for a second time? Are these kids or seasoned restaurant veterans? He swears he’s heard Jouichirou sound just as serious before.

(Man, he hasn’t heard Kiyofumi talk so much before. It’s rather nice.)

(...but are students supposed to look like they lord over the kitchen so well? Well, Uncle Yukihira isn’t going to think too hard about it.)

 

When he’s served the dish, he genuinely couldn’t believe he was eating something that came out of his own kitchen. Sure, Eda’s pastry have been restaurant-quality plenty of times-- but this was clearly a step up from all of that.

 

The first bite was definitely a wholly mesmerizing experience.

From the piping hot, creamy mouthfuls of thick cheese that just entices him to taste a little more against the burning peppers-- it was salty, milky-- with bursts of sweetness in all the right places.

The parsley leaves a fresh aftertaste, and the slight tang of the alcohol makes it linger-- it’s heavy for the morning, but there was just something so homey about it that made him comfortable eating it with the younger boys beside him.

 

“Agh! This is great!” Shinomiya huffed out carefully between hot mouthfuls, “hey, did you drop the smoked cheese into it? I was saving that for something else.”

“Don’t complain if it’s good,” Eda ate his own, pleased but evidently constrained in his own expressions. “Give me a detailed description later so I can tell Sena what we think, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shinomiya muttered.

Uncle Yukihira chuckled. “You’re really gotten better, Kiyofumi,” he said. “Guess it was right to let Jouichirou send you off to Culinary School after all.”

Eda snickered a little bashfully at that.

 

(“You’ve gotten better,” he said, and both of them knew the double meaning in those words.)

(Eda didn’t really remember how long it’s been since he’s smiled so freely and spoke so openly with someone his age, about food. He’s only been able to do what with Jouichirou, ever.)

 

“It’s such a shame that you can’t taste it yourself, though,” Uncle Yukihira sighed, looking sadly upon his own bowl of gratin, “I remember how much you loved dishes like these.”

Eda’s spoon stopped mid-reach toward his mouth, but Uncle Yukihira didn’t notice.

“I mean, you don’t usually season things perfectly anymore, but this is just right,” he said. “I guess it’s a preference thing, flavour and all. You do tend to add too much pepper to everything, though, since that time you realize you could still at least feel spice in your mouth.”

 

Shinomiya looked up from his food, confused-- not quite registering the words at first.

He swallowed his mouthful, looking between them as Uncle Yukihira continued talking, and Eda slowly grew paler, his jaw dropping as he grew more horrified with each word the older man said.

 

“Uhm,” Shinomiya interrupted hesitantly, “what’re you talking about?” 

 

 

 

Chapter 23: Reason For and Reasons to Be.

Uncle Yukihira lifted his head.

“What? You didn’t know yet?” he said, frowning at Eda. “You know we told you not to hide it, Kiyofumi! You can’t cook safely when people don’t know you can’t taste or smell a thing.”

Immediately, Eda leaped from his seat, “Wha-- wait! Wait, U- Uncle, I--” his head spun, from his uncle to the slack-jawed Shinomiya and right back to his uncle in hopes of some sort of salvation-- but alas, Uncle is the criminal, he won’t get help from that monster.

 

So he bit his lip and-- and just completely short-circuits.

He couldn’t say a thing. Didn’t know what to say, what to do-- should he run? But what then, he’ll have nowhere to run that Uncle Yukihira didn't know he could get to and argh! Why did he bring Shinomiya along? He brought this upon himself! He’s so stupid. This sucks. This can’t be happening. Let me just die. Oh crap.

 

“The food’s going to go cold,” he said, changing the subject in the most pathetic way possible. “C’mon. We need to eat.”

He doesn’t want to answer this. I don't want to answer this. He doesn’t want to--

“Huh,” Shinomiya said, and Eda completely froze up. “Yeah,” he rests his chin in his palm, “shoe fits, I guess. You really shouldn’t be hiding something that important.”

Huh?

“What?” Shinomiya frowned, and Eda noticed his own expression-- slack jawed, horrified, confused-- just straight up bewildered-- and Shinomiya was the picture of undeterred. “You could seriously cause food poisoning, you know? Are you an idiot? When you work in a kitchen with a disability or whatevershit, you gotta tell us so we can look out for ya!”

 

Eda immediately felt the burn in the back of his eyes.

“Yeah,” his grip tightens on his spoon. “I’m just being an idiot. I know.”

 

He stuffed a spoonful of gratin into his mouth, turning away sharply so he doesn't need to come up with another response.

Shinomiya grumbled something inaudible, before taking another mouthful himself.

Uncle Yukihira smiled.

 

---

 

Miserably enough, they make it to Kiyo’s bakery (it was closed) just like that. In silence, meeting no one else, and exceedingly awkward. Grandma Kiyo was still at the market with Tamako, so they still had some time to themselves to settle down.

“Why’d you hide it,” Shinomiya asked.

Eda was clawing at his hair at this point, “don’t ask. Use your head.”

“Being taste-deaf ain't some groundbreaking discovery,” Shinomiya muttered, “plenty of people lose their taste over time. Even my Baba--” he cleared his throat, face heating up, “I mean, my grandmother back home, can’t taste much cause her taste buds got burned in an infection.”

Well, that’s true.

“I’m in a culinary school,” he said. “A hyper competitive, 10% only, culinary school.”

Shinomiya grimaced at that. “Right. What the fuck is up with that, really,” Shinomiya said, “but you can cook, so who the fuck cares you can’t taste?”

Eda froze at that.

Did he just-- say it like it was no big deal?

 

The kitchen is clean. 

“Seriously, what the actual fuck,” Shinomiya inspected the labels on the jars and packets, all spelling out how things taste and what to and not to put in which cake. “Sure it’s weird to have someone like you in a culinary school, even weirder to have one that can make good food, but--”

Shinomiya trailed off.

Then, “--how the fuck do you make good food all the time? You even know how to improve and fine-tune flavours accordingly. Now that I think about it,” and all of a sudden, the entire gravity of the revelation sank on him. “That makes no sense.”

 

Oh no. Oh no.

 

“Yeah, I uh, had my taste before I lost it,” he said, “but I still remember how things were… used to taste,” yeah that was bullshit. “I just go with the flow, alright? People like things that taste like this, so I just guess the rest of my way based on what I think they used to taste like…”

“That makes no sense, how long ago was that?”

“...a couple years? Long time.”

“If it was a long time ago, how do you still remember everything and how to match tastes? What are you, god’s flavour profile?” Shinomiya challenges, “you were a kid back then, you’re telling me your kid palate is making better dishes every day?”

 

Eda wanted, with all of his heart, to throw a microwave in his face.

He grabs the flour instead.

 

“Oh enough hounding me! I can do it because I can!” he snapped, and the bag of flour plunged right into Shinomiya’s face, exploding in a cloud of white powder. “So what if I need people to taste test everything I do? What if I fail every ingredients class because I can’t fucking tell if shit’s rotten before putting it in my pot? Try beating me in a cooking battle and maybe you can talk!”

“Why you--!!” Shinomiya grabs the nearest object-- a roll of parchment paper-- and chucked it in Eda’s direction. “Of course it fucking matters in a damn kitchen! You need to tell the people around you so they damn well understand! It’s common sense!”

“It’s also common sense that--” a juice carton from the fridge breaks against an arm, “--if I tell the teachers they’ll just expel me for being incompetent! Didn’t you hear Chef Gonzales? Every chef for himself!”

“We all know Chef Gonzales talks out of his fucking ass! Listen to Chef Chapelle instead!”

“I don’t wanna, he’s fucking scary!”

“How is that a problem with your palate! Stop throwing things!”

“Put the fucking baking tray down!”

“I draw the line at fucking gelatin powder! This is gonna be hell to get out of my hair, you monster!”

“It’s agar powder, there's a DIFFERENCE!”

“Who the fuck cares STOP THROWING IT!”

 

The kitchen door eventually opens, and Yukihira Tamako walks in to inspect the mess. There was half-done batter and eggs on the wall, some stuck to kitchen appliances and lots of tools everywhere-- and the two kids, who are half powder at this point, are still yelling at each other.

Neither of the kids even noticed her there. So she closed the door and stepped back out to shake her head at Grandma Kiyo.

“Looks like they’ll take a while longer. Wanna drop by the candy store, Auntie?”

“Oh, you’re not going to stop them?” Kiyo wondered, a little concerned. “It’s Fumi-pon’s dear kitchen, too. I’m worried.”

“It’ll be fine,” Tamako assured her, “we’ll make them clean up later on. Now they just gotta fight it out! It’s youth!”

“Ah, if you say so then…”

 

---

 

(They eventually do stop.)

 

“Geez, just admit you’re too much of a scaredy cat,” Shinomiya groaned, swabbing the floors and trying to get a particularly stubborn clump of wet flour off the tiles, “you have the skills to tell ‘em to fuck off. You’ve got nothing to fear.”

“Says you after spending the last months telling me how I’m shit at everything,” Eda sneered back, incredibly bitter about everything.

Shinomiya had to catch himself. “Urk. Okay, you got me there. I’ve been a dick. My bad.”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t start,” Shinomiya threatened, and Eda complied.

 

Eda wrung out the cloth before gathering the salvageable ingredients back to their proper storage spaces. They destroyed quite a bit, including eggs, but there was no helping that.

 

“I can’t taste it,” Eda admitted, “but I remember how to make them. I remember what ingredients go well with which combination,” he said. “The rest of it, I go on everything the taste-testers tell me. It’s guesswork.”

For a moment, Shinomiya said nothing.

Then, “do you really think you can make it through Tootsuki with that kind of handicap?” he said. “It’s like archery by a blind man. Fundamentally, people believe it’s not feasible. Not even worth the challenge.”

It’s not an insult, but it still hurts to hear, because it was true.

Eda scoffed at that. “I’m doing it right now, aren’t I?” he turned to him. What is he doing right now? Failing every other class, acing a few, and trudging on. It doesn't matter, because he’s-- “I’m doing my best to prove them wrong.”

 

(A visually-impaired archer does exist in this world.)

(A taste-deaf cook can become the best patissier in this world, too. It's feasible.)

 

“If I never tried-- I’d regret it,” Eda told him. “That goes for you, too, right? That’s why you came all the way here, from the countryside,” he turned to Shinomiya, “it’s the same for everyone in the school. We’re no different.”

 

(We all bring an array of personal handicaps.)

(Some people are allergic to the most basic foods, but they still have to handle it in a meal. Some people have learning disorders, but they still bring their food to the table to be judged the same way as everyone else.)

(Some people have never cooked outside of their homes in their lives. Some, like SHinomiya-- barely had a full kitchen array before they came here. And yet-- they were competing now, on equal grounds.)

(Visible or invisible-- small or big-- those handicaps were there.)

(Eda just had a slightly steeper one than most, and that was no one’s problem but his own, right?)

 

Shinomiya set a dirty pot in the sink, creating a loud, clattering noise.

Eda eyed him warily-- and Shinomiya sighed, his shoulders sagging visibly as the tensions eased in them.

“You said it’s all guesswork--” he knocked on the fridge door-- gesturing toward a neatly-written recipe that was pinned there by a magnet. “You’re calling this guesswork? What a joke. These recipes are fucking genius and you know it.”

Eda didn’t really understand why he felt so offended there. He was being complimented, but it didn’t feel like it at all.

He massaged the burn scar on his wrist, and looked away.

“All the flavours you come up with-- the techniques, the ingredients, even the freshness, ripening, cultivator, down to the very grams…” he grinded his teeth, and whirled on Eda, explosive. “This is all hard, bone-breaking effort, you moron! Effort! Anyone can tell you spent hours thinking and tuning them! Why are you underselling yourself? If your brain as dead as your tastebuds?”

 

Eda squeaked when Shinomiya marched up to him, apprehensive, furious, and cornering him until Eda tripped back and fell, upturning the bowl of the salvaged flour over his head.

Eda lifted the bowl away from his eyes-- and he found himself staring right at Shinomiya’s face, his own eyes blown wide.

Shinomiya’s eyes are just a little bloodshot, his lips bitten and his expressions-- scrunched up, in a sort of genuine hurt.

 

“Don’t you dare call them fucking guesswork when you put in hundreds of hours to get this far for everything you do!” Shinomiya raises his voice. “You think we don’t see you spend every waking hour practicing? It’s because you don’t have your sense of fucking taste and you don’t even ask for our help!”

He trails off there. Shinomiya finally turns away, out of words.

He grabs the bowl from the ground and drops it in the sink with everything else.

 

“I-” Eda tried to say something-- but the words were stuck in his throat. “Sorry,” it comes out weakly. Sorry for what. “For never telling you. I didn’t trust you.”

 

And that was what really hurt.

Eda trusted no one.

Were they not friends?

 

“I spend hours trying to fine-tune recipes because I only find out after lots of judging and calculations that the flavours are either too spicy or not flavourful enough,” he says, that’s the truth. “I try a lot of things, until I get it right by elimination. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time because I don’t know if the flavours make sense. And I didn’t know how to ask anyone.”

He’s speaking. He’s speaking so much and every word hurts.

“I threw away that tomato the upperclassmen gave me,” he didn’t know why he was admitting this. He’s curled up now, arms over his head and a hand over his burn mark, “it wasn’t good. The texture of some things are weird and I hate it. I don’t know how to use it in a meal either. I’m bad at vegetables because the flavours change from the littlest things.”

He sniffled.

“I want to cook but I can’t taste anything,” he said. “So I spend twice the amount of time instead. I like doing that. But I’m needing to spend more and more time now and I’m always half sure about everything except sweets. It fucking sucks. It’s fucking stupid. Sometimes the teacher compliments me and I understand absolutely nothing.”

Finally-- he takes a breath.

Is he crying? No, there aren’t any tears. But everything sure burns like it.

“I’m envious. Of you. And everyone,” it’s the first time in a long time that he’s ever admitted that he wanted to go back to those days. “Because you all have what I don’t.”

 

Shinomiya stood before him, arms crossed. 

"And you have the knowledge and cooking sense that I don't. What else is new, genius? Wanna talk about hair colours and height and any other thing that make us different people?"

Eda lifted his head to face a steaming glare.

“I’m not here to hear you fucking sob like a baby for fucking hours,” Shinomiya snapped. “Get out of the fucking table.”

And oh.

This happened before, didn’t it?

Every time Eda would fail a class without Shinomiya-- he would hide under a table in an empty classroom, and waited until Shinomiya came by to fetch him. And then he’d pick a fight. And after the argument escalates into their shouting match, Eda would leave the classroom after him, feeling much better about everything.

 

Eda has honestly never cried, any of those times.

But this time, he did. He buried his face into his arms, into his knees, and let the tears fall.

 

“You’re an asshole,” Eda told him through sniffles and choked sobs.

 

Shinomiya scoffed sitting down at the stool of the kitchen island. “Ah, whatever you say then, fucking crybaby. I bet I can make a better cake than you.”

“Never,” Eda sharply retorted, not even missing a fucking beat. “Fucking. Ever.”

Shinomiya snarked at that, standing up and gathering ingredients from the cabinets. “If you’re so eager to prove me wrong, come out here and make it with me, you little coward.”

Eda curled a little tighter into himself, wiping away the tears with his arm before resting his palms on his face, warming it up with a few deep breaths.

“Yeah. Be there in a sec,” he said.

Shinomiya smiled.

 

---

 

“Next time,” Shinomiya told him, as Eda poured the batter into the cake tin, “if you want advice from someone with a tongue, just ask.”

Eda didn’t look at him. He was still mad.

Shinomiya put the tin into the oven. “You build the concepts. I fix the flavours,” he said. “And then when I make my own dishes, you can come in with new ideas,” he turned on the oven before turning to Eda. “That sound good to you?”

Eda’s eyes met his for only a moment, and then he turned away, defiant.

“Yeah. Sure, why not.”

 

Chapter 24: Precision and Development.

Notes:

Been a while! Enjoy the next few chapters of my hunger-fueled inspiration! This chapter is dedicated to the pickles in my fridge, aka my mom's first genuine victory in the battle between me and raw vegetables.

This chapter will be completely set in Sumiredoori, but the next chapter will be going back to Tootsuki.

“Heeey there!!” The door of the diner burst open at midday, “how’s my favourite brother doing?”

“Perish,” was Eda’s instant response, and in the middle of lunch service a spoon goes flying through the air. “I died ten damn times in the first week. You set me up to get set aflame . Jou-san, go die in a ditch .” 

To Jouichirou’s credit, he dodged the spoon and let it hit the door, cackling out a hearty laugh. 

“I see you got run over the grill, eh? Tootsuki never changes, does it!” 

“What the— DO NOT THROW CUTLERY AT CUSTOMERS, YA DUNCE!” to be frank, Jouichirou did not expect the rag to swoop right through the air and engulf the boy’s head, “you could fucking kill someone!” 

“That,” Eda ripped the cloth off his head and baseball-chucked it right back at the boy with pink hair who was working the wok, “IS THE INTENTION, SHITTYMIYA!” 

“Piece of shit!” 

“Fry the damn rice!” 

“Stop fucking SCREAMING!” 

The oven ran out loudly and both of them clicked their tongues, swerving back to their work stations without further fanfare. Jouichirou had to hold back from fervent laughter at the very familiar sight. He used to quarrel with Gin like this, too, all the time, and it was always only when they were cooking that they were quiet. 

“Nee-chan! These are ready!” 

“Alright!” 

Tamako swooped right in, doing what she does best— waiting tables. She giggles with the customers as they all marvel at the new life in their favourite chef. The boy who was once a softspoken, unconfident child had now learned how to surge forward, even if he had to get loud to take each step. 

Going to school was good for Eda Kiyofumi. They really couldn’t deny that. 

“Jouichirou, come sit here,” Uncle Yukihira called from the counter. “You really took your time on that work trip, didn’t you? You almost missed Fumi-pon’s return.” 

“Oh, that would’ve definitely been a tragedy!” Jouichirou agreed, “Imagine missing out on this marvel! Fumi brought home a hell of a friend.” 

At that, Shinomiya left the wok— Eda took over quickly— to focus on the guy. “Wait, are you the rumoured Saiba Jouichirou-senpai that the seniors in the dorm were making a big fuss of?”  

Jouichirou cackled. “Yep! I go by Yukihira now, though. You in Polar Star too? Young! Reminds me of Jun!” 

“You’re talking about Shiomi-senpai, right?”

“Yep! Is she still a midget?” 

“Yes!” he’s beaming brightly. “I’m Shinomiya Kojirou. It’s an honour to meet you, sir!” 

“Pinkymiya! Take his damn order or get back here!” Eda raised his voice. 

“Just fry it for two more damn seconds and get it off the heat!” Shinomiya yelled back. “How long’s the potatoes been boiling?”

“You can take them out now!” 

Jouichirou laughed, fond. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Kojirou, what’s the Special of the Day today? It’s not Tamako’s cooking, is it?”

“It’s not!” Eda said. “She’s not allowed in here!”  

"I can hear you!" she hollered from the other end of the restaurant. 

Right on cue, the oven pinged. 

And when Shinomiya opened the oven— well, Jouichirou knew, instantly. The velvety melt of cream, cheese and onions in a bed of vegetables, and of course, the heavenly waft of crispy, buttery pie crust.

“A quiche? How unusual for our shop,” Jouichirou beamed, looking up at Shinomiya, “I suppose it’s your doing?”

Shinomiya grinned. “Yeah! I scored a round of Roshambo against the wimp,” he jabbed a thumb at Eda, who whirled around and hissed . 

Uncle Yukihira sighed longsufferingly. 

Apparently, after their big fight in the cafe, they spent the rest of the morning— playing Rock Paper Scissors— and then fighting over this quiche recipe. They couldn’t come to an agreement on anything at all, especially because Eda wanted so much more influence on the very vital pie crust, and Shinomiya was very adamant on it being an authentic French quiche lorraine. Or not, since they had the cheese. And then there was the argument of a vegetarian dish not suiting the palates of the Sumiredoori regulars, and so on. 

“Then,” Jouichirou leaned his hand upon his cheek and watched, enamoured by the passion in the kitchen, (a passion he had lost,) and, simply felt endeared by the sight. “I’ll have one of those, then.” 

“Will do, sir! Would you like the one with bacon or the original?” 

“Oh, there are varieties?”

“Because Dunceda said people wouldn’t like not having some meat in their main dish in these parts, so—” 

“Ah. Well, I’m fine with the original, then.” 

“Alright, order up!” 

They’re so cute. Jouichirou missed having juniors.

 

---

 

“Oh wow! You used smoked cheese.”

“Ah— yeah. The seniors smoked everything perishable for the summer, so everyone got to take home a bunch.”  

Jouchirou can tell in a single bite. 

The bursting warmth filled his mouth with a creamy indulgence of vegetables— and these were very fresh vegetables, he just knows the taste of Polar Star anywhere— The crust, crispy and just the slightest tinge of sweetness, melded harmoniously with the savoury fillings that spilled over generously. He almost regrets not opting for the bacon for that extra kick, but the nutty notes of the smoked cheese comes through stronger without it, and that’s so worth it. 

It’s good. 

Personally he’d add so much more to it, and he can already think up so many ways to make this better, a little more cook time here and a little less there, the minor imperfections in the dough and the filling needed a little more salt for the rest of the flavours to come through; oh, there needs to be an enhancement to the toppings, a new layer of filling to the crust to give it that kick it’s missing—

—but it’s really good. And they’re just thirteen. 

 

---

 

“What? You didn’t tell anyone that you couldn’t taste or smell anything?!” Tamako was baffled . But, in a very delightfully positive way. “And you still survived in that dog-eat-eat hellscape? Holy shit Fumi, you’re badass!” 

Okay. Eda wasn’t going to outright admit it, but he was enjoying this.

“I’ve gotta tell Rase-cchi and Butakko about this.” 

“Stop!” Eda wailed. This was more embarrassing than it was flattering but maybe they didn’t cancel each other out.

“Quit it, Tama!” Uncle Yukihiro snarled, whacking the phone out of Tamako’s hand, “you’re the reason he’s like this and I hope you know that! Do you have any idea how dangerous this could be for both Fumi and the people he cooks for? And what’s all this lying going to do for him when the tests come by?!” 

“I’m SO proud,” Tamako begins, only to get whacked over the head again.

Meanwhile, Jouichirou laughed until he was wheezing. 

Eda covered his face in his hands with shame.

Shinomiya could only knead his hands into his eyes. The second-hand embarrassment was really hard to cope with.

“No seriously, I still think you need to tell everyone,” Shinomiya insists. 

“Dude, some of the teachers and some of our classmates hate my guts ,” Eda murmured. And while those parties also held the same vitriol for Shinomiya, at least they didn’t have much to use against him except his low birth. “The moment they find out I’ve been lying the entire first half of the semester they’re going to expel me for incompetence, alright?”

Shinomiya had to admit. Eda was right. 

If they could sabotage a knife case to get Sekimori (ideal chef-to-be, model student, good grades, perfect pedigree—) expelled, they sure as hell could get a food poisoning risk expelled, too, especially when he’s failed every single class about identifying good ingredients. 

“That’s fine,” Jouichirou dismissed, rather easygoing for the problem at hand. “If they come at you, that’s what a Shokugeki is for, after all.” 

“But Jou-san,” Eda groaned, “they almost permanently injured Sekimori-senpai’s hands , winning a Shokugeki did nothing to prevent that.”

“Well,” Jouichirou barely even faltered, “ that’s what the spiked bat in the shed is for.” 

“What?” Tamako and Eda synchronized in exasperation. 

“By golly,” Shinomiya sounded dead tired, “It was a mistake for me to come here.” 

 

---

 

After the lunch rush, it was time for a shift at the cafe.

“You live like this?” Shinomiya groaned. “I mean, I work day in and out too, but you work two places? How do you get ready for it all, in the same morning?”

“Uhhh,” Eda adjusted the oven, “I don’t? Uncle usually preps for the diner, I only focus on the bakery, and I only help out at the diner during lunch and dinner rush. But since I just came back, everyone wants to eat my food, so… as you’ve guessed, I had to help out all day.” 

Shinomiya drooped dejectedly, “Is this going to continue?”

And Eda grinned, victoriously. “Yep! It’ll probably get worse before it gets better, too, because more people know I’m back now and more people will be making a trip over to eat. Have a taste of how it feels to run your own diner and serve your guests in prime time, Pinkymiya! This is the harsh world of culinary we’re in for!” 

Shinomiya cackled. It sounded almost despairful, but tinged with excitement.

Because yes, this was going to be rough as hell, but then again, this experience is priceless. It’s going to be even more gruelling in their years ahead in Tootsuki, and the fact he’ll get a chance to experience this now?

It wasn’t a mistake to come here after all.

“Too much for ya, Pinky?” Eda taunted.

“Game’s on, Pudding-head,” Shinomiya snickered, “by the end of the week, you’ll be dragging yer feet, have my word fer’it!” 

Eda laughed. “Bet!” 

It’s been a rocky road thus far, and it’ll probably be rockier going forward— but as they are, there was nothing wrong with the road they were going forward upon. 

 

---

 

[Kiyo’s House of Rowdy Bakers].

“Okay,” Eda pointed at it, turning confrontationally to the guests lined up at the storefront, “give me a second. I’m going to give signboard-man a piece of my goddamn mind.” 

Rase-cchi burst out into giggles at that. “Oh come on, Fumi-pon, don’t be mad! I heard you guys made such a lively ruckus this morning. Aunt Kiyo felt she had to give you guys privacy, you know?”

“Why do you have to phrase it in the most misleading way possible?”

“Also,” Rase-cchi added, “I’m quite sure, at least for these few days— it’s accurate. Everyone’s here to see you and your new friend, you know?” 

Eda pouted at that. She definitely wasn’t wrong.

“Fine,” he relented, reaching for the store sign. “Kiyo’s House for Rowdy Bakers— Limited Time Only sit-down-cafe version, is open for business.” 

 

---

 

“What do you mean don’t skip the sieving?! It’s powder! I am turning powder into powder and it takes an assload ‘mount of time!” 

“If only your ass was as quick to load as the goddamn flour,” Eda didn’t miss a beat, morphing into a giggle as he smiled at the customers, “Koga-neesan, you’ll want your coffee black, right?” 

“Yes, thank you, Fumi-pon,” she chuckled, though a little hesitant. SHe’s in front of her spouse today, and she can’t help but feel a little embarrassed. “Sheesh. I am so sorry, dear.” 

“Huh? Why?”

“No, it’s just… we were such a bad influence on you. I’m sorry.” 

Eda dismissed it heatlessly.

“Oh, no, it’s not your fault at all!” he said. “Honestly it’s the only reason I’m surviving in Tootsuki right now, so I’m actually grateful.”

Being constantly roped into gangs and victimised and influenced— it not only left a physical scar on Eda’s forehead, but also an emotional one in his very soul. Ultimately it was Tootsuki’s hellish environment that awakened the rough child cultivated in the depths of a usually kindly Eda Kiyofumi, but the source was very clear. 

“Yargh!” There’s a slam of a fist on the counter, “You fucken BRANCH! Get back in here, the oven’s screamin bloody murder and I ain’t about to open the shit!” 

“Don’t you DARE open it you asshat, it needs another bake!” Eda yelled, “common sense with Choux Creme, you amateur!”  

“JUST GET IN HERE!” 

This is honestly not an ideal atmosphere for a cafe. It’s very much a Chinese Hawker Street instead. But everyone in the Shopping District is constantly surrounded by this atmosphere, so they honestly don’t mind it at all.

In fact, seeing Eda home and livelier than ever is enough to make them all woozy with happiness.

 

---

 

“All this meticulous detail is vital, I get it, but aren’t you too by-the-book?” 

Shinomiya groaned, when the day was over and they’re just getting ready for the next day. They’re going to operate separately tomorrow, with Eda working in the cafe and Shinomiya working at Yukihira’s. 

“Isn’t the charm of home cooking the minute differences in each diner’s individuality in spices and ingredients? What’s the point of a store whose food tastes exactly the same as any other? Even franchises differ from other franchises. They all have their unique flavours. I get that you can’t run the risk, but your recipes are too rigid .” 

Eda wasn’t offended at all. He simply stared into the oven as the macarons baked. 

“I like desserts because they are rigid,” he said. “Messing up the measurements even just a little makes everything go wrong. Use an ingredient that disbalances the acidity and your jelly collapses. If one oven peaks a little warmer than the others, the entire batch is ruined. But that’s exactly why I’m sure that my quality and my hard work will never betray me.” 

He paused at that.

Why did he say that?

Sure, this was how he felt— that since the ingredients were exact, he would never mess up as long as he focused and followed the steps, only stepping away when he’d made the correct calculations. He would never have to taste his way to correctness, and compulsive and irresponsible instructions like ‘salt to preference’ will never stump him. 

But ‘betray’?

It’s almost as if that word didn’t come from himself. 

(The cake on that desk was beautiful. Plain, but elegant, and each decoration was laid upon so delicately, so carefully—)

(—and yet, it was modest, compared to the gallant art piece displayed beside it.)

(Not that she could tell. Her eyes were open but clouded, and the wedding ring no longer fit on her calloused, scarred, and multitudinously bandaged fingers.)

(She accepted her loss with grace. Not with humility or frustration, but simply with heartrending defeat in her very bones.) 

Eda’s hand found its way to the burn scar. 

“You’re stupid,” Shinomiya said. “It’s because you’re so emotionally attached to your work that you end up crawling under a table each time you fail, you know?”

And he’s right.

(The only thing she never lost— was the taste of her sweets, that continued to pull through. While the people around her left, one after another, and everything in her life crumbled to dust along with her ability to bake as well as before—)

(—she had written recipes, and those recipes flourished in a way she never could. People came back to her. Her cakes returned to her. And though her hands will never make them on her own again— her meticulous detail brought her creations back into the world.)

(It gave her hope. Just a little more hope, in those lonely dark days where no light existed in her life.)

(It still wasn’t enough, though. But that’s beside the point.)

(Who could blame him now, for clinging to the only thing that didn’t give up on her?)

“You’re too afraid to mess up even a little,” Shinomiya said. “Being a perfectionist is good for you, but my A’mma always said the sweetest cucumbers are the oddly-shaped, dented ones, you know?” 

And that was such a cute analogy, Eda couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“You’re such a momma’s boy, Pinkymiya!” 

“You and your legion of delinquent Nee-chans are not allowed to talk.” 

 

---

 

Opening up the cafe at the break of dawn felt good. Refreshing, almost. 

He smeared his freshly washed hands on his apron and stepped out with the signboard— and catches sight of Shinomiya hustling over. 

“What, you done with prep over there already?” Eda asked. 

“Gramps said I could drop by,” Shinomiya shrugged, “that aside, I made something, take a bite and tell me what you think.”

“Huh?”

The toothpick with the cucumber made its way into his mouth at his single response. 

Shinomiya’d been clutching a tupperware— a glass jar, and the condensation meant it was taken fresh out of the fridge. And it sure tasted like it, the second it passed his teeth Eda felt the shuddering chill . 

“Cold!” Eda winced, jerking back. “Don’t just put things into people’s mouths!” 

“You were being slow. I don’t have time to waste.”

And what was the point of asking Eda to taste it, anyways? Shinomiya already knew the secret. And judging from the slosh of that glass, these were freshly-pickled vegetables. 

But the first crunch bore a crisp, loud sound— and Eda couldn’t help the genuine surprise that filled his expressions.

There’s a prickle coating his tongue, presumably from salt and chilli in the pickle juice, and a slight tinge of— sourness. This is the little squirming sensation you get when you taste something sour— burst right through the cucumber flesh.  The lightly sweet natural water content in the cucumber evened things out before the flavours got too overwhelming, and the cold wafting through his mouth made the entire bite crisp, light, and refreshing . 

The seeds rolled through with the cold, gooey coating, melding in with the next bite of that satisfyingly crisp cucumber chunk.

“See? Good, isn’t it?” 

Shinomiya had the gall to look smug. 

“I’ll have you know, it took me three damn years of trial and error to get my Baaya’s recipe right! She didn’t leave any recipes and refused to teach it to us, so I had to figure this out from the ground up, you know! It just isn’t as good but—” 

“A—” Eda couldn’t even articulate, grabbing at Shinomiya’s sleeve before he rushed back to the diner, “wait, I want another bite!” 

Shinomiya stared, surprised for a moment.

And then he cackled .

Eda’s face heated up instantly. This jerk’s making fun of him—!!!

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you like it,” Shinomiya said, almost obligingly, very visibly over the moon with the fact that he’d finally gotten an edge over the sweets god of their dorm. He opened the tupperware and selected one carefully, holding it up for Eda to eat off the toothpick. “It’s better after it soaks overnight, though. So only one more.” 

The cherry tomato burst through with such a pleasantly enticing sourness, Eda felt like he could almost, almost taste it. 

The familiar tingle on his tongue from the generous salt marinated through. The light kick of spice toward his nose— is this light, dusty tickle in his throat pepper, or perhaps chives? He doesn’t know for sure. It chills him from the roof of his mouth to the depths of his stomach so pleasantly. And the light slimy coating of the tomato seeds spring forth against the firm, crisp flesh—

—he can’t help but remember the tomato from the Polar Star Farm, and realize with such miserable disappointment that this is what he was missing out on. This is what he failed to appreciate. He was so dumb back then.

Some things are appreciated not for taste or aroma, but simply for texture.

And the freshness of these pickled vegetables just filled him with such immense satisfaction— he haven’t felt so satisfied by food for such a long, long time, and he’s so conflicted he could cry.

“Alright, I’ve gotta run back,” Shinomiya said. “You're dropping by later for lunch, right? See ya then.” 

“Ah— wait!” Eda called after him, lunging for his shoulders again, “just— one more! One more, I want the carrot this time!” 

“What?!” now Shinomiya snarled, “enough, you dunce, you’re going to eat it all!” 

“You’re stingy! Stingymiya!”

Chapter 25: Learning Curves and Experiences.

“A Dagashiya?” 

It was time for them to go back to the dorms, so as a final stop-by for souvenirs, they found themselves at the old Japanese Sweets store two doors down from the cafe.

Apparently, Grandma Kiyo has taken after this shop because the owner, decades older than herself, passed away recently. Since Eda hadn’t been there to open the cafe, she took in a new endeavour here. She’s moved in here, too, just to make things easier. So while Eda and Shinomiya stayed the week in the cafe, Granny had been living here and blissfully away from the chaotic chefs. 

“Huh? Did no one tell you?” 

Shinomiya had been surprised when he realized the storekeeper’s name was Eda Kiyo .

“This is Granny Kiyo. She’s my mother.” 

“Wha— what??” Shinomiya was baffled . “Why do you call your mother baa-chan? And she’s still young, does she really qualify as a Grandma?” he said with all seriousness and Granny rewarded him with a flattered laugh. 

“It’s complicated,” Eda said. 

“...huh?”

“Anyways,” Eda reached for the shelves, “Granny, I’m taking these! And, we left some stuff in the fridge, so eat it before it goes bad. I asked Rase-cchi to take away the leftover cake for her daycare, so open the door for her if she comes for the key, okay?”

“Yes, yes,” Granny Kiyo sighed, “sometimes I feel you’re the parent between us, Fumi dear. You’re much too independent.” 

Eda huffed. “You raised me like this!” 

Shinomiya watched with fascination. Even someone as meek and wimpy as Eda could be bold and snarky in an environment he was familiar with— it didn’t make sense to him that Eda could roll through E grades in school when he was naturally so upright and expressive. 

Well, he supposed the wonders of humanity preceded his expectations. 

 

---

 

“Oh! Jou-san, you’re cooking today?”

“I usually do,” Jouichirou said from the other side of the counter. “I was just on break for my work trip and well, a kid took over my grill, so I let him have it.” 

Shinomiya was flustered. “I- I am so sorry??”

“Don’t fall for it, he’s messing with you,” Uncle Yukihira sighed. “Everyone in town loved having you around, Kojirou boy. Come back anytime, alright? We’ll kick Jouichirou out anytime if you want us to.” 

Now Shinomiya’s very flustered. 

“N- no??? Please don’t! I mean, I’m honoured, but—!!” 

They laughed at him and he couldn’t help but sigh. They’re just messing with him. But it was fun to spend the week cooking for a store with minimal help from Tamako and Uncle Yukihira. He’d never done something so labour-intensive in his life, and he’s never had to learn so many recipes last minute before. They were fun to follow though, since they were simpler than what he was used to. 

It felt like he was cooking at home for his Ma again, and that’s always nice. 

Now though, Jouchirou had some soup simmering on the stove, and the thickly-sliced noodles went into the boil.

Looks like it’s udon for lunch. 

He’s actually never tasted any of Jouichirou’s cooking this week. Joucihirou had tasted plenty of his cooking, though, and his pointers for multitasking the many grills and the trick to expel the nerves when you’re overwhelmed was immensely helpful in the horrible weekend rush yesterday. 

They didn’t focus much on taste or innovation, though. They’d been too busy keeping up with the number of orders to have time to think of how to improve any menu items at all. He was just focused on how to be as consistent as possible.  He burned so many eggs because the heat was too high, he may have flashbacks the next time he messes up. 

“Wha— hey!” Shinomiya barked at Eda, realizing the rude ass had opened his packet of popping candy and was promptly throwing back half of the entire dose of sour powder right into his mouth at once like it was a shot glass. What an absolute heathen. “We’re literally about to have lunch!” 

He only replies with a noncommittal  hum, clearly enjoying the absolute maddening ruckus that must be happening into his mouth. 

“...isn’t that sour?” Shinomiya asked, incredulously. And he feels dumb asking a moment after because he remembered the guy couldn’t taste a thing. He corrected himself, “doesn’t it hurt? ” 

It only hurts as much as a rapid assault of light prickles, times a couple thousand because people usually down half a packet at a time not the entire damn thing if you choke on it you will regret your life , and sometimes they catch on your tongue and really bite, too—

“It’s fun,” Eda said, his mouth still full. “Want some?”

“We’re about to have lunch, stop eating candy!”

Jouichirou laughed heartily at that.

“Alright, order’s up,” he called. Knocking the sieve twice against the side of the cooker, he gently guides it into the crystal clear soup. And then, he tops it off with a perfect egg in its centre.

Shinomiya’s mouth waters. 

The smell of the herbs filled the entire room the instant that pot opened up, the harmonious blend of vegetables in the rich dashi— the light smokiness of the dried mushrooms and generously grated daikon used as toppings, it had him swallowing before it got to him. 

“Two Yukihira Special: Tsukimi Udon. Happy to serve.” 

But when it was set down before him— there was something else on it. Right by the egg, transparent pearls shrouded the yolk as if they were clouds. 

“What’s this, tobiko?” Shinomiya eyed it warily.  

“Thanks for the food,” Eda didn’t question it at all, breaking the egg and going for a hearty mouthful of noodles weaved in with the milky whites. He spooned some soup with the yolk and the pearls— and downed it eagerly. 

Shinomiya stared. 

Eda’s eyes suddenly filled with surprise. But he chewed on, and, after swallowing, he looked up, completely enamoured, at Jouichirou. 

“I knew they’d pop, but are they sour?”

What.

Jouichirou grinned. 

“I spherified some yuzu to top it off, was it good?” he asked. 

“I don’t know, but it was a surprise. The udon’s perfect too, they go down really well, and the egg makes it just heavy enough to be filling even though it’s so light… I’m not sure if the sourness will overpower the udon, though,” Eda said, and eagerly went for a second bite. “Wait, did you add the spheres in because I was eating candy, or was that always part of the plan?”

“Because you were eating, but I’ve wanted to put yuzu on, anyways. You just inspired the method. It felt to me like you were preemptively dissing my food for being boring, so what about now, you brat?” 

“It’s cool!” Eda didn’t even deny the statement. “And I think the flavours would work, too! Kinda like squeezing a lime over beef pho.” 

“Right?” Jouichirou beamed.

“Sour and spice are the only flavours worth tasting anymore.” 

“I suppose so!” 

Honestly? Shinomiya had to stare. What else could he do? Eda was very evasive of food in Polar Star, and he ate everything calmly, never quite having explosive or helpful reactions. Sure, he knew the reason now— but look at that. 

A single meal from Jouichirou, and that’s the most Shinomiya had ever heard the guy speak positively of food. Sure, the food smelled like stuff of the gods and probably tasted like it too— but the difference was clear between this and anything else made by the seniors in Polar Star.

Jouichirou had made this dish with Eda’s disabilities in mind, and Eda appreciated it so sincerely. It’s a dish made with soul. And most impressively, even someone without a sense of taste or smell could enjoy it wholeheartedly. 

He did it so easily, too. 

“You guys are so weird,” Shinomiya groaned. 

“If you don’t wanna eat I’m—” 

“I’m eating!” Shinomiya shielded his udon before Eda’s chopsticks could get close enough. WIth a huff, he broke apart the egg and savoured the satisfaction of that creamy egg clouding into the clear soup, dousing it a misty white.

He dipped his spoon in, taking in some soup, egg, and yuzu pearl at once. 

And the second it entered his mouth, it burst open, and the rich flavour of the yuzu and deeply condensed stock of seaweed and mushrooms overwhelmed his senses. And Eda didn’t have to worry at all— the slight bitter tinge of yuzu countered its own sourness in conjunction with the saltiness of the soup. Rather than blowing away the light, delicate flavours of the broth, it added a deep, satisfying richness to it that was mesmerizing against his throat. 

He downed the spoonful quickly, and, the acidity making him crave an equalizer, he went straight for the noodles. 

And god, was it legal to cook these noodles so perfectly? They slid right down his throat and warmed him to his stomach, and the satisfied breath he heaved right after felt like a chug of freezing cold soda on a hot summer day. 

He reached for the condiments next, and who allowed this dried mushroom— the  exact same damn mushroom Shinomiya’s been using all week, even— taste so explosively packed with umami? What magic is this? It only cost some hundred yen down the street and he’s never tasted a better mushroom in his life. 

And most of all, Jouichirou didn’t even add any meat in this. It’s a fully vegetable stock, and yet, it’s just as enriching and satisfying as a protein-stacked Tonkotsu ramen. Even the residents of Sumiredoori wouldn’t complain about this, it’s perfect.

(Shinomiya had to add bacon to his dish that day because it was just lacking without any meat. He loved vegetarian dishes because of his roots and meat always felt like a luxury, so he didn’t like to use it. Even if it meant less flavour, he just wanted the vegetables to shine.)

(And yet here it was, the possibility achieved and presented before him.)

(He’s never felt so crushed and yet immensely motivated in his life.) 

Shinomiya’s never been a fan of sour things, but the light kick of sourness from the yuzu is addictive. Kind of like sour plums in rice, it’s just a sweet kick that makes your appetite ride, it keeps you craving once it starts leaving your tongue.

He’s trapped in this bowl of udon and he honestly can’t even pretend to escape. 

“This is illegal,” Shinomiya declared. But he’s just eaten food from a well-renowned Tootsuki almost-alumni. This is probably par for the course. He is very blessed. He bows deeply against the table. “I thank you for this opportunity.” 

Jouichirou cackled. 

“I’m glad you like it!” 

 

---

 

Tamako drove them to the station.

Honestly, Shinomiya had no idea how to feel about Eda’s big sister, Yukihira Tamako. They worked closely while he was manning Yukihira Diner, and she was a very capable, very socialite woman who no one could hate. She was pretty, too, in a most-badass-big-sister-who-will-fuck-you-up kind of way, and as someone who tried to fit in that stereotype to make it in the city Shinomiya couldn’t help but admire it a little. She’s cool as hell, what’s he supposed to do about that except say ‘yes ma’am’?

“Come back anytime, Kojirou!” 

And that was yet another jarring thing. After being called ‘Shinomiya’ so often in school, it felt homely to be called by his first name again. And everyone in Sumiredoori called him that. 

“Yes. I thank you all very much for the hospitality this week, Tamako-san,” Shinomiya managed to offer a very, very sincere word of gratitude. He really did appreciate them. This week was wonderful, and if he hadn’t impulsively decided to join, he’d have been moping about not being able to go home in the dorms instead. 

“Awh, you brat, just call me Nee-chan already!” Tamako insisted.

“Uh— then, Tamako-neesan,” he relented. 

“Good!” she grinned. “Now I’ve got two idiot brothers to coddle. Can’t make a big sis happier than this.”  

Well. Being unintentionally adopted wasn’t the most unexpected thing that could’ve possibly happened. He’ll just enjoy it, then. 

She dropped them off in front of the station, ruffling their hair roughly as they shouldered all their luggage and souvenirs, unable to protest. 

“Take care of yourselves,” she said. “And whenever you need me, I’m one call away. Run home even, I’ll protect you two from anything, just tell me and I’ll even beat up bullies for you. Alright?” 

She was doting. So, so doting. 

How do you not adore her entire existence? SHe was a treasure to this world and even Shinomiya could see the value she held in Eda’s eyes. He wondered if it was slowly seeping into his, too. 

“Go kill it out there, boys!” 

Somehow, having her see you off to a new semester in school felt so motivating, it felt like he could take over the world. 

 

---

 

They fell asleep on the train and missed their exchange.

Luckily it didn’t take too much effort to get back on the right track, but it was late into the evening when they finally made it, and there was a long trek ahead to Polar Star’s dormitories. 

 

---

 

“Well! How was your impromptu Stagiaire, my two youngest?”

“What’s a Stagiaire?” is Eda’s question.

“When did we become your kids?” is Shinomiya’s. 

Fumio answers exactly neither of those questions to quickly usher them in. “Dinner’s ready, boys, and I hope you don’t mind, it's nothing fancy. It’s just the three of us tonight, after all.” 

Apparently, the seniors would only be back starting tomorrow. It was still just Fumio in the dorms right now, and she welcomed them back.

She said it was nothing fancy, and she really didn’t understand what that meant.

After a week of eating miscellaneous diner leftovers between hours, seeing big plates of food dished out with a hot pot of rice felt like going to an authentic Chinese Restaurant for a good meal. 

Steamed eggs with minced meat and mushrooms, topped with chives. A whole steamed sea bass. Fresh vegetables and potatoes, stewed with nuts and herbs. She even had furikake for the rice, warm tea in a pot, and ABC soup on the stove. Shinomiya knows that smell anywhere. 

“Fumio-san…” Shinomiya’s eyes watered. “I love you…” 

“It looks so good I’m going to cry…” Eda said. “I’m so jealous I’m going to die, Shinomiya…” 

“After eating this meal, I can probably die happy anyways,” is his sincere response.

They trekked like hell on an empty stomach to get up here, okay? And they got exhaustedly lost after a tiring week working. Don’t blame them for being overemotional, but the matron of Polar Star is the matron of Polar Star for a reason .

“What did Jouichirou do, starve you guys?” Fumio accused. “And why are you jealous, Eda? You can eat, too.” 

“I know,” he said, sagely. “Exactly.”  

She’d found overly grateful tenants many times. It's kind of her job to feed them like this, but seriously, why are they like this? Was the first year in Tootsuki too tough for them after all?

“Alright, enough,” she rested her hand on their shoulders. “Let’s eat before it gets cold, alright? There’s plenty of food, so you guys can have seconds, too.” 

 

---

 

Dessert consisted mostly of souvenirs and leftovers from Eda’s bakery. 

“I made a lot of macarons!” he says, holding up two cutely-packaged portions from the pile, labelled with their seniors’ names. “I know the macarons will be gone in an instant, but we also have leftover stale croissants and baguettes. I’m thinking of making French toast tomorrow morning.” 

“That’s a weird bread to use for it.” 

“Then we’ll eat weird French toast for breakfast,” Eda mulled, “we can use whatever’s left over for bread pudding, or…” 

“Garlic bread,” Shinomiya suggested. “The rest we’ll toast and crush into breadcrumbs and deep fry something for lunch?”

“With croissants and baguettes??”

“Hey. Bread is bread,” Shinomiya says. “If it tastes weird, then I guess we’re eating a weird lunch. We’re not going to waste some perfectly good food just because the breading is strangely sweet, right? Are we wealthy enough to do that?” 

“Oh no, Jouichirou-san taught you some really weird habits,” Eda mourned. And well, to be fair, he’d eat it too, it’s not like he could complain about the taste anyways. 

Fumio raised a brow at them, trying to enjoy her macarons in peace. “You two sure have gotten into the Tootsuki mindset real fast there.” 

 

---

 

“I come home and the smell of baked bread awaits. This is heaven. I am in heaven. I question why I ever left this heaven.” 

“I smell tomato soup!” 

“Garlic bread and wild mushroom soup!” 

“There’s a real damn good french onion soup somewhere in there! Where is it?!” 

The seniors came back in hordes, a lot earlier than expected, and right into Eda and Shinomiya’s impromptu bread bowl lunch party (featuring Fumio, reaping the rewards just from spectating,) because ‘too many damn baguettes, why did we bake so many damn baguettes’. 

“What the— I thought you guys were coming home in the evening?” Fumio balked at the sight of them. 

“There was less traffic jam than expected!” 

“Well, there was an emergency, so I got dropped off earlier?”

“I was planning on dropping by a few more places before coming back but since the weather’s looking bad I decided against it.” 

“And that was the right choice! What is this??”

“Oh my god did you put curry in that bread bowl?”

“There’s beef stew in this one! And cream stew in this one!” 

“What the hell— dibs on the cheese gratin! I saw it first!” 

“The pumpkin is so good?? Is this our pumpkin??”

Let’s just say Shinomiya brought back small amounts of a lot of Yukihira leftovers so he could sample them over time. And since this bread bowl party happened, they decided to fit as many of them as they could into bread bowls and warm it up in the ovens for the occasion. 

Then Fumio found the first pumpkin harvest of the farm (it was just barely autumn yet,) and they made pumpkin soup, too. They made way too much food, but they figured they’d skip dinner and just make food for the seniors. 

Now it looks like they won’t have to, because the seniors have gone rabid.

“This is the best welcome home present ever?!? I love my juniors!” 

“We have the best fucking juniors ever oh my god —” 

 

---

 

Dinner ended up being a team effort, and then, dessert was full of overwhelming praises again. Somehow they managed to use up the breadcrumbs today, and honestly, Eda is a bit worried about the overwhelming amount of carbohydrates everyone gorged themselves on the entire day. Someone was definitely going to get a nutrient imbalance.

But, well, that’s what school restarting is there for. Stress will burn it all out in an instant, for sure. 

Being back at home in Sumiredoori was very, very fun, of course, but truthfully, the cacophony of Polar Star’s just as homey as the shopping district. 

It’s just the kind of place you leave your heart in forever. 

And though they still didn’t know the secret that weighed down in his chest— his shoulders were just a little lighter now than before.

Chapter 26: Errors and Improvisations

The Autumn Election begins in September. 

The High School first years were stoked with excitement. Unfortunately Sekimori was expelled before it, but of the four other first years in the dorms, two made it into the list.

“ Stew ? That’s the topic this year?” 

Shinomiya nods, looking around for any sign of their high school seniors. Coming to the arena to witness the election prelims, they were surrounded by high school students and it was honestly kind of intimidating. 

“I… am feeling bloated just thinking about it,” Eda murmured, looking at the map. 

“You’re in a cooking school. Why are you even surprised?” Shinomiya pulled at Eda’s collar before he walked off. “I see Mizuhara and Sena. We’re joining them so we can be lost together.” 

“Oh?” 

Sena found them at the same time Shinomiya did, and Shinomiya’s face scrunched up displeasurably. Sena beamed, completely undeterred by the waves of annoyance sent in his direction. Eda was more than happy to reflect the joy, because he wasn’t a prick. 

He’s so relieved he doesn’t have to be lost with Shinomiya in the den of hellhounds. Mizuhara, however, sharpened with hostility at the sight of Shinomiya.

“...it’s nice to meet you,” her voice was soft, when she finally turned away from glaring at Shinomiya to greet Eda. 

“Nice to meet you,” he couldn’t help but respond just as meekly. 

“You guys are here to watch, too?” Sena asked. 

“Our seniors from the dorms are competing,” Shinomiya snarled at him. “Mizuhara is here to learn, I can guess. Are you here to fool around, Sena?”

Sena brightly responded, “nope! Here to learn, too. We have the day off because the teachers are busy, after all.” 

They say the greatest counter to unjustified anger is to ‘be as nice as possible’, and Sena clearly got that lesson down to pat and perfection. Shinomiya screeched in defeat in the corner as Eda silently died of second hand embarrassment. 

“We can meet with our seniors and go in together,” Eda suggested, “less likely to get cornered or lost like that.” 

“Cornered?” Mizuhara asked, a little wary of why he even thought of that. 

“Lost, eh? I guess Shinomiya’s horrible sense of direction has even you stumped,” Sena said, mildly, and Shinomiya almost whirled around at the chance to retaliate before Eda interrupted. 

“Help me,” Eda pleaded. “But I’m at least glad we won’t be too out of place here with you two around too… it’s so scary being in a crowd of high school students…” 

Shinomiya interrupted curtly, “why are you two together, huh?”

There’s a blink of confusion from the two addressed.

“Because… we’re partnered together in all of our classes?” Sena answered. “And, well, no one else wanted to come here, and who would come to this kind of place on their own?” 

He answered it so casually that Shinomiya just turned around and wilted in defeat. 

He can’t do this. Make an offensive joke in his direction and it flies right over his head. Mizuhara definitely understood it, but she was so baffled by Sena’s oblivion that her argument also died in her throat. It’s almost impressive. 

(Eda has an inkling that Sena definitely knows and he’s just messing with them all, but under that firm smile no one knows for sure.) 

“Give it a rest, Shinomiya,” Eda said, sympathetically. “Let’s just relax and watch the competition, can we?”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.” 

 

---

 

The four of them settle by the Polar Star seniors as they cheer on the participants. People are cooking amazing things down there and Fumi can’t look around fast enough.

Everyone seems to have their eyes on the favourites, though, and they’re talking it up fervently. Eda didn’t pay much attention to it. Someone was making curry. Beef or similarly rich meat stews seemed to be the most common option.

“Ther’es someone doing a vegetarian stew!” Shinomiya pointed out, excited. “Nice!” 

“That’s going to be really difficult,” Sena said, “vegetables just don’t have much impact compared to meats. I wonder how he’s going to make up the difference.” 

“It’s possible,” Shinomiya bristled, “seriously, one day I’m going to bash your head in and reset the part of it that has a meat complex.” 

Sena beamed. “I’m looking forward to it, Shinomiya!” 

Eda decided not to bother with that energy. It’s exhausting, why is Shinomiya even trying?

“What would you make?”

He jumped, realizing the question was directed at him. Mizuhara was naturally quiet, so he didn’t expect her to start the conversation when they were just looking down, absorbed in all the varieties down there.

Ah, no one’s making dessert. Guess that makes sense… it’s a stew battle, after all, everyone’s going to be serving up nutrient rich, filling, and piping hot stews one after another. Putting out a dessert now runs the risk of not being an acceptable dish on a skill level, and most of all, you’re opening up a whole new judgement criteria. If you don’t blow the judges away, they’ll be horrifically disappointed. 

“...what about you?”

Eda had no idea what he would make, if he was presented with this theme.

“Beef Stew,” Mizuhara’s answer was immediate. She would dive, right into the most fervent part of the competition— for the quietest one of the group, that’s somehow very fitting. She would charge, right into the epicentre, and make herself known. “A Tuscan Red Wine Beef Stew… I’ll have to make the best possible stew I can. It’s my specialty, how else will I fight?” 

“I’d go with a lamb scouse,” Sena says, inserting himself into the conversation. “Stew is my playing field, too. If I back down from it, I’d be ashamed!” 

And that certainly makes sense.

“Definitely a ratatouille. I’d mop the floors with all of you,” Shinomiya insisted. “Cowards.” 

Eda couldn’t help but laugh at that. 

He wondered if the judges ever get heartburn, eating all these stews at once. If that ever happens, a nice, cold Tong Sui would be so good for a refresher. 

Might be a little too homely for a competition of this scale, though. 

“Eda?”

“Ah—” he chuckled, “I… don’t know, honestly.” 

“Stop being so indecisive,” Shinomiya groaned, “if the time comes where you’ll have to come up with your own dish on the fly, you’ll just waste time deliberating like that.” 

“Now, now,” Sena soothed, “for the Autumn Elections, I hear they get at least a month to think it all over. It’s fine, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but what if they don’t?”

 

---

 

Autumn Elections are intense, and one of the seniors even makes it into the finals. Unfortunately for the Junior High students, that’s where their day offs end.

“The guy that used oxtail was interesting.” 

“I quite liked the curry stew myself… if he didn’t get points docked for the overdone potatoes, he’d have definitely made it in.” 

“Vegetable stew didn’t make it, but I guess that was to be expected.” 

“The girl with the Chinese herbal recipe was interesting, though.” 

Eda listened enviously as they chatted about the competition the next day. He stood beside Shinomiya with a sigh. 

Suddenly being back in a place where no one can understand you is quite— well, demotivating. Yesterday was very impressive— he’d never been in such a huge arena before where everyone inside cooked to such a high level. It wasn’t until he left the room that he’d realized how thick the smell of stew and spices had been, that outside felt like fresh air.

Even such pleasant smells were just like humidity to him now. 

“Pay attention now, class,” the teacher walked in. “Before we begin class today, I’ll need to brief you all regarding the term exams that are coming up for you all.” 

Oh, right. This is a school.

“As you all may know, exams in Tootsuki are vital to your advancement to the next grade. Even in Junior High, performing badly is grounds for an immediate expulsion. The Junior High section only have annual and bi-annual tests that go this far, but in High School, there are many more, not including official Shokugeki.” 

Oh, right. This is that kind of school.

“Now, I’ll explain how the first year tests will work.” 

By the time the paper reaches his hands, Shinomiya is already shaking him to focus, damn it, focus. 

“You’ll be working in teams of two just as you are right now, to serve a two-course meal,” he says. Well, wasn’t that merciful. You get to work in a team with a person you’re familiar with. “Before the test begins, however, you have to decide who makes which dish, and you’ll be separately judged to the standards of the dishes. While you may work on preparations and support each other in the kitchen, ultimately, the dish must be finished individually. Any questions?”

…yes???

What the hell??

“S- Sir?!” the sentiment is shared across literally everyone in the room, “but, sir! Wouldn’t a main dish be naturally judged higher than an appetiser or a dessert?” 

“Not necessarily,” the teacher says, and doesn’t elaborate. “But you two in the team have to deal with the separation yourself.” 

While it really isn’t necessarily so, these first years who’ve been learning the basics in their year here, would find it much easier to complete a fulfilling main dish than they would something as delicate as an appetiser or dessert, which in a two-course meal exist to enhance and supplement the hero, the main dish . 

Why would you expect first years to make a good two-part dish that doesn’t conflict with tastes, anyways? There’s a dessert class for first years, but it’s only emphasized as much as Ingredients. All their important classes have focused on main dishes. Appetisers only come up once a blue moon in their lessons.

“Sweet,” Shinomiya grins, “we’ve got an advantage over everyone else! They’ll all be trying for appetisers, and even the ones going for dessert won’t stand a chance against you.” 

Is this the time to be so positive ? “You’re not wrong,” Eda supposed, “but still… isn’t this a bit of a high hurdle for the rest of the first years?”  

There’s definitely a reason why Tootsuki’s graduation rate is so low.

“Heh. Who cares?” Shinomiya slung an arm around Eda’s shoulder. “Worry about ourselves!” 

“And the test is next week.” 

Now everyone, including Shinomiya, shrieked at the teacher, “NEXT WEEK?”

 

---

 

The finals for the Autumn Selections were still underway, which meant the kitchen was busy with their seniors experimenting recipes. 

“The school will provide basic ingredients and anything you request to some degree, but for special requests you’ll have to get it approved and get it yourself.” 

“I see, so, like Sekimori-senpai’s tea leaves?” Shinomiya asked.

“Yep, perfect example.” 

“I see… then I’ll have to get the piniot noir myself somehow…” Shinomiya frowned. “Ah, sorry to bother you at a time like this, Nakagawa-senpai.” 

“No worries! I needed a taste tester, anyway.” 

In the Polar Star Dormitory, only one had advanced to the finals. His specialty was in dishes using dairy, so his next theme of pizza was right up his alley.

“You’re making a quattro formaggi, right?” 

“Exactly. The key will be in the ingredients. I’m thinking of borrowing some of the ingredients made by our dormmates, but I’m still missing something. I think it needs more, you know… maybe I’ll split it in half. Fill the other side with white sauce… you think sour cream will work well?”

“S- what?”

“Yeah. I think it’s a german thing…” 

Shinomiya honestly thought the pizza was perfect. The gorgeously dripping cheese melted luxuriously on his tongue, the prickling sourness of the tomato sauce clinging to the savoury bitterness of the cheese— it sits warm against the smoky sweetness of the crust, and the fresh herbs united it all together without making it too heavy.

And yet, Nakagawa-senpai wasn’t satisfied with it.

It just made him realize that he had so much further to go. 

“Ah— where’s Eda-kun, by the way?” Nakagawa-senpai asked. “Aren’t you two supposed to be working on your finals together?”

“Oh, right!” Shinomiya spun around, “he went to the greenhouse for fruits!” 

 

---

 

“You’re making beef bourguignon, right? I want to keep things simple. So a key lime pie, or maybe a pina colada… I’ll be trying some things. I want to make a pumpkin pie, honestly, but savoury things will be too rich to go with your bourguignon, so I won’t.” 

The only requirements in the exam theme were that the main dish must be a meat dish. If that weren’t the case, Shinomiya would be ditching it in an instant and making a mushroom bourguignon instead. 

“You with your sour flavours again…” 

“Geez, I like it, okay?!”

“You sure it’ll be enough, though?” Shinomiya asked, “it’s nothing special.” 

Even then, it’s fine. It’s Junior High, after all— it’s not the raging warfront of high school. In Junior High, as long as you stay consistent and play it safe, you’ll make it through even if you’re just scraping by. 

Everyone’s going for dishes that they’ve learned in class. The ones trying riskier options not in the curriculum are the minority, but Shinomiya and Eda are in the category now. 

“Woah… the Polar Star dormitory’s amazing. I saw the Strawberry farm out back.” 

Shinomiya lifted his head from the lime plants to see Sena and MIzuhara have come. Since the practice rooms were all occupied, they’d been offered to practice in the Polar Star kitchens, and here they were. 

“You guys are always here, huh?” Sena asked. 

“School on a weekend is weird,” Mizuhara said. 

Eda stood up with a basket of his harvest. “Have you guys decided what to make yet? And who’s making what?”

“Pretty much!” 

For their team, Mizuhara is making tomato and pesto focaccia; and Sena’s making Buffalo wings. Utterly bizarre options for junior high first years that have never learned any of these things in class. 

“You’re going to be set on fire one day, Sena,” Shinomiya warned, dryly, “you sure you wanna work with this guy, Mizuhara? It’s dangerous for you.” 

Mizuhara shrugged. “When I stand beside him, no one else gets close. It’s nice.” 

Sena beamed.

Shinomiya almost felt too bad to enlighten him, “dude, that’s the exact opposite of a compliment. Don’t look so happy.” 

-

They ended up working on their dishes together. 

“Are you TRYING to kill the judges,” Shinomiya snarled at the sour cream that Eda had just finished making. “This isn’t just sour, it’s a sourness BOMB.” 

“So, perfect?” Eda asked.

“I hope your organs shrivel up with one mouthful of this.” 

Eda put it in his mouth anyways. “It makes my tongue tingly.” 

“It’s making your brain tingly too. It’s apparently not working up there,” Shinomiya turned to the others for some semblance of a voice of reason, “someone. Anyone know how to make it less sour?” 

“Add sugar,” Sena hollered from the sizzling pan. 

“Do it over,” Mizuhara said, setting down her baked focaccia on the table. She quickly cut herself a piece and ate it piping hot. “Hmm… it’s missing something.” 

Sena leaned over, and Mizuhara quickly shore off a bite-sized piece for him, too. 

“The flavours just aren’t coming through as strongly as the fragrance suggests, huh?” he thought. “The spices are perfect, but it’s not translating into flavour.” 

Shinomiya was taking a bite now, too. “You used the tomatoes you brought, right? They’re a bit less sweet because they’re not very fresh anymore. Wanna try using the Polar Star tomatoes?”

“We can?” 

“Sure, we can just go back and grab some. Might as well take some herbs from Shiomi-senpai’s workshop, too— WHAT ARE YOU DOING, DUNCEDA?”

Eda, while they were talking, had taken a bite. After a moment of deliberating, he’d slathered the sour cream he was working on generously over the focaccia and took a hefty bite. 

It’s not the most bizarre combination, but not only was it rude— look, Mizuhara’s completely frozen with shock! You’ve broken her! 

“Does it matter,” Eda asked. “I mean, a spritz of lime makes all bland things better.”

“That was not a spritz ,” Shinomiya said, “and isn’t that for soups and stews?”

“Oh hey, I don’t know why, but this works,” Sena had helped himself to the same bizarre serving option. “The sour cream is so sour it’s a crime to the universe, but that actually does well with the savoury pesto and focaccia bread. If we can find the right balance—” 

“My sour cream is fine ,” Eda insisted.

“What?” Mizuhara was utterly offended to hear that was an improvement to her dish. “Give me that.” 

“Not you too, Mizuhara!” Shinomiya was losing his faith in humanity at this point.

“What are you kids making?”

Senior Nakagawa had just come back from a grocery run when the kids were making a whole fuss. Again. 

“Oh, is that sour cream? What a coincidence,” he glanced over and took a little taste, “I was just in a stump, you know, I needed sour cream for my dish, but the cheese always overpowers it so I need to figure out how to… what the hell is this.” 

“My sour cream is fine ,” Eda insisted, very wearily. 

“Ah- yes, it’s uh, fine,” the senior began. “Actually wait. It’s perfect.” 

“What.” 

“Nakagawa-senpai, stop encouraging this guy!” 

“No, no, I’m like, serious,” he said. “This is exactly what I needed to finish my damn pizza for the finals. Eda-kun, let me use this?” 

“What?”

“You can take whatever you want from my expensive dairy stock in exchange. This is going to win me the fucking Autumn Elections no I’m serious!” 

And so, the bowl is liberated from Eda’s hands, and the senior plants a very grateful peck on his cheek before running off.

Leaving all the first years just frozen in place. 

“...very affectionate,” Sena provided.

Mizuhara continued chewing on her slice of focaccia with the sour cream on top. 

“Well,” Shinomiya said, “at least he took away the stuff. Now please remake it with a reasonable amount of sourness in it.” 

“I probably won’t make it as sour, but adding it into my dish might be a good idea,” Mizuhara admitted. 

“Honestly, with how sour it was before it sat for at least 24 hours, imagine how sour it’d be on the day of,” Sena said. “You impress me often, Eda-kun, but I never realized just how much.” 

Eda wailed in utter devastation, “my sour cream is FINE!” 

 

---

 

“Yes, this is the Candy Appreciation Society, how may I— are you a junior high student? What are you doing all the way here, isn’t it exam season?”

Eda simply points at the cotton candy machine.

“...what?”

Eda has dark circles under his eyes. 

“That,” he demands. “Please.” 

“What?”

 

---

 

(“Eda,” Shinomiya began slowly, his words tinging on the edge of an incoming lecture.)

(“I got it fair and square in a Shokugeki!” Eda cut right in defensively, covering the machine bodily as if that would hide the fact that all the seniors are eating their hearts out, “ fair and square! You’re not taking the texture of fluffy cotton melting on my tongue away from me! How else am I supposed to destress??”)

(“We left you alone for FIVE MINUTES!”)

 

---

 

Eda and Shinomiya went into the exams confidently. 

There wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind that they would be fine. They ace all their classes, and after practicing their dish alongside Mizuhara and Sena back and forth, everyone in Polar Star already knew that these four would be the stars of their generation. They were leaps and bounds ahead of their peers. 

Lining up for their turn in the exam hall, Eda took in a firm breath, and Shinomiya patted him on the back. 

“What are you so nervous about?” Shinomiya snarked. “Who do you think you’re standing next to, huh?” 

And Eda huffed. “Maybe I’m worried about you messing up.” 

He got boxed over the skull. 

Eda laughed as Shinomiya howled indignantly, “I’m always picking up after you! Be ashamed, you dunce!” 

And Eda snickered. “Yeah. Thanks, Shinomiya.” 

Shinomiya paused.

“Wait, what did you just say?”

“Oh, it’s our turn to go in,” Eda hurried forward after the line, “Come on, Pinkymiya! Let’s crush this test!” 

“Hold on, repeat that!” 

They both stepped into the classroom, and to their assigned workstation, side by side. 

They shared a grin, and when Eda raised his arm, Shinomiya returned the gesture, their upper arms bumping acknowledgingly. 

They’ve never messed up before, when they were together.

That’s why, they’re not about to start now. 

 

They really weren’t about to start now, but alas. 

 

---

 

“Miya, a minute to the pot,” Eda called. “Get it up on this side, I’ll get you the serving dish, and we can present it right away.” 

“Got it,” Shinomiya called, wiping his hands dry of chopping the fruits and rounding the kitchenspace to access the stove from the outer side. He raises the lid to let out the steam, leaving it aside before raising it off the counter toward—

—another student.

She had been tasting her own dish, from the opposite workspace. And when her teammate snarled something sharply at her, she flinched back—

—right into Shinomiya. 

There’s a moment of pure terror as the uncovered bourguignon jolted, and Shinomiya’s upper arm hit the side of the boiled pot before it clashed against the counter, and his other hand slipped from the handle in surprise. 

He instinctively gripped harder with his other arm, elbow curling in to grip the pot despite the stinging burn it slowly prickled into his skin— but it’s too late. The pot’s upturning sharply in the other direction, right for the girl that belatedly twisted around with alarm. 

Shinomiya shoved her to the side so quickly.

And the contents scorch right onto his arm.

There was painful, horrified silence before the pot finally crashed against the tiles, a sharp shriek of metal and marble muting the gasps from those that witnessed the scene. 

“A– I’m so— sorry!” the girl gasped, toppling against the ground beside her workspace. She got up quickly, “oh my— god, oh my god, I—” 

Shinomiya’s still on his feet, though his knees are bent, and he holds his arms close to his chest, fingers curled but no touching. His face scrunched up agonizingly, his teeth grit—

—and the second the girl made a move toward him his voice comes out with so much anger. 

“Could you fucking WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING, you fucking IDIOT?!” 

(Do you know who are the most annoying chefs in a kitchen? The idiots running around with eyes on the ground and brains in the clouds. The one that’s like a headless chicken, unaware of their surroundings, causing trouble for everyone.)

She reeled, tears prickling in her eyes. She knew, very well, those are exactly the words she deserved, and all she could say was a fearful, sputtering, “I’m— I’m sorry—” 

“What the hell is your pathetic SORRY supposed to fix—”

Eda is spurred back into reality, “SHINOMIYA!” he yelled, hurrying to put down everything in his hands and rounding the side. 

“Don’t touch—” 

“SHUT!” Eda snapped at him, wrenching him by the sleeve and tugging him back toward the kitchen, turning on the tap before placing his arm firmly under it. He jabs a finger in his direction as he winded back to the other side “You, stand here, run that under the water, do not fucking move!” 

And Shinomiya clamped right shut, though he pointedly growled in protest. 

“You!” Eda spun back to the girl, who was still on the ground, “are you burned?”

She jumped as she was addressed. Eda’s harried look spurred her into a frantic shake of her head. 

“Then don’t waste time there. Go back and work on your own dish before it overcooks!” 

She leapt to her feet, “B-but—!!” 

“He’s right,” the teacher hurried over. “Haruno, go back to your dish, quickly. Shinomiya, keep that under the running water for another two minutes, I called the nurse. And to the rest of the class, no one come this way until the spill is cleaned, understood?” 

“But sensei—!!” Shinomiya began

“I understand this is an unfortunate situation, Shinomiya. But even in a situation like this, you must keep the kitchen running,” he said. “You may unravel your grievances after the test is over— for now, you have to prioritise. What dish will you be serving, now that your initial dish is ruined?”

Eda had to do a double take.

Are you kidding me? They’re not getting an extension. Everyone saw the accident, Shinomiya is injured — but they’re not getting an extension, even though expulsion is on the line. Are you fucking kidding me?

“In a real kitchen, if you simply cancel an order because the chef got injured, you will never get any customers,” the teacher said. “If you want to be a professional chef in Tootsuki, this is something you have to learn to overcome.”

Eda is overcome by the desire to strangle him, but he shook the thought away for now. Mainly because it was way too obvious Shinomiya was closer to explosion point than him, and one of them had to be calm here. 

“Are you fucking ki—” 

“Shinomiya,” Eda interrupted. 

Shinomiya was young and inexperienced and the irrationalities of the adult world had yet to seize him. Eda, however, was very well aware that when unreasonable things occur, it was much easier on everyone to just move on and work to solve it.

His past life’s memories kept him calm. For now.

Eda had to be calm. Because right now,---- right now, he was the only one in the two that could. He couldn't cry right now, he couldn’t cower and falter. Shinomiya helped him so many times, he had to do it this time.

He had to pull his own weight, too.

“It’s ridiculous! It’s impossible now for us to serve up our first dish in time—” 

“Then you serve your dish second,” Eda decided, immediately turning back to his workspace, to his ingredients. 

He had the dough, he had the sour cream, he had the fruits cut. But his key lime pie would have to be put on the back burner.

“Right now, I’ll convert my dessert into an appetizer and serve that,” he said. “You go get your wounds treated, and come right back. And then, remake your dish.” 

“There’s no way it’ll stew in time—” 

“Then figure out a way to!” Eda yelled. 

Shinomiya fell silent. 

“I’ll prepare everything else,” Eda said. “So, focus on coming right damn back as quickly as you can! Are you serious about this or are you going to keep fucking WHINING?”

Shinomiya reeled back.

His teeth grit.

Then, with familiar vitriol, “FINE! It’s on, you fucking dumbass!” he yelled right back. Eda couldn’t suppress the excited grin that crawled its way up his face as Shinomiya’s fury was replaced with their usual rivalry. “But when I come back, you better not be crying under a damn table!” 

“Just get the hell out!” Eda howled. 

Shinomiya was dragged out by the nurses, and Eda spun back around to pause at the sight of everyone staring even more blatantly than before.

The teacher cleared his throat.

And Eda bumbled out, finally embarrassed, “we’ll be fine, sir! Sorry for the commotion!” 

They’ll be fine.

After all, Eda and Shinomiya were a dream team, and their combination wasn't a one-way thing. Eda was going to prove it all, right this instant.

Chapter 27: Rivals and Friends.

Notes:

Haruno is an OC, of course, and so is Nakagawa-senpai. I just realized I needed to fill up a bit more of the general character roster... I couldn't find anymore characters I could stuff in the right age range, and I couldn't keep calling them all Mob Character #n forever.

Also, this story is basically me enjoying the 'I Live to Eat' lifestyle, so I finally realized I needed some more cultural appreciation here. Malaysian food in cooking anime WHEN? Fine I'll do it myself.

I think I'll skip Winter break and head straight for the Moon Festival in the next chapter, to close the year. Time to introduce Hinako, Donato, and bring Sekimori back! The pacing might skip around more from now, because after all that setup, I plan to timeskip to Eda's HS 1st Year where the real trial and tribulations begin.

“Ah— wait!” 

Shinomiya snatched up Eda’s shoulder.

“Make a batch of your sour cream.” 

Eda blinked in surprise at that. This bastard was so discomposed, but he could still think up solutions so quickly? He’s no normal junior high schooler, and Eda’s the one grimly thinking this. 

Shinomiya’s eyes were strained,his lips chewed down immediately after he gets the words out. Ah, the burn must hurt. And he’s still thinking up solutions? Madman, utter madman.

Eda watched as Shinomiya was indignantly escorted right back out the door. 

Alright, think. Something savoury— it’s completely out of his comfort zone, but he had no choice. He had to improvise this appetiser, but he couldn’t half-ass this.

He needed to keep in mind the extensive prep for Shinomiya’s dish, too. He had to get all the long things ready first, so Shinomiya could get right into it. Keep track of his own dish and Shinomiya’s at the same time—

(He thinks of a kitchen with dozens of ovens, batches upon batches of pastries being cooked up in a single morning.)

(And he smiles.)

“Yeah, that’ll be a piece of cake for me.”

There’s no one with better focus in the kitchen than him.

 

---

 

“Well… holy shit,” someone whispered.

“He’s boiling potatoes on one side, tenderizing meat now, and did he just put that dough at the side? He’s doing everything halfway.” 

“No, he’s not doing them halfway…” 

Eda covered the marinade just in time to wipe his hands on his apron and turn around. The oven beeped the moment before he reached the mittens, and he took out the dried tomatoes before setting them on the table. He immediately set down the garlic, shoving it right into the oven and closing it for another round. 

Then, he moved onto the dough, peeling them off into equal size on the tray. He stuffed them with herbs and worked so quickly, only glancing briefly to the side to turn down the heat on the potatoes before they boiled over. 

And then, when the oven beeped once more, he systematically removed the garlic and replaced it with the tray of bread.

“...he knows exactly what he’s doing.” 

He moved, so robotically, it was impossible to deny that he knew every detail of what he was doing, down to the second. His hyperfocused gaze never left his kitchen space. His steps were minimal, his movements efficient. He didn’t pause even to take a breath or recalibrate his process.

He just moved, and didn’t stop.

He skimmed the milk on the stove. Melted down herb butter and spun it into mashed potatoes together with some milk. 

He spurred some sour cream to life on the counter and let it sit as long as it could. He caramelised onions, and made a salsa of all the vegetables he’d baked, spurring them together with sour cream and vinaigrette. 

He didn’t falter even a bit, and he did it all in complete silence. A jarring contrast to his usual performance in class— usually he’d either be in a mess, or he’d be a chaotic perfection. He was only ever so well-performing alone, and yet, now, in the center of the classroom, he enchanted them all with his unwavering focus. 

A little under forty minutes under the clock. He had ten minutes to get the first dish served, and he was well on his way when—

—the door slammed open and Shinomiya returned. 

His arms were covered in bandages, and he was pulling on gloves as he came back, securing them firmly to the middle of his upper arms. Some bandages still peeked out toward his elbow, but he took his station quickly. 

“Where do you need me?”

Right onto business.

Eda’s focus doesn’t break. 

“Take this,” he set down the thing he was mixing, and turned toward the oven right as it pinged for the bread to be done baking. 

Shinomiya tasted it, cringed, and then he winced at the sight of the oven, “please tell me that’s not sourdough.” 

Eda set it down on the counter. “I won’t tell you, then.” 

“Mother of god, grant me patience,” Shinomiya marched toward the condiments shelf, “because if you grant me strength…” 

Sugar goes into the salsa. 

“Get me some nuts on the pan,” Shinomiya called, setting the bowl down on the table. Eda moved, though he frowned in confusion. “Char the pineapples with them.” 

Eda got to work as Shinomiya reached for the dish cabinets, seemingly sourcing a specific plating dish for the sauce. 

“Tell me you have a plan for the presentation.” 

“I’m winging it.” 

“You’re supposed to say yes ,” Shinomiya snarled, but it’s light. “Get those nuts in the mix in five. I’m starting the stew, what are the things I have left?”

“Gravy and aromatics. I threw a bit too much key lime into the marinade, just mellow it out with anise before serving.” 

“Got it,” Shinomiya deemed. 

They turned back to their stations immediately, setting to work. 

It’s the most civil anyone has ever seen them work together, and honestly, some of the class glanced over very concerned that they were just a duo waiting to explode.

They didn’t.

They worked, quietly, passing each other at just the right times. They spoke, only when necessary, and yet, it was like they already knew what was going to happen the second before either of them spoke up. 

“Miya, is this good enough?”

“Toss some pepper in, Eda. The fragrance is lacking.” 

“Gotcha— ah, Miya, If you’re using those mushrooms, don’t cube them, use them whole. And only use the ones around the same size as the carrots, or they’ll ruin the whole texture.” 

“If you say so.” 

And just like that, they moved onward. 

“Do you still have that thing you took from Nakagawa-senpai’s stores?”

Eda frowned, turning to Shinomiya just as he lit the stove and poured a generous serving of wine into his stew. 

“...the provolone cheese?” 

“Yes,” Shinomiya said, moving to the next stove and dumping some wine in there for reduction, “go get it while I make a vinaigrette for your dish.” 

“You’re doing what to my dish?”

“Shut up and get it . I’m trying to do something about your sourness landmine!”

“My sour cream is fine!!”  

Well, that peace didn’t last long. 

 

---

 

They served up their first dish right before the time limit bell. 

The sourdough bread was sliced and carefully edged against the dish of mashed potatoes and red wine salsa. It’s a strange combination, especially with the absence of gravy on the mash, but it works. 

The potatoes stacked in with the delicate tinge of sour cream and chives made the lightly toasted crust of the dough so much more enticing. The savoury and sweet vegetable salsa sits in a triangular bowl, a burst of colour against its accompaniments. 

“Well,” the teacher hummed. “Very well done, despite all odds.” 

He slathered the mashed potatoes across the bread, and then, a generous spoonful of the enticingly cubed vegetables—

—a single bite, and the fresh, tangy burst of the sour-sweet combination danced  upon his tongue. The crisp vegetable bites spilled over with more sweetness in each bite, the savoury bread soaking in and upholding all the flavours and making sure none of it is ever lost. 

Then, the creamy, refreshing mashed potatoes smooth it all through with an addicting aftertaste of nuts in the milk. It meshed wonderfully as the caramelised nuts crunch in his next bite. The tart fragrance of pineapples mesh with an enhancing kick of pepper. 

His appetite whet for the acidity once more, so he’s compelled toward a second bite, and a third, right after. 

He’s never honestly enjoyed sourness until now. 

“Well,” the teacher chuckled, bashful, “what can I say?”

He’s left the teacher speechless.

The scores tally quickly. On Taste, Presentation, Innovation, Execution— he makes a resoundingly high score total of 43/50.

The Eda’s fist pumped victoriously against the air as he celebrated with a sharply whispered, “ Yes!” 

And then, bowing happily, he excused himself. 

“I’ll have to help my partner, sir,” it was like the joy finally curled back into his entire being, “if you’ll excuse me!” 

The teacher couldn’t help but sigh fondly once more. 

“Crazy kid,” he said, endeared. “This is a team battle, but with the separate scores making it clear it’s an individual assessment, none of the other first years have even thought to help their partners in the middle of the test. And yet, these two do it all like it’s obvious… they’re going to absolutely drive the high school teachers mad. I know it all already.” 

 

---

 

Honestly, Eda thought if this exam was scored like the Autumn Elections, they would be in trouble. But since this is the advancement exam, with only one judge— all they needed was a cumulative score above the 70s to get through. 

“Hey, give me a bite of that.” 

“Eh? Oh…” 

Eda held up a bite-sized piece of the bread, slathered it with the potatoes and the salsa, and slipped it into Shinomiya’s mouth as he leaned over. 

There’s a grimace. 

“You really like making my job harder, don’t you?”

“Why can you never just say things are yummy when they are?”

Shinomiya’s still focused on finishing up the stew, completely ignoring the question. “Second batch of bread’s almost done, Dunceda. If you messed that one up you’re dead.” 

“You think I’ll ever mess up bread? The burns must have disintegrated your braincells too, Pinkymiya.” 

The mixture of pastry against savoury, vegetable accompaniments— it’s the most straightforward way their specialties are mixed. Eda quite liked how poetic it was, that both their appetisers and main dish managed to encapsulate that. 

 

---

 

Eda made his way to the oven while hand-mixing a new bowl of his sour cream, not before noticing someone rushing to the one next to him, and nearly reaching for the tray without a mitten. 

It’s only after the disaster was prevented that he remembered who the girl was— she had the station next to his.

Haruno Ayu. 

“Oh– oh I’m so sorry I— thank you,” she hastily slipped on the mittens and took it out so quickly, flustered, and even more flustered after realizing who she was talking to, “I– I’m really sorry… I’ll be on my way.” 

She looked a moment from bursting to tears— but maybe that’s her permanent state. There are circles under her eyes, light scars on her hands clearly from a similar incident. 

There’s barely thirty minutes to the time limit for second dishes. And now she’s toasting a tray of peanuts? Either her time management was horrible or— wait, he saw her working absolutely fervently this entire time. What was she making?

…was she helping to make her partner’s dish for him?

Her partner now sat down at their station, enjoying a soda and grinning smugly to himself, completely impervious to the fact that his partner was absolutely panicking over her own dish. 

She hustled to prepare her dessert— clearly a pancake of some sort, judging by the ingredients. She must have planned this dish knowing she wouldn’t have time for anything more elaborate. 

(Ah, looking at how jumpy she is, she’s definitely the type to get bullied. Even if it was justified for Shinomiya to yell at her before, whatever the hell this situation is, it’s not okay.)

(And there’s only one teacher in this classroom, so he can’t possibly keep track of what everyone’s doing, either… supporting your partner is allowed, after all. So if he makes the plan and does the main frying, no one would even notice. There’s no way to prove she wasn’t just clumsy at time management, rather than forced to a terrible schedule.)

No choice. Eda couldn't help her, either. 

But he knew very well how it was to be nervous, uneasy, and caught up in a horrible time crunch— all for no fault of your own. It’s an awful feeling. He wishes that feeling upon no one. 

“Hey, Haruno?”

She turned around with a yelp, “yes—?”

“Want a taste?”

Haruno stared at him like he was insane. But at Eda’s urging, she leaned into the spoonful of the sour cream, and squeaked . 

She coughed, but was much too polite to spit it out. 

“It’s so–” covering her mouth as her eyes watered, “sour!” 

Eda grinned proudly. “Right?”

Patting her on the back, tossing the spoon into his sink, he hustled back toward the oven that beeped for the finished bread.

“Thanks! Gotta go!” 

He doesn’t see, but she knows he burst into exasperated laughter, before turning back to her dish with a renewed resolve.

This is a culinary school.

Eda doesn’t care that it’s the most competitive school in the nation— people come here to learn and to improve. It’s pointless if you don’t do it with bright spirits. 

It’s human to want to make and eat good food, after all. It’s human nature. 

 

---

 

“No, no, I’m taking it. You sit the fuck down.” 

Eda kept an eye on the way Shinomiya was finishing up the meal. His hands trembled as he tasted the stew one last time, before reaching for the places and ladling it up. 

He was sweating in a way that wasn’t very good, but he was powering through the last touches as best as he could. 

So, of course, Eda finished up the plating with the dollop of sour cream and generous serving of bread— and took it all away from Shinomiya’s hands, to his misery. 

“I can take it!” 

“You’re going to drop it, Miya.” 

“No I’m not!” 

“Don’t do those grabby hands at me, if I drop it it’s on you!” 

“Let me serve my own damn dish!” 

Eda quickened his pace to the front. With a string of curses Shinomiya pursued him, and they set it down still swearing at each other, to the teacher’s amusement. 

The glistening, mouthwatering broth is thick with cheese and butter, gratuitous chunks of protein and potatoes melding in with the generous assortment of vegetables— a swivel of sour cream and heavy cream zigs through the surface for a pop of colour. 

When the spoon breaks the coat of oil into the demi-glace, it lets out a waft of warmth and a bursting aroma of spices. A spoonful to the tongue and the sweetness of the broth mellows through with a tangy note of red wine. 

It warms up the stomach from deep inside, and the refreshing blend of celery and chives keeps the flavour light. The mushroom and carrots bring forth the thick, juicy gushes of textural changes this stew needs, and the indulgent beef chuck just melts in his mouth. 

“Even with the time constraints, you managed to tenderize the meat so well!” 

Eda and Shinomiya high-fived at that, though it earned a cringe from the latter as they suddenly remembered the burns. 

Shinomiya recovered a moment to wheeze out, “it’s because the sour cream is good for being sour and nothing much else.” 

“Take that back!” Eda wailed, “it’s the core of our dish! Our dishes are nothing without my sour cream! It’s awesome!” 

The teacher had to agree. By itself, it would be too sharp a taste— but melded into the savoury beef stew, it mellowed out the flavours, balancing it thoroughly and makes one crave for more. 

Most of all, even though he’d eaten several dishes between this one and Eda’s appetiser, his tongue couldn’t help but remember that tangy taste of the sour cream in that taste test. It’s just a kind of flavour that lingers and holds your flavour profile captive. It’s an acquired taste that truly makes you go back to it, even hours to days after the first taste.

And he could taste it all once again now— even better, melded into such rich flavours in the beef stew. They even gave him the privilege of more of Eda’s absolutely succulent sourdough. 

It’s definitely a level of satisfaction he can’t even describe. 

Eda Kiyofumi had one terrifying power— the power of inciting an intense craving, the power that makes you crave coming back for more of his unique flavours. 

Shinomiya’s amazing too, of course— balancing out the strong tastes and turning it into gourmet, all while making his flavours shine through it? 

There’s a terrifying pair of geniuses coming to Tootsuki High School Division. 

 

---

 

Appetiser - 43/50

Main Dish - 47/50

Total for Eda Kiyofumi & Shinomiya Kojirou - 90%

The highest score in class.

“YES!” Eda and Shinomiya punched the air in celebration. 

They had to pause when there’s a light squeak behind them— Haruno had finished her dessert for her team, and she would be the last person in class to present her dish. 

They quickly made way for her, though Shinomiya’s face morphed into a grimace that made her cower like a kicked puppy. 

Eda’s eyes, however, were stuck on her dish. 

Thick pancakes? They had a light brown, crispy exterior, and when the teacher cut into it, it was fluffy, like a souffle. He could see it was filled with butter, corn, crushed peanuts, and a gratuitous amount of brown sugar— folded over on a pan, like a half-moon.

Wait, he knew what that was. It’s hardly gourmet— it’s street food, specifically a Southeast Asian sweet dessert. He had only eaten it once in his past life when he was travelling for research. He remembered liking it, but he never got the opportunity to eat it again. 

Now? Now is when he meets it again? 

“Your blatant staring is freaking her out, dude,” Shinomiya warned. His voice is bitter and full of annoyance. “She’s a fucking squirrel. But it smells great, at least, so she can cook a decent amount.” 

Well, her culinary prowess aside— wait. What?

Shinomiya’s jaw drops, too, when her team’s scores are lodged in. 

Main Dish - 39/50

Dessert - 44/50. 

Total for Suzuki Yosuke & Haruno Ayu - 83%

You’re kidding. 

Eda couldn’t believe his eyes, and when Haruno clasped her hands together gratefully, crying as she thanked the teacher— she turned around and flinched at the sight of her partner, who’s glaring daggers at her. 

Their main dish only got 39, but the dessert got a whopping 44 . That’s the only case of a main dish scoring less than its secondary counterpart in this entire hall. Needless to say, that’s the highest score for a dessert or appetiser in this room. 

That ditzy girl’s dessert scored higher than Eda’s appetiser. 

What the hell?

 

---

 

“EDA!” 

“SHINOMIYA!” 

Eda spun around the door to hiss out the world’s most desperate ‘shhh!!!’ and all the horrible intruders flinched back, hands to their mouths. Eda whirled around to check on the figure on the bed—

—and thankfully, Shinomiya’s still asleep.

His hands bandaged, resting around his stomach over the covers— and a cold towel over his eyes. 

“Sorry,” Sena whispered. 

“How’s the idiot?” Mizuhara asked, “we heard what happened.” 

Eda sighed, beckoning them in. Some of the Polar Star seniors dropped in too— Nakagawa, and Shiomi, who’s absolutely tearful. 

“He finally took the damn pain meds and he’s sleeping it off now,” Eda explained, “can you believe this moron? He refused it when the nurse said it’d make him drowsy and came back to the classroom to cook instead. He oughta be forbidden from the kitchen for that stunt.” 

“He really should…” Sena seemed almost exasperated. 

“Was anyone else hurt?” Shiomi asks, settling by the chair opposite of the bed, lifting the damp cloth on Shinomiya’s eyes to check if he had a fever. “I heard quite a few people failed, but none of the ones involved in the accident.” 

“It was Haruno-san, right?” 

Mizuhara found more chairs for them to convene here.

“You know her?”

“Yeah, we share Asian Cuisine,” Mizuhara said. “Her specialty is in Southeast Asian dishes. She’s a bit of a bull in the china shop when it comes to working in teams.”

“So, the exact opposite of Eda-chan?” Nakagawa teased.

Sena chuckles. “Everyone admires Eda, but it looks like Haruno gets bullied instead?” 

“She just doesn’t get along with people as easily as Eda,” Mizuhara shrugged. “I won’t say it’s not warranted. She’s kind of a pushover.” 

“It’s always trouble when someone doesn’t pay attention in the kitchen!” Shiomi huffed. But as a fellow small-sized girl with a naturally meek demeanor and eccentric personality, Shiomi might be able to relate. 

At least this incident only had one injury, and the doctors already said he’ll recover well with no complications, albeit with some scars. 

“Enough about that,” Eda decided to change the subject, “how did you guys do? In the test, and in the Elections for you, Nakagawa-senpai?”

“Oh, we aced it!” Sena beamed.

Mizuhara held up a V sign, “top in our class, just like you. We scored two points higher than you, though.” 

“What? No way!” Eda whined. 

“We saved the leftovers in our classroom. We can bring it to the training room later and trade notes?” Sena said. “Bet yours is still in your examination room, too.” 

“Oh! Uh,” Eda glanced at Shinomiya, “when the guy wakes up, I guess. No sense in just me tasting them, I wouldn’t be able to give proper advice.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Mizuhara frowned.

Eda just chuckled nervously at that, elaborating nothing. 

“And as for me…” Nakagawa grinned smugly, jabbing a thumb at himself, “you’re looking at the winner of this year’s Autumn Elections, folks!” and then the loser fucking dabs like some outdated Zoomer, “I’m basically guaranteed an Elite Ten seat at this point! Call me the amazing senpai I am!” 

“WOOOAH???”

“YOU WONNN?!”

“AND WE DIDN’T GET TO WATCH!?”

“SHHHH!!!” Shiomi hissed, “Shinomiya’s still sleeping!!!” 

 

---

 

Shinomiya still staggered every step like he’s drunk, but he insisted he couldn’t sleep anymore— so, Eda decided to escort him to the Practice Room where Mizuhara and Sena were. The sooner they get their dinner over with, the sooner they get back to the dorms and sleep their post-exam vacation days away. 

“Uhm…” 

Eda jumped when the voice spoke up behind him. 

He hadn’t noticed Haruno Ayu there, and certainly, he had no idea how long she’s been waiting there like a nervous wreck. 

“What do you want?”

Shinomiya’s voice groused out temperamentally, probably because he was tired and in pain— but Haruno jerked up fearfully, bowing down low. 

“I’m really sorry!” 

Well. 

“I- I know an apology isn’t enough, but… my carelessness almost cost you an expulsion. It was entirely my fault because I wasn’t— wasn’t paying attention, I was a mess, I’m so sorry,” she pleaded, “I don’t expect you to ever forgive me, but—” 

Eda glanced over at Shinomiya. 

He’s dumbfounded. 

Makes sense. Shinomiya and Eda are always horribly awkward people, so they have extreme difficulties apologizing sincerely. Haruno actually managed to do it. 

Sure, it was her fault, but there was no sense in holding a grudge.

Eda jabbed Shinomiya in the gut, earning a sharp hiss. 

“You bi—” 

“So, Haruno-san,” Eda covered Shinomiya’s mouth before the profanity got too loud, “Your individual Performance score will probably get docked at the end of terms anyways, so it’s a lesson learned for both sides, right? Don’t take it too hard. Sleepymiya’s really upset, but like, that’s his permanent state.” 

Shinomiya screeched. 

“Ah— and, Eda-kun, thanks for helping me during the test…” 

“No, no, it’s fine. So, like, can you help me cheer this guy up? He’ll forget all about his anger once he’s gotten some good food in his stomach.”

She blinked, confused. 

“He looks like this, but he’s got a sweet tooth, you know?”

She brightened up immediately. 

 

---

 

And that’s how five people found themselves in the Practice room, gorging on food after their tests. 

“No one comes by this room, huh?” Sena hummed through a mouthful of Eda’s salsa bread. “Is it because it’s out of the way?”

“It’s also because Eda-kun is always here,” Haruno explained, and she’s really loving the buffalo wings Sena toasted up, so much her face is a mess. “No one wants to bother him, because he’s really jumpy.” 

“It’s me again?” Eda whined. Mizuhara’s focaccia had a delightfully crisp yet chewy texture after she changed the composition, and the ingredients melted warmly against the sour cream on his tongue, the vegetables keeping the taste light while the tomatoes gave it a rich undertone. 

“You’re so weird,” Mizuhara muttered, enjoying the beef stew, dipping the bread in and absolutely enjoying herself, “hey, this sourdough’s good .” 

“Compliment the damn stew,” Shinomiya snarled, but his hands haven’t left the apam balik Haruno toasted up for them. “And why is this so good?”

“The amount of batter used depends on the region it comes from… local tastes, and all,” Haruno explains, “this one has a thick fluffy layer of batter in it, like a thick pancake. From my hometown there’s only a thin crust, but still a ton of sugar and peanuts.” 

“That sounds interesting! Make one!” 

“Eh? Right now?” 

“Oh, make me one too!” Sena calls. 

“Ehhh?”

“Oh, teach me how to make it, Haruno,” Eda gets up, “what other stuff can you put in there?”

“Uhh—”  

The session devolved into practice. Shinomiya’s not allowed to touch any cooking supplies anymore, so Mizuhara and Sena work on the sourdough while Eda oversees both sides. Shinomiya’s on eating duty. 

Eda ate his pancake, then Haruno’s, and frowned. 

“Why’s yours so much better cooked than mine?” 

“Eh?” Haruno was flustered, “but… I think yours had a much better flavour balance… mine’s too sweet.” 

“I crushed the peanuts too finely. The chunks in yours are better with the corn…” 

“Uhh— But yours is much more evenly cooked!” Haruno argued on, “I messed up folding mine and it’s a mess!” 

Eda bristled. “Oh just accept the compliment already! You got a score higher than me, and there’s a reason for that, alright?”

“I could say the same to you, Eda-kun!” 

“I can’t believe I’m losing when it comes to dessert…” 

“Listen to me, Eda-kun!” 

“I’ve never made pasta with sourdough before,” Mizuhara admitted, “but I heard it’s a thing. What sauce should we use? Sweet or savoury?”

“Hmmm,” Sena thought long and hard, “I’m thinking of going for a flavour like arrabiata… but it might be too strong with the sourdough…. I don’t know, I don’t work with sour flavours much…” 

“Uhm, what about adding coconut milk?” Haruno suggested, “it could help enhance the flavours while letting the sour-spicy flavours shine.” 

“Oh— coconut milk is used a lot in Southeast Asian dishes, isn’t it? Sounds interesting,” Shinomiya said. 

This guy has completely forgotten his grudge and just like Eda predicted, it’s because he’s stuffing his face. 

“But making a pasta with that?” Mizuhara seemed reluctant, “next you’re going to tell me to add ketchup. I’m going to get killed by my ancestors.” 

“I think coconut milk is fine,” Eda came around to hand Shinomiya a tissue. “Can you eat properly? You’ve got sauce all over your cheek. You’re not a kid.”

“I’m hungry. Shuddup.” 

“At least that means you’re recovering, but you’ve got the vitality of an anime character, dude.” 

“Hmmh?”

Mizuhara sighed in defeat. “What are we making? Farfalle? Penne?” 

“What’s the twisty ones called? The ones that look like a screw?” Eda asked, genuinely curious. 

“That’s Fusilli.” 

“Uhm, are there those really small, ring-shaped ones?” Haruno piped up, “they’re like, thiiiiis small, kind of like cereal, and my ibu always put them in laksa, is that weird?”

“Anelli?” Mizuhara wondered. 

“They’re usually used in soups, so that’s not very weird in consideration,” Sena relented. “I mean, the fun of home-cooked food is making weird concoctions, right? Like fairy bread and all that.” 

“Hey, how much pasta are you guys making?” Shinomiya groaned. “Are we going to have to bring this back to the dorms?”

“They’d love it,” Eda couldn’t even deny that. “What’s a pasta you associate with your mom’s food, Dummymiya?” 

He bristled at the nickname, but scowled out a reluctant answer, “gnocchi, I guess?”

Mizuhara grimaced, “you guys know that you’re putting all this responsibility on me right? You want me to make all of that? And this is sourdough, so I’m not even sure if it’ll turn out right.”

“I’ll help!” Sena pleaded, “also, can you make the shell-shaped ones? Conchiglie!” 

“You’re just taunting me at this point,” Mizuhara snapped. 

Pasta party did end up involving all the seniors of Polar Star. They got in trouble for a bit, for using so much of the classroom’s supplies to keep making more food after school hours— at some point, Haruno got bullied into making asam laksa and Eda pulled out the cotton candy machine again — but then Fumio showed up, and now everyone’s just having a late night party in the cooking classroom without consequences. No one defies the dorm mother.

Then someone video-called Sekimori, and he started lecturing both Haruno and Shinomiya about kitchen safety, goddammit, if he gets over there he’d write reckless on their foreheads— 

Eda laughed as he settled in beside Shinomiya, who looked utterly exhausted from being coddled by all their seniors about his injuries at this point. 

They’ve all passed their tests. Almost through their first year in Tootsuki, with so many more to come. 

Eda realized that coming into this school was the best decision in his life.

Chapter 28: Stepping Up and Higher.

Notes:

Since it's Merdeka, have another chapter.

“There’s a whole variety of cuisine, a whole variety of chefs— but only a handful of you will go on to become the top chefs of our era.”

For the Junior High section, classes end with the Moon Festival, the last big Tootsuki Event in the bountiful autumn season. After that, they get to go home and spend half the winter with their families.

“The difference between all of you and the chefs in the High School division? Direction. In this festival, and until the next year— I want all of you to figure out what kind of chef you want to be. What kind of cooking you want to specialize in. A category unique to only you, that only you can bring to its full potential.”

Eda huffed. He knew from the start that he wanted to be a patissier, but that… most likely isn’t enough. Having a food specialty is different from knowing what kind of chef, what kind of flavours you want to bring.

Even a startup shop has a unique business objective outside of monetary reward. There are people who want to spread culture, or adapt culture into local flavours. There are people who want to appeal to those with niche tastes. There are those who wish to create franchises.

In the past… she wanted pastry to be an art form— sculpting, marbling, layering, icing— she used as many techniques as she could travel the world to learn, and put them all into a new dish each month. Her success was borne of passion.

“As you know, the Advancement exam from JH Third Year to HS First Year will be a test with the highest failure rate of your lives at that point,” the teacher continues. “And your performance there is determined by how much potential you have as a chef. So unless you find your direction now, in your late first-year to early second year— you’ll fall behind. This school is all about kicking down the ones that can’t keep up.”

Eda listened to their teacher, Minase-sensei, and concluded that this school’s absolute bonkers, but what else is new?

“Now that that’s out of the way…”

The teacher scribbled something on the board. MOON FESTIVAL.

And tapped at it, turning around.

“Ideas for what our class is doing. Shoot.”

The entire class leapt up and started shouting food at him.

 

---

 

For the kids in Junior High, most classes would be holding a booth supervised by their homeroom teachers. This helps guide the inexperienced students toward the expectations, risks, and planning process of eventually hosting a limited-time stall of their own when High School comes by.

Otherwise, they would go with their research societies to host a booth with their seniors.

You don’t necessarily have to be in the society to join a booth hosted by it— and you aren’t mandated to host one, either. But why waste the opportunity to build connections during the biggest tourist event of the year? Where influential names, millionaires, politicians all come along for a taste of your cuisine?

Yeah.

“And so, we Polar Star kids will be buying up the booth spaces near Shiomi-senpai’s restaurant on Central Street, and selling a whole variety of curry cuisine! We’ll call it the exclusive Polaris Curry Street!”

When Nakagawa-senpai declared that, somehow, Eda knew instantly he’d rather do this than whatever his class was doing.

“I’ll have my own booth, of course, I have that Autumn Election Winner privilege,” Nakagawa boasted, “since Shiomi-senpai is doing a sit-down restaurant, the rest of us are doing street food. As long as you follow the curry theme, you can suggest anything! We’ll probably have to limit our menu, of course, but that’s for the meeting this Friday evening.”

“EH? You’re asking Eda-chan that?” one of the other seniors gawked, “but he’s more on the dessert side of things, you know. It’ll be tough on him to have to match us.”

“Uhhh,” Eda faltered, “if street food is fine, I have something in mind, actually…”

“Really?”

“Ah, wait, let me ask if Shinomiya and the others wanna join, too.”

 

---

 

“Of course! If I help my Western Cuisine Research Society, I’m stuck waiting tables,” Sena was all for it. “Of course, that’s an experience too, but I’ve done that before. I’ve never helped run a street food stall before.”

“I don’t really like markets…” Mizuhara seemed reluctant, “it’s noisy and chaotic. But I also have great interest in studying spices under Shiomi-senpai. This might be our last opportunity to, since she’s graduating soon.”

“Of course I’m joining!” Shinomiya groaned when asked, because apparently, how dare you think otherwise, “I’m not doing anything with our damn class. Did you even hear how that bastard Suzuki took over the theme and operations? Just because his father owns an izakaya, everyone’s worshipping him at his feet!”

The class was doing a Japanese diner. Suzuki Yousuke, Haruno’s usual class partner, was heading the operations.

Eda took one look at the menu, and realized he would have to carry the kitchen through it. There were a decent amount of items for a diner, but for a limited-time restaurant hosted by kids with no serving experience? Disaster in the making. He would be yelling orders until he lost his voice, he wouldn’t last a day much less five.

Minase-sensei seemed to have accepted his fate and made sure they at least don’t end up with a deficit, but neither Eda nor Shinomiya wanted anything to do with it. Even if they did operate an entire diner by themselves during Summer break.

“I’d appreciate the experience, though…” Haruno admitted, “I’m a bit worried about the class. I think I should stay to work for our class’ booth.”

“Absolutely not!” Shinomiya snapped.

“If you want experience serving in a diner, you guys can come to Sumiredoori in the Winter,” Eda grumbled, “it’ll give you better experience, without that shithead ordering you around like a pack mule.”

Shinomiya growled lower, “didn’t he make you run all the way out to the convenience store outside school grounds yesterday? Twice? Because he forgot to include something in the list? Please, you’ll most likely be rid of him next year when our classes are reassigned. If you aren’t, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Shinomiya,” Sena called, concerned, “no murder.”

“Yeah,” Mizuhara shrugged, “there are many witnesses.”

“Don’t worry, I have experience,” Shinomiya continued, unfettered, “do you know what happens to bloodsuckers that try to buy your land in the countryside?”

“No?” Eda was absolutely concerned now.

Shinomiya turned away, “exactly.”

Haruno proceeded to freak out, “Shinomiya-san, no!”

 

---

 

“All of us will be using one of Shiomi-senpai’s curry roux as a base,” Nakagawa explained, “you can do whatever you want to it as long as Shiomi-senpai approves, but that’s a high hurdle. Are you sure you wanna try?”

That sounded like a challenge, and their youngests humbly refused the challenge.

“Curry isn’t really my forte,” Shinomiya says, “using vegetables is one thing, I don’t know enough about spices to not make an everything-stew and call it a day.”

“I’m content with taste-testing for now,” Mizuhara says.

Sena agrees, “same, but can we use your roux to make test dishes in the meantime though? Just for fun?”

“I’m happy eating!” Haruno agrees, “curry is my soul food!”

They were the reasonable ones. They’re way out of their league, and even if they did manage to make something satisfactory, it felt a little odd to take one of the seniors’ booth spaces for themselves.

Not all of them were reasonable, though.

Eda was stuck in deep thought.

“Eda, whatever you’re thinking, no.”

“No but like,” Eda insisted, only to be sharply interrupted.

“Dammit, Dunceda, NO!”

 

---

 

And that’s how they all started baking curry puffs in the dorm.

“I can’t even—” Shinomiya’s stuffing his face and Haruno just squealed, “the curry is mindblowingly good on its own.”

Eda choked on the first bite and frowned.

“Pepper,” he coughed, “and dry. The oven was too high. The puff pastry just feels dusty against it. I’ll need to remake it.”

“Dusty?” Shinomiya asked, then, in a more bewildered tone, “all these words and you choose dusty??”

“It’s good to me,” Haruno offered, weakly.

“You baked the pastry perfectly, Eda-kun,” Sena tried to assure, but Eda was already on his way to the next batch of dough. “But Shiomi-senpai made this curry to go better with naan, so it seems to overpower the mildly sweeter, flakier puff pastry.”

“I mean, can we try making this out of naan?”

“Would that be any different from just dipping it normally? Or like, making a soft taco?”

“The crispy or flaky crust, and the put-together handheld feel is kind of the selling point of curry puffs, though… and EDA, NO—”

Mizuhara had been staring skeptically at Eda from the moment he reached for the fridge and started chopping apples, but by the time her fear sensors went off, it’s already cubed and going into the curry.

“Shiomi-senpai’s curry is already so complex! Why are you adding apples in it?!”

“And why apples??”

“Shiomi-senpai’s curry is very Indian! Apples are a Japanese curry thing!”

Eda squeaked as all the first years dragged him back from the stove before he committed anymore crimes.

“But it might be okay! Apples are alright in curry! It’ll even out the sharpness of the pepper and make it go better with the pastry, too!” Eda insisted, whining, “I’ve eaten them before!”

Sena sighed, “and how did it taste?”

Eda choked.

“Probably sweet,” Shinomiya said, “Japanese Curry is sweet, so it’s definitely not disgusting, but Shiomi-senpai’s curry is a lot more Indian, which focuses on spice and savouriness. Adding things to it recklessly will ruin the balance.”

“But if you get the right balance the sugar just evens out,” Mizuhara supposes. “Or it’ll be completely overpowered by the spices and the addition would be pointless.”

“Apples give this slightly tart, fresh taste to stews and soups,” Haruno said. “I think it’d work in curry, but… the curry’s already cooked, so the flavours won’t be melding in with the rest of the ingredients.”

Meanwhile, Eda has put butter and apples into a pan and is currently dumping cream into the bowl. It’s when he reaches for the cubed pumpkins in the fridge that everyone lunges to stop whatever horrors were going to happen.

“Goddammit can you stop?!” Shinomiya yelled. “We haven’t even tried this one yet!”

Eda whined as the spatula is confiscated and Sena frees the tools from him. “If putting them in too late won’t work, I should enhance the flavours and mix it in like a jam, right??”

“What is with you and adding sweets to savoury things? From the Earl Grey in beef stew to the goddamn sour cream to everything!”

“Let me just try one thing!”

“You’ve tried one thing already!”

“Two things then!”

“Yeah, and after that you’re going to ask for three!”

“I can have three???”

“That wasn’t permission!”

Mizuhara huffed, “if we leave him be for even a moment, he might cook an entire kingdom of test dishes…”

“He has before,” Fumio, who was just passing by the doorway, said.

Mizuhara facepalmed.

 

---

 

The street stall planning turns Polar Star Dormitory— the whole school, honestly, but we’re focusing on Polar Star now— into absolute fragrance heaven.

Which is hell for Eda.

He wakes up coughing and he opens a window, wondering if he’s sick. He’s not, but it feels like he’s having an allergic reaction out of season, with the congested nose, sticky throat, and watering eyes.

“And this is why I always tell you to not stay in the spice warehouse for too long, Jun, and how important it is to air it out. Your room is right below Kiyofumi’s now that you moved your experiments here,” Fumio scowled, disappointed as everyone in the dorms hounded Eda with tissues and warm teas and anything they could find. Someone found a plush toy. “It’s really bad for your lungs.”

“I’m sorry…” Shiomi wailed.

“A’hm fiinnne,” Eda groaned, feeling a headache coming in.

“We don’t have air conditioning in these dorms, either, outside of the sitting area,” Nakagawa said. “You’ve been sleeping with the window closed in your dorm, haven’t you? Let some air in sometimes, Eda.”

“But the wind’s getting colder…”

“Eda, no more dish experimenting,” were Fumio’s strict orders, “we already decided to serve your curry puffs, anyways— so leave the rest to your seniors. You’re on eating duty, alright?”

Eda couldn’t hold back the grimace.

“I’ll… pass.”

That's a hurdle he can't overcome just yet.

 

---

 

They didn’t question anything. They just thought he was sick of curry after being in its presence for too long, so they sent him out to tour whatever the rest of school was doing.

“Eda-kun,” Mizuhara called out to him when she spotted him. She seemed to be running a supply trip, so Eda followed her back to her classroom. “Yeah, staying in that wooden dorm with so many spices in the air isn’t very healthy. You need better ventilation there, a lot of spices aren’t good when directly taken into the lungs. Most of the powders, especially.”

“Our class is doing a pizzeria,” Sena said. “Once they figured out Mizuhara wasn’t helping with cooking, everyone agreed to limit the menu to classic selections.”

Though Sena and Mizuhara aren’t helping their class on the day-of, they’re helping with setup and decorations because there’s a lot to do.

Eda proceeded to stare at the painted billboard, with a sketched concept of a pizza with what looked like okonomiyaki-styled fillings and sauce. Complete with the noodles and everything.

“I had nothing to do with that,” Mizuhara pleaded for mercy.

Sena laughed, “we do need something unique to make the shop worth visiting.”

They’re going to get egged. Definitely.

The other classes are doing fascinating concepts all around. Some are playing it safe like Mizuhara and Sena’s class, but others are taking the opportunity (since they’ll be helped by teachers through the process) to go all out.

There’s a class doing a haunted mansion restaurant, complete with the ghost butler theme for waiters. There’s also a halloween-themed cafe, classic maid cafes, and some classes are buying up booth spaces to host street stalls or family restaurants following the lead of some of their more prominent classmates.

“Can’t believe the entire school’s going to do food… in a normal school there’d be attractions. Won’t people get heartburn just eating the whole time?” Eda wondered, “I’d get sick from eating.”

“It’s definitely a foodie’s dream come true,” Sena beamed.

Eda honestly wonders how the foodies in this world haven’t died of hypertension or heart attacks ages ago, if this is how much they get to indulge all year around.

If he still had his sense of taste or smell, perhaps, he’d enjoy it all a little more. He wasn’t devastated or anything— he just wasn’t someone who could understand the hype of this festival like the others could, anymore. And not understanding is sad, but it’s not the end of the world.

He’s always been better at cooking than indulging, anyways.

 

---

 

Coming through his class was a disaster.

Everything was disorganized, preparation was way behind, and the teacher was getting a headache. His obligation was to only step in when things went south, though, so he simply left the students to bask in their failures.

The problem now, however.

“Stop complaining about every single detail, you barely know anything about Japanese cuisine, you hick! Stop acting like a know-it-all when you’re just an amateur!”

Eda crossed the door just in time to see Haruno get shoved toward the pile of wooden boards, and someone gasped and it shattered under her weight, nearly upturning buckets of paint. Someone leapt in before it all dominoed toward the still-drying signs, and others scrambled to get out of the way of the spilled tools.

“You okay, Haruno?!” Someone caught the half-finished roof before it fell on her, too.

“Suzuki, don’t you think that’s enough out of you? All you’re doing is bossing people around!”

“This place is hazardous enough, isn’t it common sense not to shove people around?”

To which Suzuki snarled back, “I barely fucking touched her! She’s the dramatic one that decided ot spread-eagle and collapse over everything just to make a big deal!”

The silence that met him after that was dumbfounded, defeated annoyance.

It was clear everyone in class hated him, but after days upon weeks of this same attitude, they’d all given up on arguing back. It was probably for the same reason that Haruno simply allowed herself to be taken advantage of during the exam.

Their results weren’t out yet, and judging from the look on Minase-sensei’s face, Suzuki was going to be in for a nasty surprise when he got his report card. Students in the Junior High section don’t get expelled out of exam season, but there’s one at the start of next year that Suzuki is going to be in deep trouble for.

“To begin with, it’s because you guys suddenly ditched us out of nowhere!” Suzuki snapped at Haruno, “you’re some kind of coward, just riding the coattails of the seniors! We’re here trying to achieve something ourselves, we’re not taking advantage and just being a burden to our seniors! Have some shame!”

“You’re the one that took charge!’

“Yeah, and all of you are fucking useless! And now you’re blaming me for the mess we’re in?!”

Eda stood at the doorway.

He was always fighting with Shinomiya, but that was Shinomiya. Maybe that was why he couldn’t find the words to yell back, when it came to this situation.

He hated Suzuki, and honestly, if he got expelled soon it would be good riddance— but the rest of the classroom didn’t have to take the fall for whatever the hell he was doing.

(He wasn’t new to bullying. Hadn’t personally experienced it since Butakko’s gang grew out of their delinquent phase.)

(But even then, he always had Tamako-neesan to run off to. Their territorial feud wasn’t his problem, he was just the centerpiece being taking away to prove who owns the place.)

(Ah, that’s a solution.)

“Haruno,” he called out, and the classroom jerked around, surprised to see him there. Haruno, in particular, let out a squeak of surprise. “Kiriya-senpai wanted me to ask you about fried noodle dishes. Something about a noodle stand project for our booth? We wanted your advice, if you don’t mind.”

When he comfortably walked in to help Haruno to her feet, everyone glanced at Suzuki with concern.

Eda knew why. He had the look of murder on his face right now.

Pretty cute compared to all the delinquent big sisters in Sumiredoori, though.

“Excuse me, you snobby-ass punk, I was talking to her,” he growled, “Aren’t you and Shinomiya too good of chefs to be bothered with this classroom? Fuck off with that pink-haired bitchboy of yours and stop trying to be a hero in matters you have no business in, you fucking pansy.”

Eda turned to him, still blank-faced.

“Oh, sure, I’ll be out of your way soon,” he said, evenly. Then, with a simple tilt to the head, “uhhh, what was your name again? Sorry, I’m a bit bad with faces, and we only share homeroom, I think…”

There was a startled, muffled laughter somewhere behind him, but it wasn’t until Suzuki’s face grew maddeningly red that he realized it was Haruno.

“You think you’re so above us just because you can cook a decent dish or two!” his voice raised. “Get off your fucking high horse!”

“Sure,” Eda responded with a dismissive shrug.

The dry response, predictably, set him off even more.

He saw the confrontation coming, and he knew where Suzuki was going for first— to grab at the collar, because he’s taller. Once this turned into a confrontation, he could easily escalate the situation and force Minase-sensei to actually move. Right now, the teacher was still waiting to see if the students would be able to compromise on their own. He looked disappointed that it wouldn’t.

Eda foresaw a battle coming. If there was anything he was always good at, it was giving people a reason to pick fights. After all, he's weak, wimpy, and he never gave desire reactions when taunted or hit by people who wanted to hurt him. He's the master of observing fights between these types of people.  

Eda, however, did not foresee the fist coming from behind him.

“Ah, wait—!”

Minase-sensei had been watching from his corner seat the whole time, but even he was too late to react when Haruno swung in with a left hook, right as Suzuki was stepping up to Eda.

He’d quite literally walked into a flying fist.

Saying everyone was flabbergasted would be an understatement. Eda half-turned around to see Haruno kneading her bruised knuckle, but she didn’t even look fazed by the fact she’d just punched a boy in the face and sent him flying.

The entire class stared at her in slack-jawed horror.

She had tears in her eyes, and when she finally spoke up again, it was a yell.

“I’ve had enough! Don’t get Eda involved in your insults, you prick!” she marched forward, and Eda wasn’t imagining the way everyone gave her a wide berth. “I get it, you’re the Leader of this booth, you’re in charge, you’re the one that proposed the idea! You won by majority vote! FINE! Why are you insisting on being the leader if you’re just going to throw all the work on me?! What’s the point of that?? Cook YOUR recipe! Oh but not like that! No, I don’t have to explain anything, who cares about everyone ELSE? Do you WANT to lead or NOT??”

She was yelling so much from that tiny body that Eda actually got very concerned. She’s huffing and puffing and everyone was very worried she’d throw another punch. Or burst out crying. They didn’t know how to deal with either.

“I don’t care about prestige or honour, I’ll let you have it! But now everything’s a mess and you’re still blaming me?” she chucked her handkerchief at him right as he woozily got us, utterly dumbfounded by the fact he got punched, “I’ve had enough! GIVE ME THE LEADER TITLE! I’LL DO IT MYSELF!”

“Wha–??”

He probably felt his entire brain rattle at that punch. No one’s sure if he heard anything she screamed at him.

But her next words needed no elaboration.

“YOU! ME! SHOKUGEKI, NOW!”

“Uh Haruno-san please calm—”

“Minase-sensei! JUDGE!”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

---

 

It didn’t go as planned, but damn, Haruno got control of the class booth so quickly, Suzuki ended up so fucking horrified he just obeyed orders meekly the entire rest of the festival— and the class now fucking loves Haruno.

“Ah— I’m not half-Japanese,” she said. “It’s a bit messy… but my dad remarried a few times, and then he passed away, and now I’ve been taken in by my granduncle, who’s Japanese. I can speak Japanese fine, but I grew up going back and forth between Malaysia, Singapore, and Thailand. My mami jumps around a lot due to her work, so she takes me to Indonesia and the Philippines sometimes, too. Ah, last time she took me to Vietnam—”

Eda had to take a moment.

“Are you rich?”

“I’m sorry. Yes.”

 

---

 

Well, now that the class problem is solved— everyone dissected the menu, expanded the selection to fusion dishes, and got preparations under way— Eda felt better after the change of pace and went back to Polar Star to finish his dish.

“I can’t believe we really added apple and pumpkin puree to the curry…” Shinomiya looked at the curry puff warily.

“I like the spicier ones with curry puffs,” Sena said, “but these are good, too! I have to admit, I think locals would like this Japanese-take on it more.”

“They’re traditionally stuffed with potatoes, so I also cubed some of the softer apples to make the texture more cohesive,” Eda said, still staring at the next batch in the oven as he takes a bite of the one in his hand. He frowns, “the heat’s still too high… it’s falling apart in my mouth.”

“What the– don’t just turn the heat down mid-bake!”

“It’s fine, I know what I’m doing.”

“What are you, the oven whisperer??”

Mizuhara made a pleased noise as she ate it, “the flavours work!” And Sena couldn’t help but make incoherent noises of agreement, nodding fervently.

The curry mix was already powerful and fragrant on its own, but now, there’s a soft meld of tangy apple juice working through the spike of chilli, giving it an addictively pleasant hum lingering on two different taste buds at once. Through the mixture there’s a deep, creamy satisfaction that increases in each bite, achieved through the full, earthy combination of potatoes and pumpkins folded together with cream.

“You’re unbeatable in desserts, but it’s amazing how it translates over to skills in baking anything at all…” Mizuhara hummed.

Eda huffed. “My house is filled with ovens that all go on at the same time in the morning if I want to make it in time for opening. And every oven cooks differently, so I have to know how well each oven cooks. The Polar Star Ovens are a bit older, so it gets a little bit hotter than the ones in the classroom.”

“Wait, for real?”

“It’s not a big enough difference to affect everyone’s cooking— except maybe really delicate meats, I guess?” Eda said, “but for pastry, everything counts.”

Honest to god, Shinomiya can’t taste the difference. Eda bakes the best puff pastry in the dorms, even compared to the seniors— but Eda was cherry-picking even between different batches, stating one was too flaky, or one was underdone— when, to Shinomiya, they tasted exactly the same.

There were just things Eda could tell that he couldn’t, because all Shinomiya’s tongue was interesting in was the taste of the spices and the flavours kneaded into the dough.

To a common palate, they would have the same experience. Unless you were cooking for some real gourmets, a difference like this shouldn’t matter— and yet, Eda obsessed over these details, trying over and over just to get it right.

He knows the taste is good. But he couldn’t enjoy it, so what he truly wanted to perfect was the texture.

“It’d be better if you got your own oven just for sweets, huh?” Mizuhara said. “Or maybe even a cooling workshop to make desserts in.”

“Maybe if you get better through the years, you’ll have permission for one by the time we’re in High School,” Sena said. “You could even establish your own Research Society and get the funds that way— do we have a dessert society?”

“No,” Shinomiya knew that, they checked, “but we do have chocolate, candy appreciation, dairy research, and japanese sweets. Dairy research is more about butter, milk and cheese than actual cakes, though. We don’t have one for the entire genre of dessert, but there are a few subsets.”

Eda groaned at that.

“And yet our classes have one dessert class,” he pouted. “It just doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Sure, fine, desserts aren't a big focus in Tootsuki, and trying to make your way up the hierarchy with confectionaries won’t be easy outside of its own niche— but there isn’t a soul in the world that doesn’t like sweets.

“If you become Elite Ten, you’ll be able to change the curriculum for it.”

When Shiomi inserted herself into the conversation, the room fell silent.

They had no idea when she got in there and started eating like a connoisseur, but she seemed really pleased by it.

“I really like what you did with it, Eda-kun!” she jumped, “we should definitely sell this on the day of! You got the Shiomi stamp of approval~!!”

She pranced around like she didn’t just drop a bomb on them, patting them lovingly on the forehead and then sauntering out.

“Now I’m gonna go check on Nakagawa-kun’s cream cheese curry nachos, bye!”

“W-Wait! Hold on!”

They seized her before she left.

“The Elite Ten can do what?”

She seemed very bewildered by their surprise. “Change the curriculum, of course? The Elite Ten is a student body with as much authority as the school board. We run most school events, too. And if a majority of the Elite Ten agree on something, the Chairman is obligated to see it through.”

Eda, for not the first time, understood that this school is insane.

“I would ask them to put more emphasis on Desserts for you, but unfortunately, dessert-specialized cooks are rare,” Shiomi admitted, sadly, “even in the Candy and Chocolate appreciation societies, they don’t specialize in Confections. Even the President of the Japanese Sweets society is primarily aiming to be a sushi chef, he only does sweets as a hobby.”

And Eda knew where she was coming from.

If he truly was only skilled at making pastries, he would have failed long ago, even with Shinomiya’s help. He couldn’t stick to traditional desserts all the time— and he was open to learning all manner of dishes. But he couldn’t exactly make a sugary dessert for a curry-themed booth, could he? The exam, too— he had to scrap his dish for something savoury instead.

If he stuck to his sweet specialties, they would have both failed.

In this school, in any society— it’s about adapting or getting kicked out. Only the ones at the top had the ability to change the flow of the world.

If Eda wanted more opportunities to make sweets, he had to get to the top and change it from the inside out.

He thought of a shining figure— a face he didn’t even remember clearly anymore. She stood in the spotlight back then, and there was always that joy blooming in her chest when her works were acknowledged, one after another.

She stood at the top of the world, before she lost the ability to see it all for herself.

Honestly, he felt intimidated, thinking he would try to head upwards once more. He’d crashed and burned once already— twice, if you counted both the past life and this life’s loss of senses— he couldn’t help but feel as if the oncoming was inevitable.

“The Elite Ten, huh…”

But just once more, he wanted to try chasing after it. He knew he lived for the spotlight, and even if it was just an attempt, he wanted to chase the light anyway.

If he crashed and burned again— well, he’s still here.

If there was one thing he knew, it was that no matter how many times he lived and died and lived again, the patissier in him still lived on.

Eda Kiyofumi was born to keep soldiering on.

 

---

 

“Curry Kuey Teow, Curry Yakisoba, Curry Pasta, Curry Chow Mein— You guys are insane!” Shinomiya gawked at the sight of the menu ensemble on the day of the festival. “You’re going to cook them all right next to each other?”

“It’s the ultimate curry noodle shop, curry-around-the-world style,” Shiomi grinned, “I'll be cooking in the main restaurant over there, so I can’t watch or help, so good luck, everyone!”

“YEAH!” the dorm called back.

“We’ll not disappoint you, Shiomi-senpai!”

“We have the honour of an Elite Ten at stake here! No one’s letting up even a second!”

Eda found it quite fascinating how everyone came together, no matter their specialties, just to help Shiomi-senpai absolutely thrive for her last festival. She was definitely going all out here, aiming to be the top ranking booth for all five days— and no one doubted she was going to do amazingly.

“And then, the finger-food corner,” Nakagawa presented dramatically. “Starting with Curry Nachos, Curry Puffs, Curry Takoyaki, Curry Piroshki, Curry Banh Mi, and so much more!”

Eda felt obligated to cheer back enthusiastically when everyone around him did. Shinomiya was the loudest, though.

“Alright!”

A chime rang through the loudspeakers as the announcement came to mark the beginning of the Moon Festival.

Eda tied his apron behind him. Beside him, Shinomiya brushed his hair back with a resolved breath in. He sees Sena tuck his hair carefully back and out of the way, with Mizuhara commenting on how short hair was more convenient.

Eda couldn’t help but smile.

His first year at Tootsuki ended with a great hurrah. The Polar Star Curry Street dominated the rankings of their area, and of course, Shiomi came out on top of the overall ranks, too.

After Winter Break, it’ll be his second year. 

 

Chapter 29: Of Christmas and Love Languages.

Notes:

Contrary to the title, this isn't a Christmas special. it's a chapter set in Winter Break - New Year that just coincidentally happens to correspond to our current date and time in real life. I've been writing this one for a while because there was just so much I wanted to fit in this chapter before the start of 2nd Year (next chapter will have Donato and Hinako finally showing up,) so I'm surprised I actually made it before the year ended.

It's 31/12/2023 here so, Merry (belated) Christmas and a Happy New Year everyone!

In the first month of the new year, all students have to take a re-entry test. The theme is completely free, so people usually cook their current best dish in their specialty category and serve that. 

And the junior high students have a whole extra month free. 

Most people go home, because everyone in the High School Division is out around the country for their Advancement Exams. Some understudy in one of the resorts or hotels in the Tootsuki area, but not all get that kind of opportunity. 

Which is why the five of them spent their Winter Break at Sumiredoori, helping out at both the cafe and diner. 

Shinomiya’s arms weren’t fully healed yet, so he was unable to go home to the country if he wanted to make it for weekly checkups at the hospital. The amount of strength he had in his arms absolutely were not affected by the ailing burn scars under those gloves at all. 

The locals are very happy about the limited-time menus, though Jouichirou took the opportunity to run off out of the country with Tamako, citing an excuse to have a belated honeymoon or something. 

“Shinomiya sometimes cooks like a grandma.” 

Sena had to physically restrain Shinomiya from strangling Mizuhara for that remark. Haruno simply enjoyed the pot-au-feu with the look of pure happiness on her face. 

“His food is always so homey and comforting…” Haruno swooned, “it’s such a contrast to how mean he is in actuality.” 

“Haruno, you pickin’ a fight?!” the feral animal growls. 

“Easy there boy,” Sena calls, only to get an unintelligible shriek in response. He’s taller, so he’s not in danger. Mizuhara is highly amused. 

“Well, he is a country boy, all things considered,” Eda peruses the recipe, checking for errors, “they say the greatest food in the world is your mom’s cooking, after all.” 

Eda dodged the hand that came at him. 

“Mommy’s boy!” Mizuhara yelled from her safe spot on the far other end of the kitchen. 

“Now, now…” Sena soothed Shinomiya, but only ended up getting his hair grabbed. He’s marvellously unfazed. “Let’s all be nice now. That’s right! Mizuhara, didn’t you say you had things you wanted to try to improve on your lasagna for the test? Let’s go over it once more!” 

Sena’s really good at that. (Eda wondered if he had younger siblings at home, because he’s really good at childcare.)

Almost as if Shinomiya read his mind, he launched over and grabbed him by the skull.

Eda squeaked, absolutely caught off guard. 

“Hands off the pastry boy!” Haruno warned, “he still owes me a cake for Christmas!” 

 

---

 

“Isn’t your grandpa around?” 

“No, Uncle Yukihira went on vacation with Grandma Kiyo and the rest of the neighbourhood society to a hot spring,” Eda huffed out a frosty breath as he yanked the door of the Dagashiya open. “She kept all the sweets already, but the perishables in the fridge we have to find a way to use before they go bad.” 

The problem came with the tea and fresh Japanese confections that she served in the Dagashi store. She always served it when someone came by to sit and talk, and it was really common here in the quieter times of Sumiredoori. 

“I brought back Sekimori-senpai’s green tea leaves, but we should use the matcha somehow…” 

“Hey hey…” Shinomiya looked further in, “you didn’t tell me there was a legit kitchen in here. It’s fully stocked, too.” 

There’s lots of Japanese rice, azuki beans, green tea leaves— there’s even a traditional setup for a tea ceremony, and all the tools required to do so.

“Huh? Did I not tell you that Grandma Kiyo had the Cafe before me?” Eda seemed honestly confused. “It was a legitimate Wagashiya, with the best Japanese Confectionery in this area. She hurt her back when she was in her mid-twenties, and couldn’t keep up with the workload anymore So after she adopted me I took over, and she remodelled this unused house down the street into an old candy store instead.” 

Shinomiya’s jaw dropped. “Your erasure of Japanese culture is horrifying.” 

“Oh shut it, you!” Eda snapped, sincerely offended, “I just cook Western pastries better! My Japanese sweets are nothing compared to Grandma Kiyo’s, anyways… I can’t possibly make her old stuff. Everyone would know how different they taste. In a close-knit shopping street like this one, people stop coming when their favourite foods don’t taste like they used to anymore. You should know that.”  

(And he barely remembered how they tasted, anyways.)

He leaned down over the bag of red azuki beans and lifted a handful of them. 

“Did you know? You have to pick these out one by one before you use them,” he said. “If any one of them are slightly worm-eaten, they’ll affect the taste, even if it’s safe to consume. Same thing to all of the other ingredients— if the fragrance isn’t as strong, if they’re just the least bit discoloured or bruised, the flavour changes. And not all of these signs can be seen at first glance.” 

Sure, now he can get through ingredients class a little easier than when he first started school— but this still stumps him. 

Delicate ingredients like tea, flour and bean paste are difficult to get right even for experienced chefs. Even elements like the ambient temperature, the speed of a whisk, or the slightest difference in sweeteners can break a dish. 

He mastered Western Confectioner in his previous life, but the harsh, delicate nature of Japanese food will always stump him. 

Shinomiya huffed at that. “They say the greatest food in the world is your mom’s cooking… right? You’re the one that said that.”

Eda blinked at that. 

“Of course you’re not going to make one better than her,” Shinomiya scoffed. “You’re a hundred years too early to even compare yourself.” 

Eda winced, “you’ve never even eaten any of her sweets before!” 

“I know because it’s obvious.” 

Eda scowled at that. 

Deep inside, maybe he knows. The taste of Grandma Kiyo’s daifuku is a flavour he only knows in the first few years of his life. He barely remembered it through the fog of his own sweets and then losing taste entirely—

—perhaps, all he knew of Grandma’s sweets were just an idealized version of what it truly was, a flavour that he’d romanticised because he missed it so much. 

“This is why you’re such a pathetic chef,” Shinomiya bumped him over the head, earning a whine. “You’ve got no ambition. Dumbass.” 

“Huh?!” Eda wondered if it was a chronic illness that Shinomiya just knew how to piss people off like that. 

“Everyone on earth is introduced to food by someone else,” Shinomiya said. “My mom saved up quite a lot to take me to a French Restaurant, once upon a time, and all I want to do now is give her an incredible meal at a Three-star French Restaurant one day and be able to say I’m copping the entire bill.”

That… sounds really sweet, actually. 

“Food is a mother’s love language. Isn’t it every child’s dream to one day be able to give all that back the same way?” 

Shinomiya stared at Eda like he was insane for not even thinking of that, but honestly Eda just thought that was cheesy as fuck. How does he say such embarrassing things without cringing at himself?

But then again, if Shinomiya is being silly, then maybe Eda’s the crazy one, because he’s so pathetic he can’t even admit something so simple. Who cares how embarrassing it is— if there’s anyone in the world that deserves a good meal, it’d be your mother, right?

“You’re so embarrassing,” Eda said anyway, and Shinomiya threw a bag of green tea at him that Eda barely caught before it hit him. 

“Just make something, you fucking wimp!” Shinomiya yelled. “You have to go through the endless suffering of trying to figure out your mom’s secret recipe like the rest of us!” 

 

---

 

Sena went wild on the Christmas menu. 

Yukihira’s Diner was a crazy hub that night, and Sena took the main charge of the kitchen to whip up just about the most bizarre Sumiredoori Christmas party for all the locals that were there. 

With Tamako and Jouichirou on their honeymoon, and all the old folks taking an extended onsen trip— it’s mainly the young adults, small families, and single folk left in the Shopping District. They definitely loved the opportunity to still have a warm Christmas Dinner with everyone.  

But before that, came the party preparations. And that was an effort . 

“Are you two sure you don’t want to go home?” Eda asked, when they’ve woken up extra early to get prep done. Mizuhara is already inspecting the turkey. 

“My mom said the trains are stopped from the snow,” Shinomiya said. “I couldn’t go if I wanted to. That’s a shame, especially when the hospital just cleared me for travelling.” 

“At least Haruno footed the entire hospital bill,” Eda said. 

“Oh, I’m fine,” Sena said, “the moment I was dropped off at Tootsuki, I wasn’t their problem anymore.” 

“I’m horrified of how easily you said that,” Eda groaned. “What about you, Mizuhara-san?” 

“This seemed more fun,” she said. “If I went home, it’s a warzone. Absolutely not, it’d be a full time job of making sure we don’t eat soot, the house is intact, and there’s no slobber. And I have to deal with toddlers both younger and older than me.” 

Eda could only dryly laugh at that. 

“You’d have to deal with this huge Christmas Party on your own, so you should be grateful we’re here,” Shinomiya said. “Shame Haruno had to go, though.” 

She had a vacation with her mothers and she took one of Eda’s biggest Christmas cakes with her there. It was a nightmare. He has to decorate another today. Shinomiya grumbled his way through every sliced fruit in that one and Eda wasn’t looking forward to the second cake. 

“Well,” Mizuhara looks back at them, “I guess this is a real life experience of what it’d be like hosting an event of our own today. From the advertising to the number of people to all the prepwork and the bakery is even having a big Christmas cake sale today! You’re crazy, Eda.” 

“I can’t believe you were going to handle all this yourself if we didn’t offer,” Sena sighed. “You’ve got to ask for help sometimes, you know? Can’t be good for your health, Eda-kun.” 

Eda’s breath died in his chest, but he breathed in after a moment, only managing a weak smile in response. 

“I’ll try.” 

With a sigh, Shinomiya took him by the collar. “We’ll be at the bakery.”

He shut the door on his way out. 

Mizuhara and Sena’s eyes met. 

“They’re suspicious,” Sena said, at the very same time Mizuhara piped up with a stern: “absolutely not.” 

“They’re hiding somethi—” 

“I said I’m not getting involved.” 

“But it’s unfair!” Sena whined, “they have their secrets we don’t know about!” 

Mizuhara insisted sharply, “the turkey’s not going to prepare itself! I’m not getting involved!” 

 

---

 

They got involved. 

Sena and Mizuhara watched through the window as Eda and Shinomiya prepared the bakery for the day’s work, setting out to decorate all the cake baked from yesterday and left to cool through the night. 

“You already know they won’t mind,” Shinomiya said. “And you’re way too touchy about it. Hide it or not, commit to the bit, won’t you?” 

“Not everyone’s like you,” Eda said. “And even then, you haven’t trusted me alone in the kitchen since. I don’t want them to start, too. I don’t like it.” 

“Me not trusting you in the kitchen has little to do with it,” Shinomiya argued, “it’s because you reached for the chillies yesterday and I had to question why you even had that here instead of Yukihira’s.” 

“Chocolate chilli cakes are a thing.” 

“A thing I refuse to acknowledge. Tell me where you’re hiding the rest. That thing’s going into the curry for tonight’s party.” 

Eda levelled him with a disgruntled frown. Shinomiya returned it with similar vigour, and then, Shinomiya sighed deeply. 

“Fine. I’ll sniff it out soon. Don’t underestimate the stench of chillies.” 

“See, that’s what I’m talking about!” Eda groaned, “that’s unfair! You’re a dog! You weren’t supposed to know I burned exactly one cake yesterday!” 

“The street smelled like charcoal you DUNCE!” 

“NO IT DOESN’T! The exhaust fan was on full blast!” 

“And you baked so many cakes to try and hide the smell that we’re doing a goddamn sale today!” Shinomiya violently pointed at every horizontal surface in the kitchen, because there’s no space to actually do any work in here.

Eda buried his face in his hands, “alright fine! SORRY!” 

Silence. 

Then, Shinomiya laughed, “you’re such a pushover when it doesn’t matter.” But before Eda could reach the flour, he added, “oh, don’t you start. We don’t have time to clean up another food fight. You know how mad Nee-san got with us last time.” 

Eda was left to pout, sourly. 

Shinomiya took the eggs by his side and cracked them to start on the dough. Eda sighed deeply, taking the cream from the fridge. 

“You’re good at what you do, Eda,” Shinomiya told him, sincerely. “But being ‘good’ isn’t enough, is it? You’re here, at Tootsuki Culinary, to get better . And you can’t get better until you stop working with a handicap.” 

“You think I can just magically get my sense of taste and smell back?” Eda started. It’s snarkier than he’d intended it to be, bitter with anger. He hated it when they discussed this— hated it like the plague, even if they both knew this conversation has been long overdue. Eda had to be strongarmed into all of this, like a child afraid of the dentist. He was never going to admit that it was only harming his own chances as he hid it all. 

Shinomiya wasn’t laughing, though. “You can’t. But when you stop treating it like a horrible secret, maybe you’ll finally get the opportunity to work with it as your strength . Aren’t you tired of only cooking freely when you’re with me?” 

Eda winced. 

“You’re different,” he admitted, weakly. “You’re weird. You’ve worked with me. You know how I work. But them? And everyone else in the dorms— they think I’m a genius. They just think I’m the kid that bakes a lot and cooks good. But when they learn? They’ll know I was always lying to them. When I say what they cook is delicious, I’m never telling the truth. My compliments are fake and I’m never consistent or genuine. But I accept their advice all the time and I never give it back. How can I face them all when they now know I can’t enjoy things the way they do? All we do in Polar Star is cook and love what each other cooks. And I can’t do that for them. How would they react when they no longer know if they can trust what I say about their food?” 

The Polar Star is precious to him. The same way his partnership to Shinomiya is— it’s a place of freedom, vulnerability, and cooking. It’s a place they share and compare dishes, brainstorm their new trials, and help each other to build a perfect dish. 

It’s a magical place so different from cooking alone in a bakery, where there was no one to watch his back, to look out for him, to tell him if he’d whipped the cream to perfection, or if they wanted strawberries or blueberries on the next pie for a change. 

The bakery never felt as cold as when Eda finally learned how warm it could get. 

Eda didn’t know what he’d do, if he lost it. 

“Even then,” Shinomiya began, “I really don’t think Sena and Mizuhara would— oh. Crap.” 

Eda’s attention waned when he paused, and as he followed Shinomiya’s petrified hands and dropped jaw to wide eyes toward the direction of the window he was stuck on—

—The swinging doors into the bakery have a single circular window. 

A strand of burgundy hair fluttered around the sides of it, clearly there was an attempt to tilt the tall moron’s head out of the way, but the next movement confirmed Eda’s greatest horrors. 

Shinomiya marched over and pulled it open, and Mizuhara spilled out with Sena falling out-of-balance and right on top of her, a startled series of squeaks as the smallest of their group got crushed by the tallest. 

Shinomiya stared. 

And stared. 

Sena swallowed nervously. “Uhm… surprise?” he attempted. 

MIzuhara croaked, “get off! Sena, get off me, you oaf!” but Sena was kind of petrified by Shinomiya’s absolute look of death and so her wriggling did nothing. 

Shinomiya sighed deeply. “Great,” he threw his hands into the air. 

He gestured deeper into the kitchen, where Eda stood, frozen with the carton of heavy cream in his hands. 

And— he stood, frozen still. His fingers closed over the edge of the carton, his jaw slightly agape— and his eyes wide with a shock that quickly averted and spun as Sena and Mizuhara turned to him. 

“You—” Eda’s words were stuck to his throat. “How much did you both… hear?” 

“Uhh…” Sena averted his eyes. “Everything?” 

Mizuhara stared at the ground in disbelief. “How much of that was true?” 

Shinomiya sighed deeply, staring disapprovingly at them both. “Everything, and?” 

Sena proceeded to stare slack-jawed at Shinomiya. And then he turned to Eda. And then to Shinomiya, and then back to Eda. And then to Shinomiya one more time for good measure. 

Mizuhara squinted with utter confusion. “I thought your taste buds were dead when I tasted that sour cream but I didn’t think…” 

To which Eda reacted as if he were burned, “leave my sour cream out of this!” 

“But hold on— are you serious?” Sena finally picked himself up enough to help a very grumpy Mizuhara to her feet, too. “Like— your sense of taste?” 

Eda cringed so viscerally at this he clutched the carton closer to his chest, like it was a security blanket. 

“Surely there’s a little left?” Sena seemed genuinely confused, “you taste things so well, like— when we baked curry puffs in the dorms. You always know what to add. Even when I met you you were making stew with one bizarre ingredient or the next—” 

“He can’t,” Shinomiya clarified. “He does that to annoy us all because he’s a menace to society and we’re his test subjects.” 

“I do not!” Eda yelled. 

“That doesn’t explain the whole… tasting thing,” Mizuhara frowned. “Half of our stuff had to be redone because you suggested amendments— and they did turn out better at the end of it!” 

“And… you said you had this store, and you worked it alone to get this far!” Sena said. “Even if you didn’t exactly take the entrance exam like us, getting recommended here at all without your sense of taste… how did you get so far? Your grades aren’t falling behind at all, and not all of them are because of Shinomiya.” 

At this, Shinomiya turned to Eda expectantly, and Sena and Mizuhara followed. 

With attention on him, Eda jumped, turning away, eyes wandering a mile a minute clutching the carton of heavy cream as if he wanted to curl up and hide behind it, never to be perceived again. He clutched toward the scar on his wrist, and he chewed on his bottom lip. 

“I… figured it out, just one day,” he said, after much deliberation. “I wasn’t always like this. But the day I lost my sense of taste, I woke up knowing it all anyways.” 

They look confused. 

But Eda didn’t know how else his heart wanted to say this. Even if everything could explode this very moment, he would remain sitting in the carnage, satisfied. 

“I knew how things were supposed to taste. How things should taste, and how to improve them,” Eda said. “I still have to figure things out one step at a time, but theoretically… I understand it all. Like it’s instinctual.” 

Sena and Mizuhara stared at him, dumbfounded, and he knew they didn’t believe him. He understood. He wouldn’t believe himself either. 

(But even if he did have his memories of his past life, it was just experience, building up so gradually and deeply— he hardly remembers any minute details of the past anymore. All of this knowledge is from this life, but it was by her guidance, by her little unintelligible whispers in the back of her mind, that Eda does everything.)

(How could anyone explain that? )

Shinomiya looked at him with a gaze of consideration. 

It wasn’t like anyone could understand how Eda knew flavours the way he did. He experimented and married different food combinations together like it was second nature. If there was a side or a beverage, he worked tirelessly to make sure they didn’t interfere with each other. It was something a commoner chef wouldn’t consider too deeply, and no one would criticize a thirteen-year-old for overlooking it. 

But Eda did it anyways. 

Even when two separate parts of a meal were perfect, he would find a flaw in it that wouldn’t even be a consideration in Sumiredoori, a commoner’s shopping district. 

It didn’t make sense for what little years in his life he did have his sense of taste.

“Eda…” Mizuhara began. “I’ll be really honest with you. You’re some kind of freak.” 

Eda winced at that. 

“But that… makes me kinda jealous,” Mizuhara admits. “Right, Sena? Tootsuki’s absolutely looking for freaks like this.” 

“Y… yeah,” Sena hesitated, “when you look up the notable alumni of the school, all of them are crazy in some way. There are those that study extensively to find flavours that work together. There are those that combine flavours tirelessly to form new ones. And if they find out you’ve been doing all this without a sense of taste? You’re like… their antithesis. ” 

If any of them ever found out about this, they’d hate him to the core. 

“Ah…” Shinomiya took that in as well. “So that’s why Jou-san recommended you into Tootsuki Culinary. He’s an asshole.”

Even Jouichirou had an inhumane flavour profile. His food wasn’t just an experience, it was some sort of subjugation . Even the things that tasted awful were impactful. He crumbled, because he couldn’t handle the expectations that came with it. 

In this world where cooking was a matter of wars and destiny, there was no way a kid with the instinctive ability to find perfect flavours could be overlooked. 

(Was it a good or bad choice for Jouichirou to have sent him into such a minefield? That was impossible to tell for sure.) 

“I’m really jealous,” Sena says. “In the face of talent like that… what are we supposed to do?” 

(All Eda understood was that he really didn’t like where this was going.)

 

---

 

While it seemed Mizuhara and Sena had moved on with their new discovery, Eda could feel the tension when he’d entered the kitchen, after finally having a break from the bakery for lunch. 

“That looks good,” Eda had commented, so off-handedly, at the ribs grilling over rack. And Sena had glanced over with a curious gaze. 

“I suppose they do,” he’d said, vaguely. 

And Eda couldn’t bring himself to say, hey, what if you marinated the next batch in chilli? 

The words were stuck in his throat. He didn’t want to know how Sena would react now if he dared utter a suggestion like that about a dish entirely in Sena’s jurisdiction.

He just kept silent as Sena set down a plate of sandwiches for Eda and Shinomiya, smiling, “it was part of our failed batch of croquettes. The pan was way too hot for those.” 

Shinomiya chuckled, “you tend to do that, don’t you?” 

“I’m the kind that roasts everything over a barbeque and calls it a day,” Sena said, shamelessly, “hey, it’s food.” 

The fragrance was thick, even though the food was cold now. Potatoes mashed with minced meat and a load of spices and herbs only Sena’s daring tongue tended to challenge— Shinomiya winced at the sight of it. 

“This is going to be spicy, isn’t it?” 

“I went easy on you,” was the only mercy. He glanced at Eda, “though, with Eda-kun should have no problems with—” 

Eda immediately choked on his first bite. 

Violently. 

“Eda-kun?!” Sena panicked, and Mizuhara was running for the water before she’d even taken off the oven mitts in her hand. 

Shinomiya patted him on the back as Eda managed to swallow, but needed a few more hacks to get the spice out of his systems. 

“There was,” he coughed again, the effort so winding he had to catch his breath and wipe tears out of his eyes, blowing his nose on the tissue Sena held up as a peace offering, “ way too much pepper in that thing.” 

There’s a moment of silence before Sena goes, “ah,” 

And Mizuhara is trying to strangle him. “Were you trying to kill him?! Actually, nevermind him, imagine what that would do to US??”

“I’m sorry!” 

Sena wails, despite being held by the collar by a girl barely to his shoulders in height. He looked warily toward Eda, who was now chugging water like his life depended on it.

“But… you can still feel spice, huh?” Sena said. “That’s fascinating. I’ve been thinking about how you kept changing the bakes of our pastry because of the subtle texture differences and all…” 

“Of course,” Shinomiya sighed deeply, handing another glass of water to Eda just as he finished his second, “he can’t taste shit. Which means all he’s feeling is the kick of the spice. He’s getting it worse than we would. It’s a pain in the ass sometimes— hey! You’re going to get water poisoning! Enough!” 

Shinomiya confiscates the fifth glass and hands it to Mizuhara, who’s standing by with the sixth and scowling at Shinomiya.

“Stop being dramatic, it’s not that bad!” Shinomiya groaned. 

“It is!” Eda whined, “I can feel it in my brain!” 

“Mizuhara, get the pickles out of the fridge. Maybe it’ll shut this baby up,” Shinomiya grumbled, “and Sena, you now have bragging rights. You’re the first one to give this dunce a run for his damn money in terms of explosive flavour bombs.” 

Hearing that, Sena couldn’t help but burst out laughing. 

“Stop bringing it up already!” Eda wailed. 

“What’s the big deal about these, anyways?” Mizuhara wondered, taking a cucumber out of the pickles in the fridge. “They’re cold and— oh what the hell. Why are these good? Even though Shinomiya made them?” 

“Hand them over already!” 

Yukihira was filled with laughter once again. But ever so slightly, things have changed— and Eda knew the only thing keeping his hand on the thread was Shinomiya. 

 

---

 

Christmas dinner was wonderful. 

“It’s red bean daifuku and matcha mousse! How nostalgic!” Tomita of the bento shop tasted the cake and immediately called everyone else. “Kiyo-san always made this one back when she had the Wagashiya… I never thought I’d taste it again.” 

“For real?’s

“Oh! And could this one be her famous yuzu hot chocolate lava cake?” 

Eda, for one, was going to perish this instant. He was bracing himself for mixed reactions— oh, everyone loved the buffet at the dinner. Who wouldn’t, with all the indulgent foods cooked to that level and it’s free to boot? The star of the show was the turkey, and Mizuhara was riding that high all night. 

Then came the dessert. Eda really didn’t think they’d like it all. He went for safe options— fruit cake, chocolate cake, yule logs— but then he’d put out the experimental pieces he’d worked on too, because there were leftovers. 

And everyone ended up liking those better. 

“It— it really isn’t,” Eda tried, “I overdid the lava cake, most of them are solid— and for some of them the yuzu’s way too sour, right? I didn’t mix those properly… and I burned the azuki beans so many times!” 

“Hmm…. I guess if you say so,” the Sumiredoori residents said, “but they taste really good to me!” 

“The matcha mochi is a little bitter,” someone else said. “But that’s why Kiyo-san always had honey served on the side!” 

“I remember! She’d always make these lava cakes in winter, something about how wild yuzu were sourer in winter… I really thought she was trying to kill us with the yuzu tea refills back then.” 

“Eh, now, doesn’t that sound familiar,” Sena chuckled as he brought down a plate of custard. He turns to Eda, “like mother like son, I suppose?” 

Eda blushed to his ears, “it’s just a coincidence!” 

“A bizzare one,” Mizuhara said, “but I’ve never seen you make Japanese confections before.” 

“He’s done it before,” Shinomiya said, thinking back, “it was a matcha dark chocolate crepe…” he seemed to cringe momentarily in embarrassment at a memory before clearing his throat and continuing, “ah, it paired well with Sekimori-senpai’s tea. Should we make a batch? We need to use it, anyways.” 

“I’ll do it,” Sena offered. “If Shinomiya liked it, it must have been quite something.” 

“I didn’t say that!” Shinomiya groaned. 

“They taste really good,” Mizuhara said, with a mouthful of the red bean daifuku. “You should make them more often.” 

“Hey, you should make some of this for the oldies when they come back from their onsen trip,” Shinomiya suggested, a mouthful anzu apricot custard and a spoon pointed at Eda, “I’m sure granny would like it.” 

And that absolutely made him flustered. 

“No!” he yelped, “absolutely not— these are so bad and uneven! I made so many and failed them, they’re coming back in two days!” 

“Oh, so you’re a coward?” 

“I don’t want Granny Kiyo to eat them, they’re not good!” he pleaded, “I- I mean, isn’t it obvious when you taste them that I don’t even remember what they were supposed to taste like? I baked them like they were Western Confections and everything went wrong! I’m so embarrassed I could never…” 

“Oh, so you’re a coward,” Shinomiya nodded. 

“You’re just bullying me!” Eda wailed. “Sena, say something!” 

“Hmm?” Sena had just come back from brewing tea and heard absolutely nothing. “I don’t know, but should we have some tea to calm down?” 

“Eda,” Mizuhara said, “this is way too sour. Can I supervise your baking tomorrow so you’ll stop subjecting us to these?” She picked up another and popped it right in her mouth, “we need them to be edible or you’ll hurt your poor mother’s taste buds.” 

“Yeah, tell him,” Shinomiya groaned, “he never listens.” 

“Don’t you two devils team up now!” Eda did not like the direction of this. 

“All of you now,” Sena sighed, “why must you fight? Come on, drink some tea…” 

And just a little, Eda felt like heart light up again. Everything he’s done so far can be attributed to his past life— her vast experiences, her extensive knowledge of flavours and the delicate harmony of ingredients. 

But this time, he’s truly taking a step toward something only Eda Kiyofumi has experienced in his life. And he wants to be proud of it. 

(Surely he can be. He may not be able to taste, but his success isn’t entirely attributed to the talents and skills of a woman he no longer is.)

(...right?)

(That’s right. It’s right, truly.)

(Eda Kiyofumi is more than just the woman he once was and no longer is.)

(Someday, people will understand.)

 

---

 

“Next!” 

“Here, please— Eda Kiyofumi.” 

“This is— a dessert?”

“Yes.” 

It’s rare for anyone to serve a dessert during the re-entry test. Not only are they less forgiving, there’s also not many students in Tootsuki that would commit to specializing in sweets so young, especially with the lack of classes about it in school. 

The array of perfectly-baked macarons sat in circular array. The rich green against deep red filling; the fresh yellow against deep brown— finished with a drizzle of caramel and white chocolate over each alternating shell— on presentation alone, it was hard to believe a kid in junior high made it. 

Chef Chapelle had to admit— it was really hard to find a dish of such high level even in the high school section. 

“I’ll have a taste, then.” 

The green ones clearly were made of green tea— and he’d whisked it up himself, Chapelle saw— filled with a mildly sweet anko paste, and topped off with a drizzle of salted caramel that complemented the red bean like a match written upon the stars. The slightly bitter tinge of matcha kept it from becoming too sweet, and its telltale mellow, grassy note that lingered on his tongue pleasantly. The light salt in the caramel gave it a deep, balanced depth like honey. 

But he was truly impressed by the soft mochi in the center. It flowed through each bite like a creamy coat of pure harmony, the soft, silky warmth flowing through akin to marshmallows, soft and fluffy. 

He couldn’t help but smile when he ate it. The macarons were baked french-style, but Eda had managed to create a perfect Japanese twist. With the red bean and mochi, it reminded him of a dorayaki, in some ways. 

“Well…” the teacher beside Chapelle said, “this definitely makes the Japanese blood in me very happy.”

Eda beamed. 

(He spent many all-nighters trying to figure out how to make it not too sweet just for Grandma Kiyo. Sweetness was a barrier you had to fight with every Asian parent about desserts, unfortunately…)

Then the next one. 

Yellow macarons are typically lemon, and it looked as if he’d filled it with chocolate buttercream— but his first bite was a spike of acidity that woke him right up. The taste was fresh— almost cold, a startling contrast to the slightly warm mochi in the other one. 

“Yuzu, is it?” Chapelle asked. “Unlike lemons, it has a sharper flavour and a slightly bitter tinge… I see you balanced it out with a rather creamy milk chocolate filling.” 

Specifically, it’s Japanese chocolate, which has a milkier note than the unsweetened cooking chocolate stored in the institute. It composes a warm, tangy chemical reaction when eaten together with the yuzu macaron shells. And most of all, the white chocolate drizzle over the top is brushed with a burst of mint, leaving a refreshing aftertaste that clung to his nose and enticed him toward more. 

How does one even create such perfect macaron combinations at such a young age? All with Japanese ingredients, no less… Japanese confectioneries are usually rich, but he’d made balanced French macarons from them. It’s not a risk middle schoolers usually take, especially for such a high-stakes exam.

“What inspired you to go Japanese? I remember last year, your creations were very French,” Chapelle asked. Most people cited Eda and Shinomiya as a dream team, not just because of how well they worked together— but simply how their specialties were similar, too. 

France is, after all, the dessert capital of the world, and Eda was especially skilled in those. This macaron was a testament to that. He rarely touched authentic Japanese Wagashi even in his free time. 

And yet, for his first dish this year, he chose to fuse his origins with his desserts, and finally take a step toward his Japanese roots. 

“Why…?” Eda seemed surprised by the question. “I guess I just wanted to impress the woman that raised me, so I worked extra hard this winter for this.” 

He laughed. 

“I’m sure your mother is very proud of you, Eda-kun,” Chapelle said. Extending a hand, “welcome back to Tootsuki. We look forward to seeing your growth this year as well.” 

 

---

 

In truth, Eda Kiyofumi was a chef that already had his unique flavour, and his unique specialty. Chef Chapelle knew that much. 

But he always walks as if he’s going after someone's shadow, and he takes paths that are travelled upon, more often than he steps toward the untrodden. It’s not inherently a bad thing to play it safe— Eda hardly understands ‘safe’ when he’s sticking cursed concoctions into his mouth. But he doesn’t have the confidence to put that on a plate during true competitions with stakes. 

He made dishes that belonged in professional patisseries, and with each day of meticulous training and attention to detail, he got better step by step. And yet, he always took a step back before taking one forward. 

Chapelle sincerely hoped that this leap toward his roots will help him venture to further distances.

And one day, may it take him toward the endless horizons.

 

---

 

“Passed with flying colours!” Eda and Shinomiya returned victoriously to the hearty welcoming hug of Dorm Mother Fumio. 

“Well, I’ll be darned! I’m stuck with you boys another year!” Fumio grinned. 

Of course, Mizuhara, Sena, and Haruno passed too. They went home ahead, though, since the term only truly begins after the opening ceremony tomorrow. 

“Welcome home! I made harumaki, so you guys should come in and eat.” 

Eda and Shinomiya froze. 

“Sekimori-senpai! You’re back from the dead!” 

Shinomiya whacked Eda over the head, “he didn’t die!” 

Sekimori’s laughter was warm as he stepped forward to pat them both on the head. There’s a scar around his upper arm where the wound that once expelled him lay, and Eda couldn’t help the way his eyes lingered on it. 

“Come on in, tell me all about what you guys cooked.” 

As they gathered over the Polar Star kitchen with the leftovers of their exams, Shinomiya reached for the plates in the top cabinets. When his sleeve rolled down, the burn scar from last year wrapped a rubbery red around his wrist area. 

Eda’s scar on his left arm was a deep brown at this point, but he didn’t like the way it matched theirs. 

Scars were normal. And yet, those two got them due to the competitive environment in this school. The almost unhealthy nature of sabotaging or taking advantage of others— it’s not something that should exist in a place meant to learn, and yet, it’s what Tootsuki is built upon. 

(In his past life, this wound came from a cooking incident, but it wasn’t anything of that nature— the incident that blinded her, though… that was malicious.)

(It’s an unfortunate cycle of envy that exists, no matter the world.)

“Woah…. So you made the matcha on the spot?” Sekimori interrupted Eda’s train of thought. “Not bad. With as many steps as these macarons took just in the ingredients phase, I’m surprised you finished with time to spare.” 

Shinomiya chuckled. “If there’s anything this guy’s good at, it’s focusing too hard on something and forgetting everything else. You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to interrupt this guy in the middle of morning prep times at his bakery. We were clanging pots and pans and everything and he reacted to the oven timer instead.” 

Eda flushed at that. “B- But if I lose focus for even a second I’ll forget which oven to leave ringing and which oven to open! I wouldn’t want to collapse my choux cremes by accident, they deflate, you know!” 

“I talked to him one time and he almost torched a fruit tart.” 

“You distracted me! The creme brulee was right beside it!” 

“It was so funny.” 

“NO IT WAS NOT.” 

Sekimori-senpai’s harumaki was the work of the gods. Perfectly crisp exterior, breaking into julienned vegetables, the chewy vermicelli in a generous spread of diced pork, its savoury juices gushing out deeper with every bite. 

“Dishes that represent spring… ah, so that’s why you made Harumaki, spring rolls.” 

“ Our dishes were very wintery,” Shinomiya realized that, “I guess it’s because we practised with them the most. High School division just threw spring dishes at you as a theme? And you don’t get time to plan and prepare with fresh ingredients? That’s… a lot of pressure.” 

“And that’s normal in the High School section.” 

Eda sighed longsufferingly. 

Tootsuki still had much in store for them. 

“But we’re glad to have you back, Sekimori-senpai!” Shinomiya grinned, “the dorms just aren’t the same without you!” 

Sekimori nodded. “I’m glad to be back, too.” 

Eda took another bite of the harumaki, and he knew that this year would be much, much harder than the one before it. For more reasons than one. 

But little by little, he’ll trudge along, in his own way. 

Even if the world grows apart from him, if he builds his experience upon the people that truly trust in him, then surely, it’ll be able to grow, too. 

One day, he won’t be the one growing to adapt to the world. One day, the world will be the one growing to change around him. Until then, he’ll cling onto the experiences and the love ‘Eda Kiyofumi’ has been given, and continue onward in Tootsuki Culinary Institute.

Chapter 30: Senpai and Kouhai.

Eda yawned as he rose from his bed, roused by the noise from outside. It sounded like some kind of fight was breaking out. 

He picked up his clock and wondered why it was seven and it didn’t ring.

Right, it’s Saturday. It’s a week into the school’s new term, this was right about the time the freshmen trying to join the dorms gave up— five days of being rejected and camping was usually where they threw in the towel and went elsewhere. 

He got up, rubbing his eyes as he pulled his windows— before he could close them, though, he caught sight of the commotion. 

The newbies were sleeping around the stables and sheds, since it was raining heavily last night. But that unfortunately meant that it was Nakagawa-senpai and Shinomiya that were quarrelling with one of them. 

“Don’t you think it’s ridiculous that that dropout newbie got in so easily, but that dorm mother has refused to even taste my dish?!” the guy snarled, jabbing a finger in Sekimori’s direction. Sekimori was working the farm, looking after the new saplings they’ve planted just a week ago. 

“ That dropout you’re speaking of passed the insanely difficult transfer exam into first year,” Nakagawa groused, a basket of eggs in his hand clearly freshly taken from the storage. “Unlike you, who laddered up on the significantly less biased advancement exam. Take your complaints up with the Chef.” 

The guy didn’t like that snarky attitude. “You’ve got to be kidding! Everyone in class is talking about it— that guy’s a grade-repeater! He literally failed last year and came crawling back shamelessly, he’s not going to last any longer than the rest of us who actually earned our way in here and intend to graduate!” 

Nakagawa sighed. “Him being a grade-repeater just means he actually knows how hard it is to survive up here in the High School division. You, on the other hand, will not last long here with that exclusionist attitude. What next, your specialty cuisine is the superior cuisine? Traditional Japanese cuisine is boring and lackluster?” 

“Well, he clearly failed to impress with it last year. Traditionalists like him aren’t creative enough to make it through to this academy’s standards!” 

“Holy shit you’re serious.” 

Up on the window, Eda wondered if he should get comfortable to watch the show. Shinomiya, cradling a basket of fresh vegetables, looked as if he would have hurled a punch already if Nakagawa didn’t stand in front of him. 

“Oh no, please,” Sekimori sounded tired, sarcastic, and yet so very amused— “please don’t fight over me, boys.” 

“Who’s fighting over you?!” the two yelled. Nakagawa belatedly adds, “just for that, you’re cooking breakfast you little shit!” 

“Yes, sir Elite Tenth seat,” Sekimori drawled, “how could I ever defy the orders of the esteemed Tenth seat.” 

“Once you get up here, I’m giving you all my paperwork forever.” 

“Have mercy,” Sekimori chuckled. “So, uh— Kita-kun, were you? I’m sure it must be awkward to hear I’m a grade-repeater… honestly, I don’t see why it matters much. I was born in the same year as you, so technically, I just gave up my early start. But if you have any complaints about me, how about we take it up in the kitchen?” 

“Huh?” Kita seemed ready to argue, but this seemed like a very good proposition. 

It must hurt his pride, to know he worked so hard to get into the school where one failure means the end of your career— only to realize there’s a kid in your class who found a loophole to make a mockery of the school’s cutthroat culture. 

Sekimori understood it, even if he found it silly. 

“Let’s see… if I lose, I’ll resign from the school. No take-backs this time,” Sekimori suggests, and his confidence clearly infuriates Kita. Shinomiya’s flabbergasted, but Nakagawa just sighs tiredly. “If you lose, you won’t try to join the dorms again. I would suggest one of the other lodgings around Tootsuki, they’d definitely be more to your liking.” 

Kita grit his teeth in annoyance. 

“Alright. Shokugeki it is.” 

Sekimori beamed. “Alright then. For the judges…” 

“Should we get Fumio-san?” Shinomiya asked. “Or I could sit out, we need an odd number, right?” 

“Oh, no need,” Nakagawa looked up, right at Eda. “You there, sleepyhead. Wash your face and get down to the kitchen.” 

Eda had to let the information register. His braincells weren’t awake yet. 

“Wait, you want me to judge a shokugeki?!” 

 

---

 

He will blame his drowsiness on this, but by the time he remembered he was literally not in a position to judge any kind of cooking competition in any capacity, it was already too late. 

The kitchen— at least, the hallways and windows, were crowded with dorm members and dorm hopefuls, all bearing witness to the competition happening inside. It may be early for a Saturday, but early routines were common in Tootsuki. Also, there was no way in hell anyone wanted to miss out on this. 

Shinomiya was glancing at him nervously, but Eda had the feeling he only had himself to blame for this situation. Well, he’s one of three judges, so surely he won’t be pressured for comments too much. 

“What’s the theme?” 

“Well… it wouldn’t be fair to choose just one of our specialties. You’re Spanish cuisine, right?” Sekimori hummed. “How about ‘breakfast’?” 

“Alright, I’m game.” 

And so the cooking began. 

 

---

 

Despite his ego, Kita was a good cook. Fumio rejected him from the previous dorm tests, though, because his food was impressive, but not at all outstanding to the standards of Polar Star, and she didn’t see the ambition and potential in him— he was much too confident for his own good. 

“I can use any of the ingredients around, right?” Kita asked. “Even this?” 

Sekimori glanced over. Kita was holding his ingredients bag— there was half of a loaf of bread left over. He’d baked it for last night’s attempt to join the dorms, and this was the leftovers. 

Usually, you’d have to bake everything over to make it a fair challenge in the time limit, but Sekimori supposed that it was fine. “I have no problems with that.” 

Nakagawa shrugged. “Then sure, why not.” 

Sekimori looked through the vegetables harvested in the morning. “Hey Kita-kun, are you using our tomatoes? They had a tarter taste than the ones in the classroom. Our dorm loves eating them raw at this time of the year.” 

Kita raised a brow. “Don’t distract me by bragging about the dorm’s great privileges, I know what I’m doing..” 

“Alright, your loss. So, Nakagawa- senpai ,” Sekimori emphasized, just to earn an annoyed twitch from the judge, “were you using the eggs for anything?” 

Nakagawa sighed, giving them right up. “Take them, it was for breakfast anyways.” 

“Oh? What are we missing out on?”

“I was thinking some Eggs in Purgatory,” Nakagawa said. He could tell from the way Sekimori and Kita paid attention— and Eda and Shinomiya perked up curiously— that they were all baiting him into advice and inspiration. He’ll let himself fall for this. “It would go well with the milk bread recipe I’m still developing— I would get some of the smoked cheese from the workshop, maybe drizzle some cream too.”

“As expected of our resident Dairy specialist,” Sekimori huffed, “the day we get a lactose intolerant kid in here is the day your sadistic reign begins.” 

“Shut the fuck up Sekimori,” Nakagawa curtly shooed him back to the kitchen. He turned to Shinomiya and Eda, “what about you two?” 

“Well, French Toast—” Shinomiya and Eda spoke in unison.

“Hey,” Eda whined, “I have the perfect sourdough in the fridge! French Toast breakfast is my thing!” 

“If it has french in the name and is a home-styled commoner breakfast item it’s obviously my thing!” Shinomiya argued. 

“There there,” Nakagawa sounded amused, “you guys can both share a few things, it’s okay I promise.” 

 

---

 

Eda was honestly a ‘plain congee in the morning’ type of guy and everyone in the dorm knows that. Sometimes he just down a cup of coffee in the morning, black, just to annoy Shinomiya, but he doesn’t really eat in the mornings. 

Fumio’s commented about his eating habits being bare minimum— absolutely unheard of in Tootsuki— and Shinomiya went through the ordeal of feeding this guy decent meals over the breaks. He just wasn’t really up for good food when it came to himself. He would enjoy the stuff everyone cooked, while they were cooking, but for sustenance (which, wasn’t often considering they tend to spend whole days eating) he tended to like to get it over with quickly. 

“As expected, Kita-senpai is making some kind of toast,” Eda observed. 

“Why are you adding senpai to his name?” Shinomiya grumbled. 

“Because he’s older than us,” that was obvious to Eda. It didn’t matter if they truly respected him yet or not, it just felt off to not attach the honorific to him. “He’s using our tomatoes.” 

Shinomiya frowned at that. “I harvested those for me ,” he huffed, “I still don’t know why my tart turned out weird yesterday.” 

“It was fine to me,” Eda didn’t taste anything odd about yesterday’s tomato tart, of course. He was wondering why Shinomiya made a whole fuss yesterday. 

He, in contrast to everyone, still didn’t like the taste of them raw, no matter what the upperclassmen said. Even the first time he ate them, the texture was just weird and the usual crisp tanginess that came through the seeds made him salivate with each bite wasn’t as strong— maybe Shinomiya picked bad tomatoes yesterday? They looked fine, though. 

“You’ll figure it out eventually,” Nakagawa assured. 

In the kitchen, it was quite clear the two contestants were going in opposite directions for their dishes. Sekimori was cooking rice— of course, you can’t have a hearty Japanese breakfast without rice. He was also boiling a few things in a pot that Eda was exceedingly curious about, since he didn’t see what went in. 

“It’s tea,” Shinomiya said. “It’s different from the usual one… the fragrance is much weaker.” 

“That’s because Kita’s dish is overpowering it,” Nakagawa explained. “He’s using garlic, butter, and plenty of aromatics and spices. Japanese dishes prefer subtle fragrances, like miso and soy sauce. So Sekimori definitely doesn’t stand a chance in that part of the battle.” 

Eda looked toward Kita’s station. He’d roasted some of the tomatoes in the oven, and even reduced the puree in a pot for some gorgeous caramelisation. The smell must be heavenly— he smears the garlic butter generously over the slices of bread before toasting them, and just looking at the way they bubble in the oven tickles his gut in anticipation.

It didn’t matter if he passed the test. That dish must taste so indulgent, who wouldn’t enjoy the absolute hell out of it?

And Kita knew it too. In a battle of cooking, it was hard to stand out with subtle, delicate flavours like Sekimori’s expertise— fragrance was a power that most people utilized to its fullest potential, and Kita was good at what he did. 

“I’m serving first,” Kita declared, and Sekimori doesn’t seem to mind. Kita’s dish would go cold quickly, so it just made sense. 

It’s hard to resist the way the tomato concoction seeped into the soft crumbs atop the thick frame of perfectly-toasted garlic bread. He torched the tomatoes just a little after he was done plating, giving it a sheen of its delicious butters swirling through the crevices, the basil topped off for contrast.

It was like an art piece. 

“Pan con Tomate,” Nakagawa told the two. 

“Well,” Shinomiya seemed reluctant but full of anticipation, swallowing, “it looks decent. I mean, if you’ve used that much garlic and butter, of course it’s going to smell like a dream.” 

Eda had no qualms to admit, “it looks awesome.” 

“Alright, alright,” Nakagawa soothed the two kids around him. He reaches for one of the pieces on the plate, “let’s try it right away.”

Shinomiya took his with little preamble. Eda picked one too, and admired the perfect way the bed of tomatoes melded in with the garlic, and the hints of butter and herbs resting generously atop the crisp, well-golden toast. 

He was looking forward to it, but he calmed himself, remembering once again that it was exceedingly difficult for anything to blow his mind.

Before he could take a bite, though, Shinomiya did, and Shinomiya coughed. 

“...what the hell?” he grimaced. 

Nakagawa took a bite and frowned, too. 

“Wha—” Kita was morbidly offended, “what’s with that reaction?” 

“You should taste it, Kita,” Nakagawa said. He took another bite in consideration, sighing. “Did you not taste the dish before serving it to us?” 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kita took his dish and took a bite, “I make this almost every day. I haven’t messed up even once—” he winced. And struggled to swallow. “What the hell… did something go bad?” 

That’s when Eda decided to take a bite, too. 

The first thing he noticed was that the texture was perfect. The puree was creamy and chunky, the toast had that perfect crunch to it. They melded harmoniously as the juices soaked into every crevice— there was a perfect mesh of sauce and bread with every bite, even the slight kick of garlic and light of chillis waking him up. It’s the perfect breakfast.

And then Eda realized— it wasn’t sour.

His tongue didn’t shrivel up with the fresh excitement of the tomatoes, even though it was the star of the dish. Instead, it went down slightly drying, his throat slightly tightening in a way reminiscent of eating the more burnt parts of toast.

But the toast was perfect. There was likely the char of the roasted tomatoes, but…

…it warmed him, not in a particularly good way. Ah, right. It’s the same feeling he gets when he tastes unsweetened cacao. 

“Is it bitter…?” Eda wondered.

“Incredibly,” Shinomiya groused. He didn’t touch it again. Then he realized, “hold on, it’s just like what happened to my tomato tart yesterday!” 

Nakagawa, on the other hand, was eating it carefully. “That’s right. The Polar Star tomatoes, in spring, are best eaten raw. That’s because the flesh is bitter. The seeds are sweet, and the skin is hard.” 

“Huh?” Shinomiya looked like he was speaking a different language, “they’re sweeter than the ones I knew at home, though. It’s not bitter when I eat it raw. Maybe a little, but it’s not in a bad way.”

Eda compared that to caramel and figured yeah , that makes some sense. Tomatoes are a summer vegetable, so it makes sense they’re not in their best form in spring. 

“The bitterness is on the surface,” Nakagawa explains. He walks over to take a tomato from the basket and cuts it into quarters, giving everyone a cut. “It’s tougher, but eating it raw is the best way to enjoy it. You get the crisp, sweet freshness, the light tanginess of the seeds, and the flesh is just subtle enough to give it a good bite. If you do anything with it to concentrate the flavours further— roasting, steaming, boiling, anything— it fixes the texture, but the bitterness seeps into the entire dish, making the whole dish pretty inedible. It’s bitterer than other common tomatoes.” 

Shinomiya chewed on his cut of the tomato, like he was trying to understand that. It must be something unique to the Polar Star tomatoes, because he seemed stumped.

Eda was, too. No wonder it was better when he ate it in Autumn. Much sourer. This one definitely felt gamey and the texture destroyed it for him— everyone ate it like they were eating apples. Whole. In a way that they could ignore the texture— now that made sense.

And it troubled him. Even the seasons affected the best serving methods of these dishes. It’s so daunting. 

“But…” Kita cursed, “you’ve got to be kidding, how the hell was I supposed to know that? This is sabotage!” 

“I did ask you to taste it,” Sekimori sighed. 

“Only a bad chef blames the ingredients,” Nakagawa said. “You were so confident in your dish that you didn’t even taste it a single time while you were cooking it. That’s common sense for a chef— you don’t serve your guests something you haven’t even tasted once! Are you sure you’re ready for the high school division?” 

Kita shrinked at that. “I…” 

He’s made this dish plenty of times before. He could do it with his eyes closed— that was what he thought. He never considered that this dish could ever conceivably go wrong. 

Eda took another bite. The texture really was perfect, though. So it’s such a shame the ingredients ruined it all. At least on a technical level, this dish was something Eda was still far from reaching. 

He could see himself making the exact same mistake one day in the future, especially because he didn’t have a way to taste it at the last second, just in case. 

“Eda—” Shinomiya blanched, “hey, you don’t have to finish it!” 

“Eh?” 

Eda was surprised that all attention turned to him when he finished the rest of his piece. Kita was staring at him with an expression that was an odd cross of hopeful, confused, and touched. 

He licked his fingers clean. “I really liked the texture of it. The tomatoes were a shame, but it’s really well made,” he said, honestly. “I mean, you roasted them, puree’d them, then reduced them with tons of aromatics? You were never a second out of time with the heat, too— Imagine how good that could taste with the correct tomatoes! The herb butter on the toast definitely goes well with it! It’s the kind of breakfast I’d wanna eat every day, you know?” 

Everyone, including Sekimori, stares at him in awe. 

“It’s so bitter though,” Shinomiya sighed. “Honestly a real shame. It tastes a little better on just the bread though. I think it’s because of the butter. It’s got a really weird aftertaste, though.” 

“Huuh,” Eda hummed, “do you think it won’t be bitter if we made tomato butter out of these tomatoes?” 

Shinomiya scowls, “that would be the bitterest butter ever.” 

“And?” 

“God fucking damn it Dunceda, what next? The sweetest caramel? The saltiest soy sauce? Are you trying to kill everyone in this dorm?”

“Oh! Can we see if my sour cream counteracts the bitterness?” Eda stood up, excited now that he’s eaten and gotten some energy for the day. 

“You bring it anywhere near me and I’m stabbing you in the eye—” 

Nakagawa clears his throat, snapping Kita out of his befuddlement. The two middle schoolers were already on their experimentation phase, Eda having served a dollop of the accursed white concoction onto the toast as Shinomiya seems to recite a quick prayer to whatever god is listening before taking a bite. 

“—holy shit it doesn’t taste like death anymore!” 

“See?” Nakagawa chuckles, allowing Eda to spoon some of the sour cream onto his still half-eaten piece. “This is the spirit you need to be worthy as a member of Polar Star. It’s not about failing once or twice— it’s about what you make of it.”

Kita crumbled. 

“...yeah,” he had to admit. This mistake cost him greatly, and he only had himself to blame. He had talked so big, and yet, he failed. If this were an actual Shokugeki with higher stakes, or hell forbid, a class or exam— it would’ve been over for him. 

Nakagawa takes a bite of the abomination in his hand and winces. “Eda-chan, get me some milk. Kita, wanna try it too? I can’t believe the solution to the impossible tomato was right here…” 

“Uh, yeah,” Kita fumbled, “honestly can you guys stop modifying my dish right in front of me? The only thing wrong with my dish are the tomatoes, there’s no need to add anything else to— holy shit.” 

Eda had gone over to his kitchen station, dished up another portion with the sour cream, and handed it to Nakagawa. Who immediately shoved it in Kita’s mouth while he was complaining. 

“What the hell? There’s a slightly bitter hit at first, but the weird aftertaste is gone! And I can actually taste the tomatoes this time,” Kita was fascinated. “Dude, what the hell is that sour cream?”

“Polar Star Sour Cream,” Nakagawa didn’t even hesitate, “depending on the day and alignment of the moon, it’ll either kill you in one bite or make your dish the best, most addictive dish ever. I’m about forty-percent sure it’s got drugs in it.” 

“IT DOESN’T!” Eda yells. 

“Darn, that wasn’t the secret ingredient either? I’m running out of guesses.” 

“Now now,” Sekimori finally interrupts. “I’ve actually never tasted your sour cream before, Eda-kun. But I’ve heard the stories. Could I have some?”

Shinomiya brings it over just as Sekimori finishes up his dish, setting the bowls on the tray covered. He brings it, with the kettle of tea, onto the judges’ table.

“It’s a very interesting taste,” Sekimori admired, “Even though it’s cold, the puree’s really well done. It’s really clear how far you’ve developed this dish on its own. I really do wish I could taste it in the form it’s meant to be enjoyed.” 

At that, Kita’s face heated up, “hey! I don’t need your pity!” 

In this academy, it’s unheard of to praise your opponent so sincerely after they’d made such a horrific mistake. It almost felt like mockery— but maybe mockery of this nature was the least he deserved. 

“Now, it’s time for my dish,” Sekimori called, “Eda-kun. Shinomiya-kun.” 

They both froze. Shinomiya had been trying to confiscate the sour cream from Eda, who was too short to take it back. 

“Sit down now. Let’s eat.”

“Yessss.” 

“What are you, their mother?” Nakagawa growled. 

“Maybe dad should pick up the slack sometimes,” Sekimori didn’t even hesitate. “I did make a little more than I needed to, so you can have some too, Kita-kun.” 

One by one, Sekimori opened the traditional Japanese soup bowls, revealing a mound of seasoned rice with an onsen egg atop it. Around the rice, lining the edge of the bowl, was an arrangement of silken tofu in a generous bed of furikake— 

Just looking at it was enchanting. The roasted seaweed, the dusting of white sesame, the unmistakable lustre of caramelised onions that promised every indulgently sweet juicy bite—

— And then, Sekimori picked up the kettle, and poured down the piping hot tea, avoiding the onsen egg in an elegant spiral as he filled the bowls one after another.

He set it down with a teasing, “please enjoy.” 

“Thanks for the food!” Shinomiya leapt right into it, and choked, “ow!” 

“Be careful, it’s hot.” 

Eda took a careful sip, luxuriating in how it warmed him up, deep in his stomach. Breaking open the onsen egg, he watched the creamy yellow filling swirl into the tea, glossing across each grain of rice— he picked up the bowl and shovels a mouthful in, and just adored the way the textures cycloned around his tongue, soothing and silky at once. He went straight for a second mouthful.

Sekimori wasn’t concerned that Eda didn’t give a comment. He smiled, endeared, and faced Nakagawa, who sighed contentedly. 

“You really had to pull out a specialty-level dish right off the bat, eh?” 

Sekimori hummed. “I’m back, and I’m fighting for that seat, Nakagawa. I need everyone to know that I’m not quitting early this year, not even if they shatter my fingers this time. That’s how determined I am.” 

Nakagawa mixes up his bowl and takes a very careful scoop into his mouth. 

The tea swirled through every grain of rice like a heated blanket, a comforting weight. The hints of soy sauce and garlic cooked into the rice grains burst through with every bite, enriching the grassy notes of the tea with a savoury whisk of soy. Then came the topping, the soft, slightly sweet cubes of tofu melding with a nutty wisp of sesame and yolk. 

The flavours combined like a symphony, each bite taking each piece in a different crescendo, then the protein takes the music into an elegant lull in the music— and then, it kicks right back up with the gentle, earthy aftertaste of tea. 

He just can’t get enough. 

“There’s definitely subtler flavours in here than the previous dish, but it definitely leaves an impact,” Nakagawa indulges in the soup again. “The egg’s fresh, so the flavour is strong— the tea is, as usual, perfectly fragrant. The sesame takes all of it up a notch— everything in here is strong, and yet, none of it overpowers the other. It’s amazing.” 

Shinomiya, on the other hand, has switched to a spoon. 

“As expected from Sekimori-senpai…” he’s in awe. “I didn’t think you’d go as far as to cook the rice with soy sauce and butter…” 

“The soy sauce pairs well with the tea, doesn’t it?” Sekimori said, “it took me all of winter to get it just right.” 

“You made it?” 

“Yeah. I plan on continuing, so I’ll be taking one of the storerooms the upperclassmen aren’t using anymore, alright?” 

“Sure, sure,” Nakagawa dismissed, holding out his bowl. “Seconds.” 

“No, I need to make everyone else’s portions now,” Sekimori said. He turned to Kita, who was eating heartily, a disgruntled look on his face. “How is it?” 

Kita put down the empty bowl and lowered his head.

“It was good. Thanks for the meal.” 

With a round of applause and cheers from the crowd around them, the verdict was called— with a unanimous 3-0 in Sekimori’s favour, the first Shokugeki of the year ended victoriously for Polar Star.

 

---

 

Eda stood up to help prepare the morning meal, feeling warm and content. He remembered this very day last year, where he was panicking and absolutely losing his marbles out there because he couldn't calm down enough to cook well--- and he thought of how silly he used to be. 

This place was a whole lot of fun, and struggles, and he couldn't wait for the year to truly begin. 

"Uhm, Eda-senpai... right?" 

He paused, noticing a girl form outside the window--- one of the shortest girls, so she must be in the Junior High section like him. Her brown hair was tied back low, and she looked rather shy, but well-mannered. 

The high-school tryouts have already scattered after the Shokugeki, leaving just Kita (forced to stay here so they could shove his loss in his face) and Polar Star students here for breakfast. They had to fend for themselves until they won the right to be here. 

"Can uhm. Can the junior high kids stay for breakfast too?" she asked quietly. "It's just me and Donato-kun, but the others are leaving with their own chaffeurs and the both of us don't... really have anywhere to go..." 

Eda looked out the window. Other than the lingering high schoolers, it's just this girl and a blond foreigner boy looking inside curiously--- Donato was looking inside with eyes of exuberant wonder, entranced by the sight of the seniors cooking. 

Ah, right. They're junior high students. High-schoolers usually apply for the dorm for the prestige-- (they have, after all, laddered up. They already have other accomodations.) But for junior high students, they try out for the dorms because they're a long way from home. And they definitely don't have comrades other than each other on the failure list, so no chance in hitching a ride to the nearby hotels either. 

"Sure," Eda said. She must be talking to him because the high schoolers are intimidating. "You must be hungry, come on in. Fumio-san!" he hollered, "two more chazuke for these two, is that okay?" 

"Don't yell your order, this ain't a hawker stall!" Fumio yelled back form the kitchen. 

"That's a yes," Eda translated. He pointed toward the dorm entrance, "come on in. Donato-kun and... what's your name?" 

"Oh! I'm," she's flustered, clearly not having realized she didn't introduce herself. "I'm Hinako! It's a pleasure to meet you, Eda-senpai. It's honestly been so amazing to get to witness such an amazing Shokugeki already! It's been my dream to develop my own ingredients and recipes and--- just watching that dish come to life was breathtaking!" 

"OOh, Eda-senpai!" Donato finally sauntered up to Eda, somehow already in the building, "thanks for letting us in! May I try that infamous sour cream of yours?"

Eda looked back. Shinomiya looked between bursting out laughing, running, and teasing Eda about this forever. Something in Eda's gut told him that their juniors this year were going to be... enthusiastic. Which is great, but he can hear the noise complaints already.

Chapter 31: Spring Greens and Pinks.

By Monday, Hinako and Donato were officially members of the Polar Star Dormitory. No one in the High School section made it in this year. 

“They’re all just riding the high of the Polar Star Golden Generation,” Fumio huffed, unhappy. “I miss it too, now that Shiomi’s gone, but if they just want fame I want nothing to do with them.” 

“Look on the bright side, Fumio-san,” Nakagawa said, “you got this one back.” 

The ‘this one’ in address, Sekimori, simply smiled like some kind of dachshund when his name was called. 

Fumio sighed. “Yes, yes.” 

Shiomi had gone on her solo pilgrimage (so she said), starting her dream of travelling out of the country to personally discover spices all across the world. 

“And it looks like we’ll have a strong upcoming generation too,” Sekimori turned toward the kitchen, where the Junior High kids were in charge of breakfast today. 

Inui Hinako— she’s the daughter of a high-end Japanese Food Conglomerate, but she’s the youngest of six children (and the child of a mistress no less) so she was left to fend for herself after being dropped off here. She’s got next to no actual experience in the kitchen due to the elitist nature of her household, but she’s earnest, calculative and careful. She never takes unnecessary risks.

Then there’s Donato Gotouda. The wayward family disappointment of a great Hotel chain in Italy— he apparently flirted with a girl he should have not flirted with, and had to escape the country to lay low for a bit. He’s got many years of kitchen experience under his belt so he has proficiency across a large variety of skills, but he tends to rush his dish when too much pressure is suddenly put on him. 

“The good thing about them is that they’re still in Junior High,” Fumio said. “I can be a little more lenient with them— but they’re bursting with potential!” 

If they were in the High School division, she probably would’ve sent them back out.

“Dunceda! Stop eating the damn pancakes, we’re trying to serve them!” Shinomiya yells, whirling to the other side, “Donato, hands off!” 

He earned a unison of eeps . 

Eda’s unapologetic, though, licking the honey off his fingers after he’d picked up the pancake and tore it in half by hand to share with Donato. 

“Christ above, have some table manners!” Shinomiya gasped, “look at Hinako, she’s shellshocked by your audacity!” 

Donato simply accepted the hand-peeled pancake like an offering.

“How was it, Donato-kun?” Eda ignored Shinomiya, though his eyes lingered on Hinako’s deer-in-headlights look from the pan. She’ll probably burn the one she’s making right now. “I think it’s a little bit tough…” 

Donato considered his piece deeply, “I think it’s fine, but it is a little chewy. What a shame, it was such a beautiful colour too. The honey and butter are marvellous, though! I would gladly eat these as they are!” 

“No, Donato, in Tootsuki we aim for greater heights than this,” Eda told him. “It’s not about being fast or serving more customers. We’re in junior high, so we have to focus on making the perfect pancake. Once we’re in high school they’ll want us to make the perfect pancake a hundred out of a hundred times.” 

“Oooh, wise words, Eda-senpai! I shall keep it in mind!” 

Eda whipped up more pancake batter while Shinomiya lectured a near-tears Hinako through the cooking station. Hinako’s too short for the stove, so she’s on a step stool. 

“Stop yelling at me,” Hinako pleaded.

“I will when you finally flip the goddamn pancake right!” Shinomiya doesn’t lower his voice at all, “half of them are shaped like my sleep paralysis demons, and the other half is on the floor!” 

“I’m sorry!” Hinako wailed. Below her breath she’s regretting all her life choices, “why did I have to get the mean one—” 

“I got the sour cream!” Donato announced as he sauntered back into the kitchen, and Shinomiya’s voice reached a decibel unsafe for human ears. 

“DUNCEDA, DO NOT!” 

And then Eda returned it with an equal, “DON’T BE A SPOILSPORT, PINKYMIYA!” before whisking it, “you won’t be able to taste that little bit once it’s cooked, anyways. Come on, it’s Donato-kun’s turn to cook.” 

“Oh!” Donato brightened up.

“Finally!” Hinako all but launched herself off the stool, “I thought I’d be at the mercy of that monster forever!” 

“Who are you calling a monster?!” Shinomiya barked.

Eda didn’t miss the tongue she stuck out with a scowl in Shinomiya’s direction. The way he just went hiss right back spoke volumes. He laughed.

 

---

 

Donato was just happy to be here. Really, he was.

Despite being just a year older than himself, Eda and Shinomiya were on wildly different levels from him. They didn’t make a deal of it, but it was obvious how comfortable they were in the kitchen.

Donato’s worked in a kitchen for years, but they act like they’ve been in one their whole life. 

Eda whisked the batter perfectly without even pausing once. And he argued with Shinomiya the entire time— how much strength was in his hand? Even in Donato’s experience they’d always set that up on a standing mixer. 

“What’s all these bowls?” Donato wondered, watching as Eda poured milk into one of them, and then stirred it into the batter. He mixed in the other ingredients the same way— always measuring them out first and adding them in step. “It seems slightly inefficient.” 

“I’d prefer to be accurate,” Eda said, a slight strain in his voice Donato wondered if it was his imagination. “You can get away with eyeballing in most dishes, but I specialize in desserts that aren’t quite as forgiving. I don’t want to make a habit of not knowing exact measurements. At least if I mess up, I’ll know how much to fix.” 

Donato considered that. It felt a little too mathematical for him. He was more a hands-on learner that figured things out as he went— it made more sense to taste as he went along, and narrow down any mistakes little by little as the food was made. 

Plus, this way, the dishes really added up too quickly. It was making a bit of a mess, and that would never fly in a commercial kitchen. 

And most of all… despite how comfortable the seniors spoke with them and how violently they argued, they worked seamlessly as a team. They were such hard workers, they never have enough time to practice. 

 

---

 

It wasn’t even daybreak yet, but Donato had been awoken by Nakagawa to help pound mochi. He was very intrigued by Japanese culture, so of course he agreed, even with the egregious time of day. 

But as he passed by the kitchen, Eda was there with Shinomiya. 

“It’s not very tasty,” Shinomiya told him. “It’s much more fragrant than it tastes.” 

“And the texture is a little rough too,” Eda sighed, “I guess I didn’t blend it right. I’ll head back to the steaming room. Can you get some more strawberries?” 

“Yeah. We should try some of the slightly overripe ones this time. The stronger taste might help.” 

“Alright.” 

Donato snuck into the kitchen when they left, to see they had started creating sakura-themed confections. There were manju, sponge cakes, and teas, set up so elegantly it could’ve been a work of art. 

And yet, they had been dissatisfied. 

Also… if they had enough of these to fill up the tables, how long have they been awake?

 

---

 

“The sakuramochi are divineeeee! ” Hinako swooned. “I’m in cherry blossom heaven. Thank you Eda-senpai. I love you Eda-senpai. Thank you for being born, Eda-senpai.” 

“Calm down, Hinako-chan.” 

One of the seniors sobbed, “homemade oshiruko by Eda-chan! Thank you mommy!” 

“I don’t remember giving birth to any of you,” Eda retorted, “ah— Nakagawa-senpai! Good timing, would you try this?”

He called the senior in just as he passed by. He had been outside pounding mochi the whole morning, and was probably taking a break by changing shifts with Donato.

“You made mochi ice cream just for me? This is why you’re my favourite, Eda-chan,” Nakagawa leaned over his shoulder, still dressed in his jinbei, and opened his mouth to let Eda toss one in his mouth. His hands were still sweaty from pounding mochi. The icy cold matcha ice cream inside the sakura-fragrant milk mochi really perked him up from all the exercise. It was a match made in heaven itself. “Full points.” 

“Are you sure? That was my ice cream batch, not yours,” Eda doubted him, but he nodded. Maybe because Eda’s one had a weaker flavour, so it didn’t conflict with the natural taste of the mochi? He went on to dust the next serving of milk mochi with matcha powder and honey. “Alright, is Sekimori-senpai still outside? This is for him.” 

“You spoil us.” 

“But unlike you, he doesn’t really like sweet things, so he’d prefer this to all the other things I’m serving the others,” Eda insisted. He tasted the powder, “it’s definitely drying out my tongue a little… maybe I put too much matcha powder.” 

“Nah, he’ll love it,” Nakagawa assured. “The mochi’s really good, freshly made. I’ll go call him, so wait a sec.” 

“Mommy can you make kirimochi next?” 

“Make it yourself, the ingredients are all there!” Eda finally snapped at them. “Kishinuma-senpai! That’s your third plate! SHARE!” 

“No it’s MINNEE!” 

 

---

 

“What, you had a whole hanami party and you didn’t invite any of us?” 

“Not sorry, it was a Polar Star event,” Eda said. 

Getting used to classes in the second year of junior high was a little tricky, but the good thing was that the number of students went down, so they had more classes together. 

“These are so cute!” Sena observed the paper cups with the Polar Star symbol designed on them. “Kishinuma-senpai made them?” 

“Yes, he said he was going to start his own trendy food stall chain once he graduates, so this is him starting early on the design route,” Shinomiya sipped on his Sakura Matcha Latte. “I have a feeling we’re just taunting everyone on main campus with these, though. They’ve been staring at us like we walked into class with expensive coffee but no, Eda just made these this morning and this is part of the failed batch.” 

“Pink drink!” Haruno took picture after picture after selfie with it, “it’s a pink drink! Homemade! From scratch! It’s perfect!” 

“This is the failed batch?” Mizuhara grimaced. She sipped on hers. “They taste good to me, though. Actually the taste is probably better than a coffee shop.” 

“I messed up the mixing of the green tea,” Eda said, very seriously, as he sipped on his. “I really gotta apologize to Sekimori-senpai one more time when we get back.” 

“No seriously, stop that, he doesn’t mind,” Shinomiya said.

“Huh? When did Sekimori-senpai return from the war?” Mizuhara wondered. 

“It’s been a week. Keep up.” 

Unlike when it was for first years, the second year in here assumes you already know what’s up with the curriculum. So everyone’s heading straight into graded classes right away. 

And for now, they have an intensive crash course on all the bounties of spring. There’s been nothing but spring ingredients and dishes through the season, and apparently, the rest of the year will be just as drill-camp reminiscent. 

“I never thought I’d ever dread the sight of cabbage,” Haruno sulked. “Do you know what Minase-sensei said? Yes, that’s the point. You look at them until you go insane. So when the competition comes, your PTSD will help you work under pressure. Do you think he needs therapy?” 

“Everyone in Tootsuki needs therapy,” Mizuhara sympathized. “It’s kind of a ‘you don’t graduate unless we’ve given you mental trauma’ kind of thing.” 

“You two have it nice,” Sena sighed. “All the vegetables in the ingredients class are giving me anxiety.” 

“Oh nah, I’m still failing those,” Eda said. 

“Don’t be proud of it!” Shinomiya snapped. 

“And you’re acing every dessert-adjacent class, so what does that matter?” Mizuhara sighed. “The sakura season was made for you, dude…”

“It’s also strawberry season.” 

“Stop proving my point,” Mizuhara grumbled, “and you’re even doing all this on the side. Seriously, you gotta figure out how to add this to your yearly credit.” 

Eda hummed at that. To get credit for extra research like seasonal desserts, he’ll have to get the proper facilities in a Research Society and go through the process of submitting weekly reports. 

But Eda just didn’t like the options he had. He didn’t know what Research Society suited him. He’s been harassing a few of them regularly since last year (President Candy Association has a wanted poster of him on their billboard) but all of them felt constrictive. He didn’t want to just focus on candy, or chocolate, or Japanese sweets. He wanted to appreciate all desserts at once, but no one else wants to, and you can’t be a Research Society alone. 

“For now, these are all going to Sekimori-senpai’s record,” Eda said. “Did he say he was going to seize Japanese Sweets next week?” 

“Yeah. He’s in a Shokugeki with Japanese Cuisine RS this week.” 

“Already?” Mizuhara balked, “and one after another?” 

“He’s going to merge them and become the President of both, apparently,” Eda said. “He wants me in the sweets one, and I think I’ll join… maybe for one year? I wanna make other desserts too.” 

“You’re the first person I’ve seen to see a big Research Society like Japanese Sweets as a temporary option,” Haruno was bewildered, “you even have the recommendation of a senior.” 

“I was thinking I’d join a few. There’s no rule against that, right?” Eda said. 

“I’m just aiming for French Cuisine RS,” Shinomiya said. “Isn’t it better to have a set goal and work your way up it early? I’m going to conquer it before high school.” 

“You overwork-loving fools,” Mizuhara scoffed. 

Sena laughed, “you don’t have room to talk about that.” 

Now that they’re second years, their priority has to be in expanding their options and zeroing in on their future strengths and specialties. 

For Eda, spending a year focused on finding his roots and exploring Granny Kiyo’s recipes with Sekimori-senpai’s help seemed like a good decision. 

“By the way, the sakura custard pudding will be done setting after class,” Eda said. “Come take some of them home. I recommend eating them with hot chocolate so you can actually taste something other than milk.” 

“You still made more?!” Mizuhara and Sena balked.

“And you under-seasoned them again??” Shinomiya groaned. 

“Eda-kun, have I told you that I would die for you?” Haruno started. 

 

---

 

If there’s anything Hinako knows, it’s that her seniors are absolutely amazing, she wants to be like them, and she would give her soul to become Eda-senpai’s or Sekimori-senpais apprentice forever. 

With Sekimori specializing in traditional Japanese cuisine, and Eda having such an elegant handle on Japanese Sweets, they were the brilliant harmony of exactly the kind of chef she wanted to become.

A kind of chef that could take Kirinoya back from the rest of her family that rejected her just for her blood. She would be able to take back all her late mother’s hard work! If she could only become just as amazing as those two…

But it’s all so daunting. 

She’s always been a ditz, plain and slow, and she makes a lot of mistakes if she hurries. It’s unfathomable to even think she could achieve the level of her seniors that are the epitome of composure. 

Especially when that scary senior is in the way of everything.

“Are you sure we should’ve ditched Eda-kun and the others?” 

“Screw’em. They’ll just get in the way here.” 

She jumped when she heard his voice outside. Peeking out of the window, it seems he’s just come back from classes. It seems theirs run longer than the first years— and there’s a girl beside him.

A girl with light brown hair, a very dainty and adorable look, she’s really cute, that cherry blossom hairpin looks good on her— she much also be a senior, then. But then Hinako recognizes her with a gasp. 

That’s the girl that was in the suite room of Kirinoya Inn for New Year’s!  

She thought with horror. When she worked at her branch’s inn for the holidays before coming to Tootsuki, that one girl had been in a room with some very important businesswomen, politicians, and doctors. The inn was in uproar about not disappointing them, especially because one of them had ties to the yakuza. She and a couple other ladies all rented the most expensive room all throughout New Years. 

And that’s the daughter! 

As expected from Tootsuki, there is some crazy pedigree here.

But hold on, why’s she sticking so close to Shinomiya? And they’re even chatting it up so amiably. Giggling. Like a couple. What on earth? Hinako’s kind of irritated, actually— by a richie rich, no less! Shinomiya, where is angry feral meanie Shinomiya?? Why are you laughing with that spoiled girl who gets to spend vacations relaxing in high-class hotel suites?

“Hinako dear,” Donato began behind her, “love is young. Leave them alone.” 

“No but it’s so unexpected!” she insisted. “Shinomiya-senpai dating a soft and yurufuwa little girlie like that? Who would imagine?”

“Why do you two immediately assume they’re dating?” Fumio sighed from the couch. She opened a newspaper. “This is what’s the problem with kids too young.” 

“But they’re so close!” Donato’s face is stuck to the window. “It’s love! Love is in the air! It could be nothing else, Dorm Mother!” 

“They’re walking side by side into the vegetable garden!” Hinako gasped . “Where no one else is. Scandalous! In broad daylight?!” 

“Are they supposed to pick vegetables at night?” 

Donato then inquired sincerely, “is ‘picking vegetables’ some Japanese slang for the birds and the bees?” 

Fumio spat out her coffee while Nakagawa, who overheard everything from upstairs, proceeded to die of laughter, slip on the top step, and crash all the way down to the bottom. He’s still laughing at the end of it. 

“Are you okay?” Hinako’s concerned.

“No,” he said between laughter as he struggled back to his feet, wiping away some tears. “Come on. Let’s go see what your seniors are doing, alright?”

 

---

 

Hinako was still very suspicious that there was some weird love scandal going on, fourteen-year-olds or not. Actually especially because they’re fourteen. She’s worked at inns, okay? She’s seen things .

So they tucked themselves inconspicuously behind Nakagawa as they observed Shinomiya and— Haruno, they learned her name— picked fresh vegetables from the garden and placed them in the basket. 

They then went into the steaming room, where they took a few boxes of all the steamed glutinous rice that was made earlier in the day. They then headed back toward campus. 

And once they got to the school, they gathered in the practice room. 

“Ugh, too greasy.” 

“It’s delicious, though, in an indulgent way.”

“This brown butter sauce was a complete fail! Why didn’t it emulsify at all… I’m ditching it to start over. Stop eating!” 

“Eh, but it’s such a waste. I love the texture of the gnocchi, but the cheewiness can’t really be enjoyed with the grease sticking to every bite.” 

“Quiet, Eda! A compliment from you is not safe for reception at this hour of the day!” 

“Eh? My compliments have preferred serving hours?” 

As they peeked in from the windows, they found three people inside. 

Eda was there, toasting some peanuts in a pan, seemingly to make some peanut butter. He dipped a slightly toasted green apple into it, and his eyes bloomed with interest when he tasted it. 

Then— Nakagawa introduces them to the juniors— Mizuhara was tossing lemon and aromatics together with a furrow in her brows, browning them so fragrantly Donato gulped. Once the butter went in, Donato couldn’t resist sticking his forehead to the glass. It must smell heavenly there. 

Then there’s Sena, taking out something from the oven that has Mizuhara’s head turning. It’s a whole-roasted pan of lamb and spring vegetables, vibrant and gorgeous even from this distance. 

“Mizuhara-chan does Italian dishes with great dedication to the details and composition. Sena-kun’s food is always very indulgent and rich,” Nakagawa explained. “And Eda-kun’s unique flavour combinations never lose to anyone.” 

Hinako’s breath held with fascination. Just the classes today had enough wrung her dry, and here they all were, doing more practice?

Shinomiya and Haruno finally make it to the door, and they open it with a loud greeting. 

“We’re back, did Eda burn anything yet?” Shinomiya immediately said.

And Mizuhara missed no beat to tattle, “butter.” While Sena said the exact same thing, much calmer. 

“It was on purpose! It’s for the sauce!” Eda insisted. 

“Butter!!” Haruno perked up from her ladylike look to essentially skitter to Mizuhara, “that butter smells heavenly!” 

“Ah, Haruno, I toasted the peanuts for you,” Eda said. 

“Shinomiya, The lamb’s going in once more. Which of the vegetables should I leave on the pan?” Sena asked. “They’re not all quite done.”

Shinomiya hummed, approaching the pan, “hey, this is pretty good. I think you’re better off putting the carrots in a second round… maybe on its own in another oven. It’ll probably burn at this rate. Everything else comes off.” 

Just like that, they continue their work. 

“The lemang is so fragrant!” Haruno cut up the tubes of cooked glutinous rice and tested them out with the savoury peanut sauce. 

“Stop snacking, you glutton,” Mizuhara groaned. 

“Yes, yes…” seemed to be working on some kind of salad, toasting up a thick sauce. 

Meanwhile, Shinomiya began working with asparagus. He had butter and olive oil heating in a soup pot, and Sena came in with a chopping board full of chopped onions, sweeping them right in without even asking for affirmation. Sena then set down a small pot of chicken broth beside him, and then went back to his own dish. 

Meanwhile, Eda cut up strawberries that Haruno and Shinomiya brought from the Polar Star garden, crushing up some of them into a batter with lemon and lots of cream cheese. It was mesmerizing, how he knew exactly when to stop stirring for that perfect consistency even if he turned away or conversed between the movement. 

“What do you think?” Nakagawa interrupted, and the two juniors jumped, as if they were wrenched out of being utterly lost in everything happening. “A wonderful generation, don’t you think?” 

Yeah. 

It’s awe-inspiring. It’s what a generation of Elite Ten looks like in its early stages, and Hinako and Donato can barely fathom it. 

But it’s what they’ll one day become, if they persevere.

(She can’t hold back the feeling of fear, because look at them, so far away . Is that something possible for us to reach? Is it something I’m allowed to wish for?)

(But it fills her with excitement, because she can’t contain her desire to become someone worth looking at with so much admiration too.)

(How liberating would it be, to become someone who can take their place?)

 

---

 

Nakagawa barged into the practice room once they were done. 

“Hey now, you can’t be using practice rooms without permission!” he roared, and everyone in the room screamed and ran to hide behind Shinomiya. Eda’s under the table. 

“What the hell, it’s just Nakagawa-senpai,” Shinomiya groaned. 

Donato sauntered in, “it smells like god descended in here! Absolutely fragrant, the bounties of spring in full perfection!” 

“What the—” 

Hinako, drooling, rushed in to contain her feral classmate, “it looks so gooooodd!!” 

“Oh dear, juniors?” 

“Alright, your punishment,” Nakagawa said. “Share your meal.” 

“HUH?” Mizuhara barked. “We cooked it! Get your own!” 

“Isn’t it fine,” Sena chuckled, “we ate while cooking, so we’re not too hungry anyways. And we can still get supper at Polar Star.” 

“Exactly,” Nakagawa said. “Eda-chan, get out from under there. Dinnertime.” 

“Eh? Hinako-chan?” Eda poked his head out from under the table like a meek mouse. He slunk back in. “Don’t scare me like that…” 

It was a whole full course. 

Starting with Shinomiya’s refreshing asparagus soup. Shinomiya ladled it up for her and had to gall to don a smug grin. Hinako was determined to defiantly sip this and point out any minor flaw she could— but the fragrance already crumbled her willpower. 

It was refreshing and light, the tinge of white peppers leaving her breathless even before she actually consumed any. The asparagus were full and sweet, the soup rich and bodied with cream that warmed her up deep within. It was so nourishing, she couldn’t resist going back for another mouthful. The tinge of lemon in the aftertaste perked her right up, making her crave the grassy sweetness of the asparagus once more. 

“There’s really an overwhelming amount of vegetables, aren’t there?” Donato chuckled. “As a full course this would be a little much in a restaurant.” 

“I suppose,” Sena said. “We have two appetisers and two entrees… so after the soup, I’d recommend mine as your entree.” 

Which was the one-pan roasted lamb leg with voluminous vegetables. The roast on the vegetables were gorgeous, the lamb glistening golden brown with the sauce— and the potatoes, the toasted surfaces crinkling like crystalized peels. 

Eda was already chewing on some of the potatoes with interest.

Hinako understood why the second she tried one. The skin left partially peeled was paper thin and flakes off addictingly savoury. Baby potatoes as they were, the sweetness concentrated in each cube burst out fuller than ever, melding with the savoury, charred touches on the surface. The olive oil made the earthy aftertaste linger longer on her tongue, and the garlic emboldened the fragrance of the humble, earthen taste to the moon. 

And this was just one side. The carrots were criminally sweet and bursting with juices, the green beans were just mellow enough to prepare her for the artichokes that completely sealed the deal. This entire pan was like a treasure trove of indulgence. It’s heaven for anyone that loves vegetables. 

But she hadn’t even touched the lamb yet. The meat was so tender it fell off the bone, and the perfect cook on the red meat made rich, juicy wonder burst out with very bite, spreading across her mouth. The crisp skin had her chasing for more, and by the time she started worrying about calories, she was already diving in for more, because no regrets at this point. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” Shinomiya tasted it too. He licked his lips, and circled around the vegetable varieties. “Maybe the garlic’s a little overpowering, but it’s just a cultural difference there.” 

“Woah, it’s so rare of you to give me a compliment,” Sena beamed. “I guess all that practice with the oven in winter was worth it.” 

“No one can beat you when it comes to throwing things in the oven and calling it a day,” Mizuhara said. She sounded like she was complaining, but she went in for another serving of lamb anyways. 

Nakagawa enjoyed the carrots the most, clearly, and he indulged in them all one by one, appreciative. “These would be good with some tomatoes.” 

“Senpai,” Eda chided, “reign in your sweet tooth  a little, please.” 

“Then next,” Haruno brought out her huge bowl, “time for something refreshing after all that heavy stuff.” 

Hinako was, at first, taken aback. It was like a fruit bowl, mixed with vegetables— she seemed to have put anything she could in there, from mangoes, green apples, grapefruit, bean sprouts, cucumbers— she even tossed in some deep fried tofu and the glutinous riceballs in there. And then came the ominously brown sauce, thick as peanut butter yet its consistency reminded her of bean paste. The strong odour of shrimp paste was in the air and Hinako wasn’t sure if she was a fan.

She served it up like a mess, and Hinako was very concerned. She was always trained to plate everything as appetising, elegant, and perfect as possible— no exceptions— so the idea of just dumping a chaotic mess of fruits onto a plate and then slathering it with sauce in a similarly appetising colour was just like taunting the grim reaper.

She could tell Donato had the same qualms. This is a fine-dining school, isn’t it?

“Oh, street food,” Sena indulged without hesitation. He perked when he tasted the sauce with his bite of the apples. “Definitely strong flavours.” 

“It’s a surprise what you get, with everything drowned in sauce,” Nakagawa enjoyed the mangoes, “the sauce is really good!” 

“It’s crunchy with the peanuts, then the chilli also tickles my tongue a little,” Eda said, rather curiously, “the sesame seeds are really fun. The sticky rice makes it all nice and chewy, too.” 

Mizuhara was more hesitant. “Where do I even begin eating this?” She eventually picked up some julienned cucumbers, and pretty much drank the rest of it down, “hmm. Not bad.” 

Shinomiya definitely appreciated it. “The sauce is a little overpowering for the vegetables, but it fights with the fruits, and is evened out by the rice. As a whole dish, there’s nothing I can complain about.” 

“Just say it’s good, pinky.” 

“Whad’ya call me, ya feckin’ dipshit?”

“I’m in disbelief,” Nakagawa chewed on his foot carefully, “the Polar Star tomatoes are good here. You kids are really making much more progress than us high schoolers did with these crazy tomatoes.” 

When Donato decided to indulge, Hinako decided she had to, too. And she was blown away. She thought Haruno had insanely rich parents— yet, she made street food, and she made them good . 

Though the sauce looked thick and heavy, it tasted fresh, the fragrance of white sesame and lime perking up the mellow notes of the roasted nuts. It was warm and comforting, the way it was reminiscent of peanut butter, yet was savoury and light without compromising a deep, fulfilling flavour that lingered with each bite. 

Though the vegetables were only briefly prepared, their natural flavours came out strongly, the tartness of the green apples bursting through the seams of the savoury sauce. With each bite of the glutinous rice, the sauce melded into the seams of the rice, soaking into the rivers of each grain, spreading the enticing chilli freshness all across her tongue. Then the julienne cucumbers drew in so much of the sauce between its thin, flavourful strings, making it just a tad more addictively sweet with its light flavours as an accompaniment. It was tantalizing.  

She circled back around to the rice, and it no longer mattered that the presentation was disastrous. What is this sauce, and why did it complement every single ingredient in this chaotic fruit salad? Was that even possible? One sauce?

“I was really craving rojak after coming back this year,” Haruno pouted, “I just can’t make it as good as this street stall uncle near my ibu’s house.” 

“It’s always the nondescript street stalls,” Eda chuckled. 

“Alright, the final entree is mine,” Mizuhara stood up, and Hinako’s heart ceased. 

There’s more . 

Right. 

She’s at her limit. These dishes were just one dramatic whiplash after the next, her heart can’t take this. She’s going to die. Her tongue can only handle the food of the gods three times a day. 

Following the refreshing fruit salad was a rich, buttery rigatoni , the fragrantly caramelised butter generously tossed with herbs and aromatics. 

The comfortingly springy pasta, the rich buttery sauce that burst with herbs and sucked her right back into the dough— the roasted lemons garnished atop that prevented it all from becoming much too greasy— and then, the rich, dusted parmesan on top she just can’t get enough of. The black pepper was just the combination move that tickled her all the way down her throat, and she couldn’t help but inhale the rest of it all with a wanton hunger unbecoming of her upbringing. 

“Mizuhara-senpai! Please take me in as your apprentice!” Donato’s on the ground. 

“What? No,” Mizuhara said. “I don’t take apprentices.” 

“Then I’ll be your servant! Please allow me to be vaguely within five meters of you the next time you cook!” 

“...yeah, that sounds less annoying.” 

“Mizuhara!” the rest of the seniors chided her in flustered unison. 

“The herbs are very well melded into the dish,” Nakagawa ignored the chaos to compliment the dish. “You mixed herb butter into the dough. And tossed the same herb butter with the lemon and aromatics. It makes the flavour come through really strongly without contracting each other. It must have been tough to make it not so greasy, huh? Ah, so that’s why you changed from gnocchi to rigatoni.” 

“Yes, I tried a few until Eda was satisfied,” Mizuhara glanced at Eda, who was enjoying the food rather satisfied. He raised a thumbs up. “I made sure to thicken it with a bit of cheese so it wasn’t too watery, too.”

“Hmm, I’d recommend another cheese rather than the parmesan you used, but it’s good for something you made just in one day,” Nakagawa said. “You did the best today, Mizuhara-chan.” 

Mizuhara bloomed like an excited cat. “Thank you, senpai!” 

Meanwhile Shinomiya and Haruno sulked, and Sena chuckled sadly. “Looks like we lost…” 

“They were all so good, though…” Hinako said, “I wouldn’t be able to choose a best dish if it were me. The Rojak sauce was divine. The roasted vegetables were perfect…” 

Donato also marvelled. “We can’t forget the asparagus soup! It was nothing short of flawless! And then this rigatoni is something that could be served in a three-star restaurant! Hold on, when did this turn into a judging thing?” Donato wondered.

“In Tootsuki, every cook-off is a judging thing, ” Eda said, “especially if we have an Elite Ten in the room more than happy to eat our food.” 

This is where a competition can ruin your future forever, after all. It’s a place where none of them can let their guard down for even a second, and they spend every other moment ceaselessly honing their craft.

“But if we’re done eating, shall we have dessert?”

Hinako died instantly.

 

---

 

And then she came back to life so she could eat the cheesecake. 

“I feel like every dish connected to the one before it somehow,” Shinomiya said. “Asparagus to the roasted vegetable platter, to the salad, then the rigatoni’s cheese to end with a cheesecake. But yours is the only one that’s Japanese.” 

“Oh shush, you,” Eda said.

“Oh! The crust has peanuts in it. It’s what I didn’t use for the peanut sauce, right?” Haruno said, “it’s toasted and so fragrant! I love the crust layer.” 

“A strawberry cheesecake, huh,” Nakagawa swooned, “I wish I could monopolize you in the Dairy Product Research Society, Eda-chan.” 

“Sorry, Sekimori-senpai had dibs.” 

“Maybe I can shokugeki him for you.” 

“Please do it after my mom’s birthday in two months. I’m gonna figure out a good Japanese Confection for that first, then I’m game for wherever else.” 

“Hey,” Mizuhara warned, “you’re going to cause war in Polar Star.” 

Sena simply enjoyed his cake in silence. 

The cake was visually gorgeous, and tasted just as great. The most eye-catching layer had to be the pink gelatin layer with sakura petals between it. It was followed by a mellow lemon cheesecake layer, and then powered by a rich pink strawberry cheesecake layer. Eating them in tandem was just art , the rejuvenating tart lemons binding with the rich syrup of the strawberries, dusted by the elegant fragrance of sakura— all wrapped lovingly in cream cheese. Then there’s the crispy base layer, with mild-tasting cookie crumbs crusted with richly-caramelized peanuts for a satisfying texture coming through with each bite. 

“The strawberry and cream cheese are harmonious,” he adored it very much. “The strawberry comes on a little strong, but the lemon balances it out in flavour, so neither of it overpowers the sakura. It’s amazing how subtle the flavour remains with the fragrance of sakura and vibrant strawberries as its main elements.” 

“I'm more impressed you managed to make a three-layered cheesecake in so little time,” Nakagawa said. “Your time management never ceases to amaze me, Eda-chan. I want you employed in my shop when I make it.” 

“Sorry, Jou-san has first dibs.” 

“Darn it, I can’t shokugeki with that!” 

While Hinako briefly wondered who ‘Jou-san’ could be, she found Donato absolutely absorbed in all the dishes so far. 

“It does a good job of connecting to the previous dishes,” Donato said. “This could go best with the pairing of Haruno-senpai’s appetiser and Mizuhara-senpai’s main course…” 

“You sure are thinking so hard about full course dinners, Donato-kun,” HInako hummed. “You have to think about those a lot in your restaurant?”

“Eh?” he blushed, “ah, sorry. I see the chefs at my place pour hours into deciding each day’s course, and sometimes I have to do it too. So it’s just a habit at this point.” 

“That’s a good experience!” Hinako said, “I never thought  lot could go into the dishes. In my place, we have a set one for each day, a set each season, and we just rinse and repeat until the next menu order comes down from top.” 

Donato hummed with interest at that. “But the people up top must study intensively, if that menu is used so widely!” 

“Yes, of course. Washoku is a lot less adaptable than other dishes, after all. We rely on the loyalty of customers, so changing the flavours will lose them,” she sighed. “That’s why, coming to Tootsuki is so refreshing. I’ve never tasted such vivid, adventurous flavours before. My guardians all looked down on street food, so I never imagined the chaotic presentation could translate to good flavours.” 

“Oh, that cannot be!” Donato gasped, “I simply must take you to the shopping district this weekend. You must join me in my conquest to discover the greatest finger food in the area.” 

“Eh?!” 

“Please, I implore you!” 

Hinako noticed the seniors had gone quiet, and she flushed bright red to find them all staring at her and Donato with the fondness of proud parents thinking their littlest were about to embark on their first venture into adulthood. 

“Donato,” Shinomiya took pity on Hinako, “you’re so innocent that it’s unfathomable how you’re also a playboy, but tone it down around her. Hinako’s a sheltered girl.” 

Hinako hissed like a wet cat. He’s right, but she hates that it’s him saying this.

Chapter 32: Risking Tastes and Textures

"Don't do that, pile the lasagna sheets on in a normal pan," Mizuhara chided him, and dodged his grabby arms that reached for the ricotta.

"But wouldn't it be fun to roll up a lasagna like a roll cake? With lots of sauce in between the layers, of course," Eda felt incredibly curious, "I mean, we could also brown them in an oven, won't they have that cool crunchy texture?"

"Lasagna is meant to be tender like a layered cake, what do you mean, crunchy?!"

"Awh but imagine lasagna hors d'oeuvres!"

"Pasta is a main dish you imbecile!"

The teacher assigned to Italian Cuisine, Miss Isabella De Niro, has never seen Mizuhara yell at people before, but she supposed there's a first for everything. Also, Chapelle had a host of exasperated horror stories about Shinomiya and Eda's screaming matches.

Thank goodness it's Eda, the nicer one, instead of the notoriously fierce Shinomiya who was well-known as a delinquent around these parts. Especially because of the hair. Definitely because of the hair.

It's probably a good thing. Mizuhara's always been too unsociable and shy for the chef scene— she could probably survive this way, but she'd struggle if there was nothing that could ever bring her out of her comfort zone.

Though, Miss de Niro was very concerned about... whatever they were arguing about. All they had to do was make a lasagna. Why did this happen?

"Then can I just do one batch like that?"

"Sure, and take my name off the fucking dish before you serve it. My ancestors would shoot me on sight and sell my organs to the cartel."

Oh, so Mizuhara could swear too.

"Come on, the texture would be interesting," Eda pouted. "It'd be chewy near the middle and crispy on the edges."

"That sounds like raw pasta to me."

"The middle will be perfectly al dente, I promise!"

"Look, lasagna is cooked its classic way for a good reason."

"...I know, but you know, we could put a spin on it—"

"Enough! It's my specialty, not yours!" Mizuhara finally snapped. "Can't you stop pretending you know a single thing about how to make my dish better? It's not like you can understand why the flavours work, anyways!"

The silence that ensued made the teacher abruptly realize she was too late to interfere. Her stomach dropped with dread, she really should have interfered sooner.

Mizuhara and Eda stared at each other with wide eyes, and it's clear someone stepped on a bomb that shouldn't have, because Mizuhara immediately looked like she wanted to swallow every word that ever came out of her mouth in the future. And Eda looked a little hurt.

"N-Now, you two," she stepped between them, "let's cool down a little."

They were already cooled down. Too cooled down, kind of like a house that's burnt to ashes completely. That's the problem.

She tried her best to salvage the situation. "You have plenty of time to cook your dishes, since you two finished the prep so quickly! I'm sure you have sufficient time— and ingredients— to bake two batches, right?"

Neither of them were looking at her. Or each other.

Finally, Mizuhara let out a dry, "yes, miss. We do." Then, like she was blurting this out, "let's do that."

Eda, recovering silently, reached for the shelves for the lasagna pan.

"Yeah. I'm sorry for overstepping, Mizuhara-san."

Mizuhara simply hummed weakly, and stepped forward, to finish their dish together.

Left in the stranded aftermath feeling like a failure, Miss De Niro wanted to cry. She probably will, after the class, but for now, she had the rest of the class' dishes to judge, so those plans were on hold.

The worst part? Both dishes tasted great, but the way they presented it without even looking at each other made it feel like two people had been making their own dishes individually, rather than as partners.

---

"Minase-sensei listen to thiiiiiss!!"

It's not every day a teacher barges into another teacher's classroom with a clear baggage of this week's exclusive gossip, but alas.

Sena and Haruno were treated to this sight because they stayed back after their South Asian cuisine class to ask their teacher a lot of questions about the recipe. Essentially forcing the teacher to work overtime, but they're in Tootsuki, consideration doesn't exist and lunch break equates to class time.

"The thing is... Eda-kun and Mizuhara-san got into this big fight, and I think it was really bad. I don't know what to do..."

Minase-sensei froze.

"Hold on, did you mean Eda-kun and Shinomiya-kun?"

"Nooo," she seemed ready to cry harder, "Eda-kun and Mizuhara-san."

"Not Shinomiya-kun."

"No, it's Mizuhara-san."

Sena and Haruno had to glance at each other and back, just to make sure they heard right. And sure enough— they had heard the same thing. Double-taking, they whirled to the teacher with a baffled,

"Wait, what?!"

---

It's bad. Like, really bad.

They're on opposing ends of the Polar Star dining table. Fumio's in the middle. Shionimya took one look at them and turned right back around.

"I'm not paid for this shit," he declared to the peanut gallery.

The seniors despaired.

And then Nakagawa said, "you can have half the cheese and butter I smoked."

And Shinomiya spun right back around with a gallant fervor and maximum motivation, "alright, fess up ya milksops, who pissed in whose cereal?!"

---

Shinomiya made dinner.

Mizuhara was very hard to convince out of her shell, but she perked up somewhere between the making of the beurre monte sauce. The smell of butter wafting through the dorm was just heavenly temptation. She's never been known to be the greatest of endurers.

"Eda, get over here and fold pasta," Shinomiya snarled. "Mizuhara, decide on the protein already, we don't have all damn night."

"Anyone in the dorm allergic to shrimp?" Mizuhara asked.

"Nope," Shinomiya said, "but Nakagawa-senpai isn't a fan. He's fine with plain pasta though, we don't have to worry about him."

"Then that's it I guess," Mizuhara supposed.

Shinomiya and Mizuhara worked together well, even considering their usual rivalry. They were a stark contrast to when they worked with Eda. Despite butting heads just as often, when it came to cooking, they were nearly always in sync.

"This will be done in a second. You deveining them?"

"I'll be a while. You start on the sauce, but save some of the butter for me. What don't you want in the seasoning?"

"Don't think anything you have will clash... ah, we have a good garlic confit in the fridge, see what you can do with that."

"Got it."

Eda watched from the sidelines, and he couldn't help but sigh. That was, of course, how a normal pair of good cooks worked together in a kitchen. Even though their specialties differed, they understood what each other thought, and delegated the decisions accordingly so they could build a dish together.

Eda kneaded the dough in his hands and considered himself. He was allowed to choose what they were eating— clearly, it was going to be a creamy, buttery sauce, so there were plenty of options here.

But one thought lingered in his head.

(Nakagawa-senpai didn't like seafood, and was allergic to shellfish. Which was a shame, considering how well his dairy specialty went with that whole category of food... It's amazing how he was still able to become an Elite Ten— apparently, his crowning Shokugeki had clams as the main ingredient. He didn't taste the dish once, yet, his clam chowder still won by a landslide.)

(But it's quite a shame indeed. Nakagawa-senpai was like Eda, in that he didn't mind eating anything and judging fairly, whether it was delicious or disgusting or subpar, and he would still finish his food regardless if he enjoyed it. But it still felt odd to serve their senior plain pasta for dinner.)

Eda eyed the assortment of smoked dairy on the table, and wondered.

And then he reached for the cheeses.

"The sauce is so rich already," Mizuhara interrupts. "Eda-kun, I don't think that's a good idea."

Well, she's right.

"Oh don't be a killjoy, Mizuhara," Shinomiya sighed, "let him make his damn cheese pizza spaghetti if he wants to, he's eating the damn thing if we don't."

To which Eda stared at Shinomiya, baffled, and Mizuhara snarled, "it's because you're such a fucking enabler that he keeps messing up you guys' dishes," she groans, "if you didn't save last week's Japanese cuisine class with your chikuzenni, you'd have failed!"

Shinomiya blanched. "Yeah, I can't believe Eda destroyed porridge. I'm... honestly still like, super pissed about that actually," he thought about it, "holy shit, I haven't hit him on the head for it yet. Just thinking about it fills me with unspeakable rage."

"Right?!" Mizuhara snarls, "and unlike you buffoons, I do not have grades to spare taking such crappy risks, okay?"

Eda eyed the underside of the kitchen island, thinking it was such a tempting adversary in these trying times.

He understood. He had little to lose here, and so did Shinomiya, technically speaking.

While they lose it all, they could always start from ground up again somewhere no one knows them, because it's not like they come from inheritance and tradition, or have their family's hopes riding on them like Mizuhara, Donato, and Hinako. Unlike them, Eda and Shinomiya would have a staggered start, but they were always meant to climb an arduous and long ladder to their futures.

But Mizuhara has something waiting for her at home. There's an Italian restaurant she wants her name to be on, and she can't do it with a checkered record in this school. She has much more to risk than they could ever understand, and she's not very interested in partaking in illogical risks just for the fun of the thrill.

She's a very logical and theoretical chef, and Eda understands that painfully so.

Shinomiya, however, simply looked at her determination and sighed. "Damn, you live your whole life with that stick up yer ass or what?"

Eda gasped.

Mizuhara sputtered something incorrigible in his direction, face flushing red, because "do you have no fucking tact, you country bumpkin?!"

"Lost most of that in my ma's womb, and the rest got taken by the monsters of the corn fields when I was six," Shinomiya didn't even miss a beat, which made Eda wonder how long he's had that answer prepared. "Look. Our dish? It's gonna be good, but his dish? It's either going to be fucking great, or it's going to end with him getting food poisoning from the consequences of his own actions. I don't know about you, but when it happens I want a front row seat to point and laugh."

Mizuhara's jaw dropped. She turns back to Eda, who's blank-faced in honest resignation, and she's bewildered, "seriously? You have nothing to say about this?"

Eda once heard, sometime in another lifetime, that when someone is more agitated than you, you suddenly feel calm in comparison. He understands how that feels now.

Eda simply responded, defeatedly, "it's okay, my sister's worse."

"Eda-kun," Mizuhara invoked, more sincere and genuine emotion emboldening her eyes than he had ever seen before, "are things, like, okay? Wanna talk about it?"

Eda wondered if he should cry.

They came by Sumiredoori last Winter, when Tamako wasn't around, so they've yet to meet her. Eda had a feeling they would find utmost temperance in the entire ordeal. Sena might find joy in it, he's weird like that.

Mizuhara cannot believe this is her situation right now, "you two..." frustration leaks into her voice, "you're so easygoing, it makes me sick. It must be nice to never have to worry about anything, huh?"

Shinomiya falls silent at that.

Both of them can't pretend to know what it's like to have society's pressure put on them, expectations lined up for what you're supposed to be— and they don't have the right to sympathize.

Everyone had their own variety of these invisible chains tied to their wrists and ankles, and it's up to them to find their own way to move onward despite it all.

"You know, Mizuhara-san," Eda began, carefully, cradling the mark on his wrist contemplatively, "you're serious about your work, and that always pays off for you. But... one day, it's all going to end."

Shinomiya and Mizuhara turn to him with such abruptness when he says that.

That was not what they had expected him to say.

Eda reaches for the smoked cheeses, and peruses his options, "no matter how hard you work, how hard you get it... no matter how much you've achieved, one day, something is going to put a stop to it. Something will try and take it all away from you, like some kind of sick joke gone wrong. And... well, what's next?"

(You could have the world, and the world will abandon you.)

(You could have everything, and lose yourself instead.)

"I admire you, Mizuhara-san. You can put your heart into everything, you cook much better than I can ever hope to. I wish I could be like you," he said. "But I can't do that anymore."

Because I can't taste anything I make. I can't cook like you two, because I'm just fundamentally lacking something that I can't fix.

Because I'm tired of having my world collapse around me once I'm comfortable.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" he supposed. "I don't know what I'll do in the future. I don't know if I'm ever meant to have one," the idea of a future scares me, because the future I used to have haunts me, "all I want is to enjoy what I have now, to the fullest. And if trying my luck with fate is what I have to do, then I'll do it. It's not like dramatic irony has ever done me any favours."

He's just messing around until the other shoe drops. He knows that.

(It always happens. He enjoys himself, he finds his place, and then fate cruelly tears it away from him. He knows already. He's expecting it already. He's not so naive as to think things will just go smoothly forever. He knows this feeling of safety and it terrifies him more than anything else.)

(Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, and let's see how long we can play in this circus of freaks.)

When he finally gained the courage to look up at Mizuhara and Shinomiya again, he saw Shinomiya giving Mizuhara a glare. And Mizuhara looked as if she wished the ground would swallow her up.

Finally, she breaks, stepping over, "FINE!" she snapped, marching toward Eda with such vigour he flinched and expected to be hit, "what the hell are you trying to do, anyways?"

"Uhm. I was thinking either stuffed pasta or baked..."

"Not this one," Mizuhara takes a bite of the cheese as Eda cuts a slab, "I think Nakagawa-senpai smoked this one with applewood... it doesn't go well with our sauce. Oh, this one's made with sheep milk!"

"Eh, you can tell?" Eda's surprised. "Even what wood it was smoked with? Wait, does that change the flavours too?"

Mizuhara winces. "Of course I can tell the difference. Who do you think I am? And of course it changes the flavours, that's the whole point of the smoking process— Christ, you're a lost cause."

Eda chuckled awkwardly at that.

But Mizuhara affixed, almost hastily, "I guess you'll just have to rely on me before you do things from now on, I suppose!" she snapped, "hurry up, the damn shrimp isn't going to fucking devein itself so I don't have a lot of time."

"Oh, I can do that," Eda said, "I'm good at prep work because of the diner."

"Why the HELL did you not say that sooner?!" Mizuhara snarled, "you do that, then!"

"You gotta grow out of your hate for tedious prep work, Mizuhara-san," Eda sighed fondly. Then, perusing the work so far, he takes a moment before adding, "Mizuhara-san, you destroyed half of these. Why is this one halved and the other quartered?"

Shinomiya laughs, "you should see her with potatoes."

"Why did you give her this job, then?!" Eda's baffled.

To which Mizuhara replied, petulantly, "well that's why I have a damn partner who does the menial work so well, don't I?"

Eda blinked at that. Then he smiled. "Yeah. I suppose."

"The hell do you mean 'I suppose', be damn sure!"

"Ehh, but you said it first."

"I can say it, you can't!" She declared.

"That's not fair now!" Eda whined.

Shinomiya watched from the sidelines, nodding with an exasperated sigh. He supposed things were fine now. Every good relationship with Eda, unfortunately, just has to include hollering from one kitchen to the next.

It's chaotic, perhaps, but Eda was someone that made up for what he lacked with communication. Whatever nonsensical form it took, everyone wanted him to know that they appreciated it.

---

Pasta is always an interesting experience for Eda.

It's easy to make, anyone can do it— but everyone makes it differently. Just a little misstep on the mixing, knead it a little less or more, and it turns out completely different. The temperature of the water you boil it in, whether you salt the water or oil it— it's all going to change the result. There's an equation to good pasta, but there's no one formula to perfect pasta, which is why Eda honestly hates making it, even though he loves working with dough.

But Mizuhara? If there was ever a 'perfect pasta' voting conference, hers would be up on the roster every single time. Getting a perfect al dente isn't a struggle after you get the hang of it, but Mizuhara does it as naturally as breathing.

The conchiglie curled with herbs and ricotta was pleasantly savoury against the rich, overwhelming cream that clung onto his tongue. The breathiness that comes from garlic left a pleasant warmth on the way down his throat, and the butter lingering on his lips drove him toward the clear freshnes so the lemon zest that prickled against the roof of his mouth.

"You added way too much damn cream in this," Shinomiya groans. "All that with the butter? Yeah it tastes real damn great, but at what cost?"

"This meal's going to give me a heartburn," Mizuhara says.

"That's the best part," Eda verdicts.

The fact that he can actually feel each bite filling him up is satisfaction to the greatest degree. He licks his lips, the stickiness of the rich cream coating each spot he goes through, and he can't even be embarrassed about it when Fumio reaches over with a tissue.

"You're going to eat yourself into a heart attack one day," Shinomiya says.

"Well then, let's hope it's not today!" Nakagawa beams, sitting down with his serving and taking that momentous, judgemental first bite.

Everyone waits with bated breath.

Eda honestly wonders about them, sometimes. The food looks amazing, always— rich, buttery cream of your dreams slicked through the webs of pasta, spilling with gemstones of herbs, adorned by the centrepiece of vibrant red shrimps with their pure white, creamy flesh.

Eda doesn't remember what flavours like salty or sweet taste like anymore, but recently, he thinks he's starting to remember, and starting to recognize it through the blurry fog of nothingness that's plagued him for years.

Maybe he didn't lose a complete hundred percent of his taste buds. An actual, technical full loss of a sense is rare, after all. Maybe he's got like, about less than five percent of it left if he really tries to find a number for it. He's not sure, there's no real way to check once it gets that bad. It's not like he's ever gone to a doctor about it after the initial incident, either.

He gulps down the food one after another, not quite tasting more than just the average freshness and very, very mild sweetness akin to drinking water. That, and what he thinks is the sourness of the lemon zest, albeit just as muted and barely recognizable if not for the way it leaves a tangy, rubbery feeling on his tongue. He's not sure if he remembers what salt tastes like anymore. Bitterness dries out his tongue. Spiciness always hurts, though, so that's nice.

But they felt like farfetched concepts to him, at this point.

'Flavour' was just a concept he connected to the sensations, because education didn't quite teach him how to reconcile these feelings any other way.

Flavour's just another part of the formula to a successful cake. That means it's important, but much like fantasy and sci-fi movies, in his opinion it's best enjoyed with his mind far away on a suspension of disbelief.

Eda only cares about how pleasantly creamy it all is, how warm the garlic and butter waft in his mouth, how soothingly the beds of pasta go down, how springy each bite feels in the culminating wonder of each spoonful.

If everyone says something is good, then surely, it must be good.

(And honestly, that's fine.)

(There's so much more than just flavour to enjoy in food, after all.)

 

Chapter 33: Comparing Cooking and Baking Times

“Do you know the biggest reason why people don’t make desserts in competitions in this school? Yes, you at the back.” 

“Uhm… because it takes a lot more skill and has a much rougher judging criteria?” 

“That’s part of it,” the teacher acquiesced, “but that’s not the main reason , unfortunately. Any other guesses?” 

Another hand went up. “Because some desserts are much easier and faster to make and don’t compare to difficult main dishes like stews and all?” 

Minase-sensei hummed, arms crossed. “You’re getting closer,” he nods. Then finally, he turns to the one that has the answer, “Eda-kun, if you’d enlighten the crowd?” 

Eda winced. “Because for a competition-level dessert, it often takes days to start and finish a dessert dish from scratch…” 

“Yes.” 

The biggest discrepancy between cooking competitions and dessert competitions is the time allotted for cooking. Dessert competitions can go from three to eight hours, or even longer. Days, in the really high level. 

While there are exceptions and plenty of desserts with very short time constraints, a patissier’s skills shine best with time on their side. 

While most desserts are better eaten cold, main dishes are often better served fresh off the stove. A longer cooking time would also mean they’d also have much more time to retrace their steps if they messed up, and that makes the process much less fair in a competitive environment. 

In other words, it’s an uphill battle no one wants to take, and if you know what’s good for you in a place like Tootsuki, it’s a challenge you don’t take unless you want to handicap yourself from the very beginning. 

In all honesty, if you just want to be a patissier, a local college will give you enough skills to get you started, and you’re better off apprenticing in patisseries instead. 

Eda has many years of experience with heavy workloads and insane time constraints, so it’s only a little bit of an issue. Though, competitions still stress him out. 

“What Eda-kun can pull off is very impressive, even to us teachers,” Minase-sensei acknowledged, “but right now, Tootsuki’s environment is very disadvantageous for Dessert Food Fortes. That’s not to say there won’t be any challenge for it, though.” 

The teacher raised a hand to the projected screen. 

“Your mid terms are in one month, yes, yes, I know it’s very soon, yes it will be immediate expulsion if you lose—” he settled the crowd of frantic students like he’s herding puppies. There’s a moment of silence as everyone waited with bated breath.

Minase-sensei braced himself.

“It’s a Dessert test.” 

Chaos.

 

---

 

“That’s not fair! This test is basically a free pass for Eda!” 

“That’s just ridiculous! This is obviously some kind of favouritism!” 

“And it’s desserts with summer fruits?? We barely even touch fruits in the classroom except strawberries!” 

“We haven’t even learned many Desserts this year on Summer desserts , the classes have been on whipped cream and stuff like that, we haven’t baked actual things yet!” 

“I knew it was bad when the teachers just kept giving us sakura, matcha and strawberry assignments! It was sabotage!” 

“I’m going to lodge a complaint! How the hell are we supposed to figure out summer desserts when no one’s let us touch anything other than a strawberry in fruit assortments this whole damn year?!” 

Shinomiya already figured the mayhem was coming when all their first classes announced that. Seriously, for a bunch of second years, they really loved whining. This must be the puberty age. This is the chuunibyou age, of course everyone’s in their woe is me angst phase. 

And while Shinomiya deeply understood and wanted to complain too, he knew this was exactly what Eda felt all year around when tests were always about appetisers and entrees. They’re just getting the tables turned upon them, because this is the second year. This was when they’re past the coddling newbie phase and now in the ‘let’s give you a slight taste of what high school’s 1% graduation rate is going to be like’ era. As they should.

(Heck, they’re complaining about summer dishes when Sekimori and the rest of his year group had to do Spring Dishes to even get past the school gates to attend the entrance ceremony…)

Anyways. The entire grade was abuzz with complaints. 

Hence, there’s an Eda Kiyofumi under the goddamn table again. 

Haruno was going pspspspsp on him with a stick of pocky. “Here kitty kitty,” she whispers, “it’s not scary out here.” 

“Ayu, stop that,” Mizuhara warned. 

Sena was opening another pack of pocky, “yeah, his favourite flavour is almond because it crunches. Try this.” 

“Both of you!” Mizuhara groaned. 

“Just leave him down there,” Shinomiya sighed, pulling a chair over to sit down. He opened up his notebook, leaning forward on the table, “we may as well get started on preparing for the test.” 

They’re honestly very lucky they’re getting a whole month to prepare for one dish. 

And when the test day comes, they’ll even get the entire day to cook it. The other years will not be around that day, so every kitchen will be reserved for the grade, and they can serve anytime they finish. They can also retry up to two times as long as it’s before six in the evening. They can even help each other.  

It’s incredibly lenient. But it’s still going to kick down a hulk of students who’ve let their guards down just because it’s early in the year. 

“I guess when it comes to summer desserts, you think about tropical fruits,” Sena considered, eating his pocky and occasionally feeding some to the squirrel below. “We won’t have a lot of ingredients to practice on…” 

“Most of the grade will likely be using strawberries,” Mizuhara supposed, “we used them a lot in spring already. But the flavour’s sweeter when harvested in summer, so we’ll have to consider that too.” 

“Strawberry ice cream,” piped the squirrel under the table. 

“Any type of ice cream would definitely be fun,” Haruno said. “Do we have an ice cream machine?” 

There’s a moment of silence.

Then, all eyes turned to Eda.

 

---

 

It’s a bright and peaceful day in Tootsuki, all things considered. Drama is happening in some buildings, competitions are sparked in others, and people are agonizing over lessons and recipes with each other. Expulsion is on no one’s agenda yet this early into the school year, and everyone’s just having their best fun right now.

Then the alarms in the Research Society building start blaring.

Mayhem ensues as the new first years freak out, startled by the alarm that was definitely louder and more ear-piercing than building code allowed. 

Every other grade above them were scrambling in frantic unity like there was a fire. There were flashing lights and the entire building’s shutters fluttered down noisily like a doomsday protocol.

Someone screamed, megaphones out, “EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! POLAR STAR SIGHTED COMING IN THIS DIRECTION. ALL PLATOON STAY CALM!” 

“O father in heaven have mercy on us—” 

“GASTRONOMY ASSOCIATION, HIDE YOUR EQUIPMENT. HURRY!!”

“Someone! We need a peace envoy! Someone go negotiate! SOMEONE! PLEASE! I can’t handle this anymore! I can’t handle six years of this! WHY?! NO!”  

“NO! The Candy Association did it last time! NOT US! NOT! US!” 

“FATHER WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN US?!?” they’re on their hands and knees, head on the ground, “WHAT CRIMES HAVE I COMMITTED AGAINST YOU?!” 

There was only one small group of people coming over the horizon. All of them seem to be chatting casually with each other, a harsh contrast to pandemonium within the walls. 

“Crap, it’s Eda!” with deep horror.

That one guy with the megaphone starts screeching in hyperventilation, “CODE RED! CODE RED! CODE RED, CODE RED!” and his partner makes ambulance noises while in a fetal position on the ground.  

“DESSERT RS, TO THE BUNKERS!” 

“Hush, those are first years!” a dramatic gasp, “Inui Hinako! Donato Gotouda! The two prospective talents of the newest batch!” 

“WHAT? They’re corrupting the youth oh my god—” 

“We need to save those precious babies.” 

“Forget it. They’re in Polar Star. It’s too late.” 

“GAHH! They’re here!!!”

Eda tapped on the door casually with two knocks, and then hollered casually like all the lockdown shutters weren’t fully drawn and barricaded: 

“Hello, is anyone in here? We have some new students here who are curious about the Research Societies.” 

Terrified silence in the rooms. Everyone’s hiding out of sight from the windows, holding each other’s mouths and breaths sucked all the way into their chests in pure school shooter fear in their very souls. 

“He said the new kids wanna learn about us,” one whispered, hopeful. 

“No! It’s a trap!” another hissed sharply. “It’s a trojan horse! Trust no one!” 

“It’s a trojan squirrel…” 

“I can’t hear anything! I can’t hear anything! Don’t hear anything, these walls are soundproof from today onwards! We hear nothing!” 

“EVERYONE STAY CALM!” 

A loud gasp. “...It’s Shinomiya!” someone screeched, terrified. 

Megaphone panic attack guy was hyperventilating, “CALL THE BOMB SQUAD!” 

Three knocks on the door.

 

---

 

“Uhm. Are they okay?” 

“They’re fine,” Shinomiya groused, reading through the document where he’s crossed out the word ‘Mother Earth Appreciation Society’ and emboldened the letters CULT beside it. “Dammit, there’s no decent Vegetable or Farming Research Society.” 

Behind them in the Research Society Building, there were bodies sprawled dramatically all over, lifeless and broken. Donato hauled huge machines onto a wagon, and Eda was in a very, very chipper mood now.

“I can make pretty amezaiku now!” Eda celebrated giddily. 

It seemed he’d cheered up already.

“Good for ya, because I still ain’t seeing anything I want,” Shinomiya sighed, counting the bills in his hand, “but with this much, we may as well build a private kitchen for just your equipment… we could ask Nakagawa-senpai. He’s got one in the main building, but he was thinking of building one beside the dorms too.” 

“But Nakagawa-senpai’s dairy kitchen feels too sacred…” Eda sighed, “Elite Ten privileges are so cool.” 

“Chill. Once he graduates in two years, you get the whole thing to yourself.” 

“I definitely want a huge refrigerated pantry as well,” Sekimori considered. “I can make mine here, though… ah, Donato-kun, is the wagon too heavy?”

“Nope, it’s fine!” 

They’d also won a ramen yatai cart while they were at it. Something about how it’d be a fun little summer break activity or something, people at Polar Star were just weird like that. 

Hinako cast another wary glance at the carnage they’re leaving behind in the Research Society building. Her seniors walked on without even looking back.

One of the corpses reached a shaky hand in her direction, croaking out, “s-spare us…” before falling henceforth motionless on the ground. 

They’re so cool, she thought. Maybe to become on their level, I’ve gotta be cold and cool like that too. Unfazed by everything, cruel and merciless. 

Yeah, it was a good plan. Her family always looked down on her for being meek and a pushover, so… watching her seniors like this, she felt they were so admirable.

(No one knew yet, but this was the beginning of the reign of the ice queen in the kitchen. But that wouldn’t be a problem for another two years.) 

 

---

 

To Eda, ice cream was… well, a bit of a mixed bag. 

“The main differences between ice cream, sorbet, shaved ice, and other ice desserts is the texture,” he said, “in all honesty, I don’t think most people care much about the flavour balance, they just want something overpowering and indulgent.” 

“I want to agree with you, but something about the way you say it annoys me,” Mizuhara sighed. 

“And everyone likes their ice cream differently. Children would like it strong, but Adults would like the taste mellower…” Eda considered, “I like it when it’s got marshmallows or chocolate chips or nuts in them.” 

“Of course you do.” 

“Now, now,” Sena chuckled, “let’s just start, shall we?” 

While the Polar Star calamities hit the Research Society building, the rest of the group were harvesting fruit from the Polar Star farm. 

“These mangoes are so sweet!!!” Haruno swooned, “I think I know what I want to make for my mid terms now…” 

“The lemons and raspberries, too…” Mizuhara tasted them, amused, “I don’t use fruits much, but I think I know what to do with these.” 

“Awesome, right?” Dorm Mother Fumio observed them from the sidelines, “we don’t have a lot of people wanting fruits over vegetables, so all of these are from Nakagawa, our resident Dairy Specialist.” 

“Eh? Then is it fine that we take them?” Sena yiped. 

“It’s fine, he’s an Elite Ten now so he can expand this field anytime he wants,” Fumio waved her hand dismissively, “just don’t take them all .” 

They gathered lots of fruit into the dessert kitchen (permission granted by Nakagawa, because he’s currently away for Elite Ten duties or something,) and promptly started their projects. 

“Sekimori-senpai seems to be busy recently too,” Hinako pointed out. “The first years don’t have mid terms, so…” 

“Sekimori-senpai is preparing for Bootcamp,” Shinomiya told her, “he got screwed over in it last year, so this time, he’s doing extra prep. The Elite Ten are also making sure sabotage like this doesn’t happen again.” 

“Sabotage?!” Donato gasped.

“But it’s not as easy as it sounds,” Dorm Mother Fumio sighed, “our golden generation just ended, so everyone is taking the chance to lunge at Polar Star to bring us down a peg, or something. Sorry you kids have to deal with that.” 

Eda couldn’t help but chuckle at that. In every era, the envious will always jump for their targets only after they’ve weakened considerably. It’s not to say that Polar Star is crumbling, but compared to the time when Saiba was around and the entirety of the Elite Ten came from this dormitory, they’ve surely fallen from grace. 

“Enough of the depressing talk,” Mizuhara sighed. “We’ll figure out our mid terms after we’ve made ice every way known to man.” 

 

---

 

“Fumio-san, you’re supposed to be their impulse control!” is what the Polar Star Highschoolers all walk in on, after the school day ended. Nakagawa is miserable into his hands and Sekimori honestly is more impressed than disappointed.

They step toward the living room and—

“Oh wow, what happened to the babies? Why are they knocked out??”

“Holy crap, look at the kitchen.” 

“WHEN DID WE GET AN ICE CREAM MACHINE?!”

“Ah, so that’s why the main building guys were giving us dirty looks.” 

“Nothing I said would’ve helped,” Fumio began defensively, “they were doing it as a Eda-kun cheer-up party. So they went wild. They can regret their actions when they’re finally out of their sugar coma.” 

All their middle schoolers— well, Mizuhara and Sena technically weren’t part of Polar Star, but honorary members were still their kids— were sprawled in separate parts of the living room. 

A row of glasses— still sticky and syrupy from the aftermath of very colourful shaved ice, sherbets, and ice creams with fruits and crystal candy, were all cluttered on the table. 

“Kakigoori! They had kakigoori without us!” one senior gasped in betrayal.

“Where did they get all those fancy glasses?” another leaned over the back of the couch to count, “I only remember like, two of them.” 

“Oh man! Those are Hanazono-senpai’s glass collection!” 

“For real?! Someone finally humbled that rich heiress?!”

“Awesome!” Kishinuma-senpai beamed, “that bitch owns all those with Shokugeki, so she probably lost them to Eda-chan the same way. Do you see a whale-shaped one anywhere? That’s someone’s family heirloom, I might as well go return it in exchange for some ingredients or something.”

“Yeah, it’s here. Go on, I don’t think the babies will notice. They didn’t use it.” 

Eda had his arms curled around Hinako in front of the couch. Mizuhara laid on the couch behind them, asleep the most peacefully. On the single-seat couch, Shinomiya was knocked right out on one side of it, his feet up on Sena’s shoulder as the latter rested in front of the couch with his head on the table between his arms. 

Haruno was squished onto the little space left between the couch and Shinomiya’s side, curled into a ball with her face smushed on Shinomiya’s knee. She was hugging Donato’s foot, the boy completely sprawled upside down on the floor around the couch as if he had been on the armrest but fell. 

The seniors’ eyes met from the doorway. The place was an utter mess, there’s sugar and melted ice cream residue all over the counters, and cut fruit scraps piling up the trash. It’s horrible kitchen etiquette, but…

“You go wake them.” 

“No, you go.” 

“I don’t want to, though, they’re so cute.” 

 

---

 

Everyone keeps telling Eda it’s a free pass for him, but he knew better than to believe that. Even in French classes, everyone’s extra strict on Shinomiya— the top students always get scrutinized far stricter. 

And while this test may be in his comfort zone, he’s always been out of it. He feels uneasy that this is supposed to be easy for him for once. 

“This really is pretty hard,” Sena sighed, sitting in front of the oven as he watched his pie bake in the oven. “I just can’t get the timing right… I’m so worried the cream cheese filling won’t set in time on the day of.” 

“That’s what we’re practicing for,” Mizuhara huffed, waiting in front of the fridge like that’ll make the wait for her tiramisu any easier. 

That’s truly what this term’s test is all about— time management, and how well you handle yourself in the time leading up to it. They’ve had ample warning, and plenty of time to try again. They even have free hours on the day itself to submit whenever they’re done.

“The only catch this time is that we truly have to start from scratch,” Haruno had her eyes fixed on a steamer, “meanwhile I’ve decided to make something difficult so I’m stressed out — I’ve never made this before. Why do I do this to myself? I don’t even like science. Why am I doing chemistry?” 

“It’s just gelatin, stop freaking out,” Shinomiya groaned. He’d been glaring at the basket of fruits for the past ten minutes trying to figure out where to start. “At least you don’t have to cut and slice and then arrange fruits.” 

“It’s not just gelatin, I have agar-agar, gypsum, nigari, citrus, gluconolactone—” 

“Stop speaking latin to me!” Shinomiya whined in defeat. 

“It’s SCIENCE!” she wailed, “I asked for help from the gastronomy club and they gave me a three-hour lecture and all these options, I can’t unlearn how to pronounce gluconolactone anymore!”  

Sena chuckled in sympathy. “You could’ve just asked Nakagawa-senpai what to use for soybean pudding…” 

“But it is turning out better each time, so all the options were definitely a good thing even if tedious to go through,” Mizuhara said. “The aesthetics are important in desserts, so we have to think of presentation too…” 

“Good thing we got all those fancy glasses,” Haruno chuckled, “I’m gonna use those.” 

“Hmm, probably me too,” Mizuhara supposed. “You’ve gotta see the pretty layers in a tiramisu. You two are doing tarts and pies, so you’re stuck with plates.” 

Sena sighed stressfully. 

Shinomiya glanced to the side, “I’d ask the dunce, but he’s busy.” 

And now all attention is on Eda, who’s scampering across his kitchen space. Two timers go off at the same time, and he hurries to switch them off before dashing for the oven. And then he’s going toward the fridge, and back to the chocolate he’s been tempering. A rich syrup is set to boil in the pot, and he glances at it every interval. 

“What’s he making?” 

“Beats me.” 

Sena hummed, “he can afford to go for something much more high levelled. He’s definitely going to ace the test,” he said. Then with a sigh, “I’m envious.” 

 

---

 

I’m envious .

Somehow, that line was stuck now in Eda’s head, even though he’d only peripherally heard it. He’d heard it a lot too, in his past life— it was pasted, all over every article— a prodigy, a genius, a talent that comes once every ten years, silly exaggerations like those that drew in crowds and critics like nothing else. 

Of course, the title was yet again inevitable in this life. He was much younger, with much less education in the field, so of course, anyone that laid eyes on the small bakery owner would obviously call him a talented child . 

(What else could explain such wisdom at such a young age?)

He found himself sneaking out of his room and onto the roof, to watch the stars. The night was silent and dark— up here in the Polar Star Dormitory, the surrounding forest was dark enough for the moon and stars to light up his view. 

Here, he felt small. He liked feeling small in the world— small, insignificant, merely a single dim glow in the sea of great wonders— he liked it. Not being in the spotlight— it was comforting. 

“You’re going to catch a cold out here.” 

He turned to find Dorm Mother Fumio, a shawl around her shoulders and another in her hand. When she draped it around his shoulders— he felt safe, in a way that warm layers shouldn’t be capable of. Maybe it was Fumio that had the magic. 

“You know, Kiyofumi,” she said his name in a way that felt so personal, he needed  a moment to remember that was his name at all. “You’re not the first in this dorm with eyes like those.”

Eyes like what? Eda felt as if he knew the answer.

Sometimes he looked in the mirror, and wondered what his eyes used to look like. She didn’t have time to look in the mirror often enough, so there’s no way he could remember her features after the world became a permanent blur. 

“Eyes that shine with more passion for food than anyone else— but they dim over time, because the world keeps trying to cloud your brightness,” she then chuckled to herself, “or is that too sappy from an old granny like me?” 

No, that sounded right . 

This was Polar Star, after all. The place where the brightest stars live. 

“...Fumio-san,” he spoke up, “am I… talented?” 

It wasn’t like he hated that phrase. Talent . He loved the way everyone called him that in Sumiredoori, he owned that title, proud of how much he could do for Granny Kiyo, for Tamako-neesan, for everyone in the shopping district. 

But now in Tootsuki, the title weighs on him like a punishment.

You’re talented , they would say, and expect more of him. He didn’t think so— maybe at home, he was. No one else could make sweets. But in Tootsuki, not only was he surrounded by skilled people, he was also only barely keeping up with everything. The talented emblem was like a weight he had to drag around against his will.

You’re expected to excel , that’s what it meant. So you’ll have to, or you’ll be wasting it. You’ll be a disappointment. You’ll be a hopeful child prodigy that fell from grace .

(Again.)

He feared being put in that spot again. He feared losing everything again.

(It shattered her . What will it do to Eda Kiyofumi?)

Why couldn’t he climb the staircase at the same pace as everyone? He’d even be happy being two steps behind the rest. He just didn’t want to be shoved to the front of the pack, when he was the most afraid of what lay ahead. 

“Talent, huh,” Fumio mused, like that word was a funny little hex in this building. “Kiyofumi, you work harder than anyone else, and maybe they’ll never see that. But the people that truly care about you— they’ll see your efforts one day. Would you trust them to do that for you?” 

Will you trust them to see you for who you really are?

(But did Saiba Jouichirou’s generation see him?)

Eda didn’t know if he wanted to say that. They tried, they really did— and they never managed to get there. They drove him to a point where he could no longer stay in the country, and they only had themselves to blame. 

Will you trust them, even then?

Eda knew it was stupid to have hope. He always had to hide himself from them on purpose, for one reason or another. It’s not like they know him for real— even if they know he didn’t have his sense of taste or smell anymore, they still don’t understand him fully. And he was afraid, more than anything else, or what would happen if they figured out more. 

It must be nice to be so talented.

It’s not like you’ll understand how the tastes work.

Well, that makes sense. I’ll handle the things you can’t do, then .

He liked being understood, but he was afraid of what being understood meant. They’ve accepted him so easily thus far, he already knows— if they do find out about his past life, they’d accept him too. Maybe they’ll not believe it, but if they do, they wouldn’t hold anything against him.

But they will know about his unfair advantages, and feel envious of them. They’ll understand his weaknesses, and perhaps they’ll step up to take his place in troubles. 

All this means is that Eda will be a burden for them in the kitchen, and the key to all their problems— he will need help and they will have to do more to aid him, but in return— Eda had to be useful to them with his experiences. It’s a give-and-take, so of course, that just made sense.

(He just wanted to be their equal. He didn’t want his weaknesses highlighted. What if one day he didn’t have a solution? What if one day his experiences run dry? How will he contribute, then, to their teamwork?)

(If the transactional part of this relationship ceases to be fair trades, would they still stay by his side?)

Life wouldn’t be life if it easily gave him an answer.

Alas, it always just goes on, and there’s no sense in lingering on problems that may or may not occur in the future.

Chapter 34: Talent and Practice

Notes:

Sorry for tomenting yall with a new chapter of bitter during ramadan. Selamat ramadan btw

“He’s making a what? Is he like, insane?”

“Minase-sensei!” Miss de Niro gasped, “that’s a faculty office thought! Not a classroom thought! You also said it out loud!” 

“No I’m not taking it back,” Minase-sensei doubled down, “he’s making a fucking Opera Cake! King of Chocolate, when he could’ve just done literally anything else, is he insane??” 

“At least we’re not seeing a croquembouche. I was kinda afraid he’d do that.” 

The day of the dessert test went as such— the students had the morning to inform their homeroom teacher what they were making. And from there, they had until the school day ended to make it. The second-year teachers (all of which didn’t have first or third year classes) were all gathered in one cooking classroom, where they just sat on standby to judge any dishes that came toward them.

Of course, no one was going to submit their dish this early, so they kind of just spent that time gossiping within hearing distance of anyone bold enough to use this cooking classroom.

Unfortunately, this is the cooking classroom that Eda and friends liked using the most, so of course, they were all here. No one else was, though. (Which was reasonable. Would you make a good dessert with the eyes of a dozen teachers trained right on you?)

“You hear that, Dunceda?” Shinomiya hollered across the room, just to be obnoxious.

Surprising everyone, Eda doesn’t react. His hands were stable on his work, carefully melting down the chocolate in his bowl over the hot water bath. He checks the thermometer and mumbles something to himself, keeping an eye on his ingredients as if he were going through his next steps in his head. 

“Gotta envy that concentration,” Mizuhara sighed. 

“Oh dear, when he’s locked in like that, no one can get his attention,” Sena chuckled. “It’s hard to be nervous about my own dessert when I’m just worried he’ll walk into a wall at that rate.” 

“Don’t worry, he’s not me,” Haruno said, dryly, “if he crashes, he’ll save himself and the cake and keep cooking. There will be no casualties except maybe me, who will have a heart attack.” 

“Guys, we have a situation.” 

All eyes turn to Mizuhara, who’s crouched over the ingredients cabinet.

Shinomiya and Sena rounded over immediately, followed by Haruno who looked over the counter. And they understood the situation immediately— the inside of the cabinet was nothing like they’d left it the night before. This place was so out of the way that they’d actually customized a lot of the arrangement of their own accord, and whatever staff restocks it usually just goes with it.

“This is the standard stuff for our usual classes…” she picked up the basic Tootsuki-branded butter, sugar, and flour. “All the dairy-specific ingredients Eda stocked in here are gone.” 

“Wait, so my cultured butter??” Shinomiya dropped to the ground and looked further into the cabinet, “hey!” he whirled up and yelled at the teachers, “I bought that with my own money, dude!” 

“Sorry, kids!” one of the teachers hollered like it wasn’t their problem, “the exam was too easy without there being some kind of catch. Unsalted butter, pastry flour, and any sugar except granulated were removed. It’s to test how prepared you were.” 

“Ack!” Sena yelps, “my refined sugar is missing! That was close, I didn’t even notice it was gone!” 

“On the bright side,” another assured, “that’s why you have the entire day.” 

Sena gasped at that, “you’re telling us to run out and buy them now???”

“Securing your ingredients is part of the challenge!” another teacher taunted them as a few of them giggled with amusement at their panic. 

“My pastry flour isn’t here!” Mizuhara groaned. 

“WHERE’S MY GULA MELAKA???” Haruno’s eyes were blown wide, “did they touch my palm sugar?!?”

“It’s all gone!” 

“Someone stop Eda-kun before he– gyah!” Sena jumped when Eda was suddenly beside him on the ground, holding up his half-mixed sponge cake batter.

“The colour is wrong.”  

Eda said that in such an upset deadpan it was hard for everyone to not look at him in bafflement. He looked like he was about to cry. 

Shinomiya tasted it on the spoon and nodded mildly. “It’s… weirdly salty? I’m impressed you stopped before you baked it. When did you notice?” 

“Just now. The colour looked wrong.” 

“Well you certainly aren’t failing a colour blind test anytime soon.”

“Oh, they switched out the butter with salted butter,” Mizuhara said, tasting the remaining of it on the knife, turning to the wrapper just to check. “They rewrapped it in the ‘non-salted’ packaging too. What are you guys, evil?”

“Oh god, why would you do that to the flour too! That’s so mean!” 

“Uhm, it’s okay,” Sena assured Eda, patting him on the head and putting down the mixing bowl, “you can start over! We have time! Calm down! Don’t be sad, uh—” he spun around and the rest of the team were on their feet now.

“Alright, aprons off!” Mizuhara slammed hers on the table. “Wallet!” 

“Aye, aye,” Haruno saluted.

“We’re going to the nearest baked ingredients store RIGHT NOW!” Shinomiya snapped, pointing at the teachers, “and the stuff better be back in place tomorrow!” 

The teachers were laughing their asses off by the time they’d scurried out.

“Watch the roads, kids! Careful! And you can get one of the groundskeepers to drive you out if they’re willing!” 

“Don’t run in the hallways please!” 

Shinomiya barked at them, “SHUT UP! WE HATE YOU!” 

 

---

 

As they ran across the hall they came across several other kitchens at work. As expected, there were many who thought they were confident, but ended up panicking now. 

“The hell’s this? Who the fuck threw salt into my batter? Get out here!” 

“No one touched your dish, geez! Calm down!” 

“I KNOW it was one of you! Just because you saw me get ahead of all of you… I thought you punks were better than sabotage at this point!” 

“No one touched it! Maybe you mixed up the salt and sugar yourself??” 

“Yeah, we were all still discussing recipes, no one even touched the condiment station except you because you’re the only one that started baking this damn early!” 

“Well then who the fuck was it?!” 

“We don’t know, stop blaming us for your mistake!” 

It’s uh, not particularly going well. There’s a conflict happening in one of them, but they’ve opted not to look too far in there lest they all get involved. Most of the students are in the lounge areas, using all the time they have left to discuss and really fine-tune their ideas against each other, since that was all allowed.

This classroom, particularly, was descending rapidly into a warzone. 

There’s a half-asleep boy that looks like he’s working quietly alone in the corner— oh, he was in Eda’s class last year— he looked like he regretted choosing this classroom, but he was already mixing all his ingredients so it wasn’t easy to move. 

He had eyes like a deer in headlights as a flinging tray smashed his entire mixing bowl out of his hands and out the window, smashing the glass on the way. 

His friend evacuated him while he was still in shock. 

While all of them were more culinary-focused, there were in fact a few students with dessert experience. Especially heirs or apprentices of restaurant establishments— they’ve had experience preparing desserts in restaurant service before, and that was what they were all counting on. It wasn’t a bad tactic, so as long as they got their time management right, they would be fine. 

“Do you think they noticed the ingredients being swapped out yet?” Sena wondered. “The other classrooms don’t really use the specialized flours and sugars much.” 

“They’ll figure it out,” Mizuhara said. 

“You can’t bake some things with the usual salted butter,” Eda’s still so very hung up about his ruined sponge, “we use a lot more butter in baking than cooking. I mean, it can work, but it'll end up weirdly salty unless you season accordingly…” 

“You were well on your way to make the world’s saltiest sponge cake,” Shinomiya dryly declares, “too bad you had to put a stop to your conquest of killing all our taste buds in five different ways throughout your middle school career.” 

“It wouldn’t be that salty you asshole!” 

“Now now, you two,” Sena soothed them, “let’s not waste our energy fighting now.” 

 

---

 

 

“Kids, where are you going?” 

“Oh! It’s Ai-chan!” 

The groundskeeper balked, leaning on his shovel, “kids, I know we’re pretty casual around each other, but can’t you at least call me Aida in full? And drop the chan at least in front of other staff. It’s so weird to have a cutesy nickname at my age.” 

“Good timing, Ai-chan!” Mizuhara ignored him. “Can you drive us out? We needa go to an ingredients house NOW!” 

“What, like that specialty one nearby?” he raised his brow, then saw Eda sulking in the back of the group, “ah, I see now. You kids had a dessert test today, I remember. Sure, if you don’t mind me breaking every traffic law on the way then I’m more than happy to give you a ride in the staff van.” 

Sena turned around, but Haruno caught him.

“Thanks, Ai-chan!” 

Aida was, to them, just one of the many groundskeepers hired to maintain the vast Tootsuki gardens for public eye. There was apparently another team in charge of the forestry areas, but Aida was in charge of the gardens near important buildings and the main school, so most students knew him. In fact, they’d often find him smoking or drinking in a corner of the school while on work hours and he would pay them in canned coffee so they’d all please not tattle on him. 

In short, he’s everyone’s favourite rebellious, probably-former-delinquent, staff member. Last anyone’s heard, there’s rumours he was a former yakuza or something. But rumours are rumours. 

“Alriiight!” Haruno cheered.

“Are we not bothering you?” Sena asked. “It’s a distance.” 

“It’s fine,” Aida shrugs off his garden gloves, “priority right now is making sure you kids have enough time to come back and finish your desserts. Let’s go.” 

 

---

 

If someone had told Eda last year that they’d be spending one of their very important Tootsuki exam dates doing last minute shopping with his friends, he wouldn’t have believed them. He still doesn’t believe it, honestly.

“They have everything…” Sena marvels at the place, holding Eda by the arm as they head around because Shinomiya was convinced they’d lose him to the void of baking supplies once they looked away. 

“Look at these cookie cutters!” Haruno squealed, winding around the dozen-tiered cabinets of supplies with cat-shaped cookie cutters, “they have EVERYTHING!” 

“Yeah, these are for professional kitchens just as much as they’re for home kitchens,” Shinomiya says, picking out the sugar from the batch. “Stop gawking, Haruno, did you get yours?” 

“Yep, took a bit of hunting. I got the heavy cream, evaporated milk, condensed milk, too, they were all in the refrigerated section!” 

“Alright then, did Mizuhara find the coffee beans yet?” 

“Yep… I’m gonna go help her carry it back,” Sena checked his phone, passing Eda back to Shinomiya, “that’s about it for what we need… ah, she found almonds too. Then we only have chocolate and cocoa powder left to get.” 

“Hold on, they took away all my couverture too from the classroom?!” Eda finally perks up from his haze, “those were expensive!” 

“Welcome back to earth,” Shinomiya drawled, setting down the powder and sugar onto the trolley and pulling him away, “don’t worry, Haruno will pay. Let’s get the more expensive ones this time.” 

“I can’t possibly—”

“Go for it,” Haruno assured. “Anything to make our Eda-chan happy. It’s okay, I’m rich. I’ll buy this whole store if you want me to.” 

“EHH?” Eda’s cheeks flushed. “Haruno-san, you can’t just—” 

“You heard her,” Shinomiya said. “When else are we going to use our glorified sugar baby privilege? Hurry up now, we don’t have all day.” 

 

---

 

The stress of the day doesn’t even feel real, by the time they’re lining up to get their stuff paid for. They’re reviewing their shopping list, exchanging new ideas, and thinking about grabbing something from the convenience store for lunch before getting back to the kitchen.

“What’s this black sugar?” Mizuhara asked, looking through their list, “Ayu, did you get this in addition to your palm sugar?” 

“Yes, it’s mine,” she said, “sorry, one of my friends texted me saying his stock in the classroom got stolen by the teachers too. He just needs that.” 

“Well, you’re paying, so of course it’s fine…” Mizuhara looks at the label, “I’ve just never seen black sugar before. It’s unrefined cane sugar?” 

“Yep, you’ll see it more commonly in traditional Japanese desserts— we don’t make a lot of that in classes, now that I think about it. So we can probably ask Sekimori-senpai later about it.” 

“Hey, Eda.” 

He turned toward Shinomiya and got a cut of butter cake shoved in his mouth. His surprise was cut short when he felt the warmth of the butter melt on his tongue, and with each bite, the juicy sponge seemed so perfectly fluffy, he couldn’t believe it. The golden brown crust added a delightful crisp to each bite, and he couldn't believe this was truly just a butter cake.

“He approves,” Shinomiya deemed. 

“What was that?” he lunged for the plate in Shinomiya’s hand, but Shinomiya held it behind his back and ate another piece. “Hey!” 

“It’s a display butter cake sample,” Sena said. “It’s really good but…” 

“As expected from a baked ingredients store… that’s store quality,” Eda blinked in surprise, “it might be machine made. The texture is closer to perfect than anything else I’ve ever eaten before…” 

“You’re praising it too much,” Shinomiya groused, “I regret letting you taste it now.” He stuffed the rest of it in his mouth and tossed the plate in the trash.

“Ahhh! I wanted some more!” 

“Then go back to school and make your own!” 

Shinomiya shoved his hand in Eda’s face to hold him away. Eda grabbed him by the collar in retaliation. 

Sena sighed, resigning to his fate of being the peacemaker again. Stepping back slightly just to catch his breath, “ain’t it a little odd to be feeding him cake? It tastes pretty good but…” 

“I want some too!” Haruno jumped at him. 

“Oh, you can taste the salt in it,” Mizuhara noticed, when Haruno fed her some. “Odd. It’s a little strong, but it works… kind of like salted caramel.” 

“That’s because the main draw of a butter cake is the heavy and rich butter taste, so it being the right balance of salty brings out the butter,” Eda said, “pound cakes are denser and creamier. Butter cakes are a little lighter, more moist.” 

“As usual, you’re like a pastry dictionary,” Sena chuckled. “It’s really impressive you can tell that much with just texture. I wonder if there’s anything about desserts that you don’t know.” 

Eda pouted at that. “I mean… yeah…” 

“The kinda oily feel is super indulgent,” Haruno hummed, taking one off the shelf for a snack or something. “Makes you crave some light tea.” 

“Now I regret telling any of you the thing was there at all,” Shinomiya sighed.

“Kids, are you done yet?” 

“GYAH! Ai-chan! Sorry, did we take too long?!” 

“We’ll be back to the van soon! Hurry pack our things or Ai-chan’s going to strand us here!” 

“I didn’t say that,” the groundskeeper defends, “I just finished my cigarette so I was wondering where you kids were. You kids sure are easygoing when you have a test coming up. I haven’t seen Tootsuki kids like you since that one kid that kept jumping along my ward when I worked as a driver just a couple years back.” 

They’d intended to heft their things back themselves, but Groundskeeper Aida did help them heft one of the bigger bags of refined sugar, since he was stronger. 

“So you weren’t always tending the gardens?” Haruno asked. “If you were a personal driver before, doesn’t that mean you got demoted?”

“Now that’s just a mean thing to say,” he responded dryly. “I still drive like, the headmaster around sometimes. When he goes out. He just doesn’t move around a lot anymore.” 

“You’re the headmaster’s personal driver?!” 

“Technically not,” he clarified, “I drive around anyone in the Nakiri Family when they’re on Tootsuki grounds. But now only Senzaemon-sama is around, so I kind of tend the front gardens as a uh… hobby?” 

“Dude, does that mean your salary is really pretty?!” 

“And is that why you’re not fired yet even though we keep catching you drinking and smoking around the place?” 

“SHHH! My day-drinking escapades continue to stay hush-hush, kids!” 

 

---

 

After essentially messing around for the whole morning, it was honestly… kind of refreshing to see that the mayhem had only quadrupled over the course of the day.

“Suddenly, I understand why the teachers chose to hide out in a classroom so out of the way,” Sena said, dryly, as he made it past the devastating pandemonium and back into the classrooms. 

There were quite a few people in the front, trying to submit their test before lunch. It didn’t sound like anyone had passed yet. 

“Hey, someone’s sleeping in our spot.” 

Shinomiya set down the ingredients, but there’s someone tucked into the furthest corner of the classroom near the cabinets, sleeping. The boy made himself very small and unsuspecting, but it was clear he was a test taker like all of them.

“...seriously? Ai-chan called us easygoing, but this guy’s on a whole other level.” 

“Oh! Moku-chan!” Haruno brightened up at the sight of him, crouching down and then violently shaking him awake, “Moku-chan, I got your black sugar! Upsies!!” 

“Ah,” now that Eda looked at him, he was familiar. Not only had they shared a few classes last year, this guy was the one that had his mixing bowl defenestrated in the physical brawl that they witnessed occurring before they’d left. 

“Nyehhh?” the boy drowsily grumbled, not even opening his eyes, “nuhhh, let me sleep another hour…” 

“You need to make your tesssssttt!!!” Haruno mercilessly shook him with increased vigour, exclaiming with maximum dramatics, “Moku-chaaaan!!!” 

Now that Eda thought about it, the guy was always sleeping in classes too. 

“So what’s with the comedy routine over there?” Mizuhara dryly asked, taking out all the supplies and organizing them quickly on their shared table.

“That’s Moku,” Sena explained, “I shared Chinese Cuisine class with him last year, he’s a really good cook… except it’s rare for him to actually be awake in classes.” 

So basically they have Eda, the bumbling dessert specialist that fumbles every other dish due to stage fright; Shinomiya, the country bumpkin that would pick fights with everyone; Mizuhara, the almost-too-proud chef that will take everyone in a fight; Sena, the absolutely not sane one that enables these monsters; and Haruno, the skilled rich girl that is probably clumsy enough to cause world war three. 

And now Moku, the kid that’s pretty skilled when it counts, but only if he doesn’t fall asleep in his stew and boil himself alive first. 

“What is this gathering of problem children?” Shinomiya groaned, “stop bringing more idiots in here! We’re weird enough!” 

“They were self-aware this whole time?” one of the teachers marvelled.

“He probably came here to sleep because it’s quieter than the other classrooms,” Sena reasoned. 

“So, Moku-san, right?” Eda called. “Please wake up, you can have one of our sandwiches if you do. Let’s have lunch before we start.” 

“You’re giving me food?!” Moku lunged up to the table and stared at Eda in awe, “are you actually god?!”

“Moku and I are like, half-cousins or something,” Haruno divulged, “I’m not sure. I only sometimes see him when Mama comes around. He’s kind of a glutton, and so am I, so we’re usually together on food outings.” 

Shinomiya sighed, “why do we always get the weirdos?” 

 

---

 

Now that they were back to the full swing of things, Eda felt the pressure all over again. Students were submitting their work, getting rejected, back and forth, and he was trying to rush a cake that he’d only finish right if he did all the steps perfectly. 

Perfection was hard to grasp, conceptually. 

His group worked on their own desserts, focusing hard, and Eda suddenly felt so exposed. He wouldn’t be able to stop once he started, so taking the first step now seemed daunting. He didn’t have time to hesitate, but then he felt the eyes of the judges on him and his breath held all over again. 

“Ooh! Ganache!” 

Eda jumped. 

Moku had come up right behind him, snaking up to his side and looking over his shoulder. His eyes twinkled with fascination, “that smells so good!” 

“It— It’s just chocolate,” Eda’s stuttering breath turned into a chuckle of amusement at his genuine interest, “wanna taste?”

“I can?!” 

“Yeah,” Eda decided, taking a teaspoon, “we’re allowed to help each other in this test, after all, so tell me if it’s too bitter or too sweet, will you?” 

“Sure!” 

Moku was taking his time. It was as if he was in a completely different plane of existence— the pressure, the time limit, none of it weighed him down as he sauntered through the kitchen trying bites of everyone’s dishes. 

“That’s raw flour! HEY!” Shinomiya yowled, “does it even taste good?!?”

“It does!” Moku giggled at Shinomiya before hustling off to steal some of Mizuhara’s cookies. 

“Don’t you have your own work to do??”

Eda laughed as Mizuhara shrieked at the sight of him, telling him to keep away from her cream. She had to try twice to get it right and she wasn’t trusting herself to be able to make more. 

“Just a bite, you’re stingy!” 

“And you’re a lazy bum! Go make your damn cake or whatever!” 

Eda notices the whole classroom chuckling at the sight, including the teachers. Though some nodded disapprovingly that he wasn’t taking the test seriously, and some students scowled, irritated by their obnoxious nature— Eda found himself enjoying the laid-back atmosphere very much. 

The tension in his shoulders had eased.

“Alright. I can do this.” 

And he did.

 

---

 

The teachers were taking shifts to judge, so not all of them were here. Some patrolled the other classrooms just to supervise and make sure no one’s tried to kill each other yet. 

For now though, most of the teachers preferred staying in this classroom to see what the students were presenting. Only about half has passed so far and there’s only two more hours until the end of the test period. It’s normal for Tootsuki standard, but it’ll be the first time these students experience a mass dropout like this.

“Most of the other students are using strawberries and tangerines,” Miss de Niro observed, sitting toward the back. “I guess those were the only fruits we studied in class… cherries and mangoes are harder to use, but they seem to be doing fine.” 

“They’re playing it safe, which is fine,” Minase-sensei sighs, “but it’s not enough for Tootsuki Culinary Academy in the long run.” 

Meanwhile in this classroom with the most notorious troublemakers of their time— they were finally on the last touches of their dishes. 

It’s ironic, how this group consisted of students that quarreled the most often— Shinomiya, Eda, and Mizuhara being the most volatile of the whole batch— yet in this high-stress situation, they worked together better than the entire school. 

“Huh? The icing just… it’s too hard, I think…” 

“Hmm?” Haruno peeked over to Sena’s bowl, “oh, yeah. That doesn’t look right.” 

Mizuhara, who had just brought her tiramisu out of the fridge, glanced over. “Maybe you should start over?” 

“Yeah…” 

“Hold on,” Shinomiya cleaned his knife between cutting the whole assortment of fruits on his workspace. Turning to the other end of the room he hollered, “EDA! GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!” 

“WHAT— oh,” his instinctive explosive reaction sobered instantly once he saw Sena’s troubled look. “You probably put too much gelatin. Just add some egg white and mix it back around, it’ll be fine.” 

“Really?” Sena’s eyes lit up with hope, he really didn’t have time to remake it, he still had to decorate his cake. 

“You’ll be fine,” Eda assured. “Take five. There’s some leftover coffee that Mizuhara-san and I didn’t use.” 

Sena sighed fondly. “I think I will, thanks.” 

“Would the teachers want some too?”

“Oh we can have some?” Minase-sensei accepted the offer without shame, “absolutely, I’m on my last ropes here.” 

“As long as Chapelle-sensei isn’t here…” another teacher reasoned, “plus the coffee really does smell good.”

Even the teachers had to be amused by how self-contained their mutual assistance was. It was as if they were having a study group of their own. They didn’t ask the teachers for help— instead, they turned to Eda. Eda didn’t need a lot of help, but he was happy to offer advice, seemingly grateful for the distraction from his nerves. 

“Hmmm,” Ayu mulled over the fruits station, before finally turning behind her, “Moku-chan! What fruit should I use?” 

“You haven’t decided?!” Shinomiya yelped. 

“Well you had an easy time deciding,” Ayu whines, “you’re just putting every fruit you can find on it! Mine would ruin the flavour if I choose wrong, so I can’t decide what works!” 

“Excuse you,” Shinomiya set his knife down before he got angry, “you have no idea how many times I had to revise my arrangements because King of Autism over there thought kiwis beside strawberries made the texture weird.”

Mizuhara muttered to Sena, “who’s the king of autism? That narrows down so little.” 

“Uhm,” Sena was dusting his icing sugar on his chiffon cake, “Eda-kun, I think.” 

Eda overheard and made an offended whine, “the texture really was weird! But that was also because you didn’t cut them right the first time.” 

“I cut them into pentagons instead of perfect circles ,” Shinomiya growled out his infuriated explanation to Mizuhara.

“Oh but,” Haruno held her laughter back, “you still changed it for him though?”

“Alright Haruno YOU ARE DEAD—” 

“Hey, knives down! Knives down!” 

“Ayu-chan, how about mangoes?” Moku hollered over, “I think mangoes would be good. Let’s use mangoes!” 

“Alright!” Haruno cheered, escaping the claws of Satanmiya and back toward her dish with a mango. “I’ll be done with mine right after this! How about everyone else?” 

Clearly, compared to the rest of the students, this classroom had its share of creativity and risks. 

Most other students played it safe with cakes, cookies, and muffins— but first up from this classroom was Haruno Ayu, the clumsiest girl in this batch that dropped so many plates she’s racked up a broken dishes record in the school janitors’ blacklists. And right behind her was Mok Yu Hiong, a Chinese student who usually did phenomenally in Asian cuisine classes but slept through everything else. 

Both of them are on the verge of getting expelled for literally anything except their cooking. What a pair of disaster half-cousins. 

Haruno’s tofu pudding, soft and white in a pool of dark sugar syrup, swirled in with cubes of taro and sweet potato against the vibrant mango and dragonfruit cubes. The sago jellies glistened, little clouds of shine lining the edges of the bowl. 

It’s amazing how she could make such humble food look beautiful. 

Miss de Niro took an indulgent sip, luxuriating in the mix of textures. The sweetness was almost elegant with its mellow, husky notes. The earthen tinge of yam and sweet potatoes were warm in her stomach against the fresh, soothingly sweet mangoes. The dragonfruit’s slightly sour hints perfectly melded into the harmony of flavours, mellowing out all the flavours against the pillow of tangy tofu pudding. 

In contrast, Moku’s dish wasn’t as extravagant— yet, it had its own charm. His plate had balls of golden-fried dough coated in white sesame seeds.

“They’re Sesame Balls, but instead of red bean or lotus, I filled it with a fruit pate,” Moku says, “since the theme was fruits and all… and my initial meringue pie plan got defenestrated.” 

Haruno cackled at that, “you could’ve restarted.” 

“No I’m traumatised. If this wasn’t a test I’d just make tanghulu and call it a day.” 

When she bit in, the crispy dough broke open to a rich red, creamy apricot paste. The doughy, mochi-like shell cushioned against the gentle sweetness, the crunchy, aromatic waft of sesame seeds and deep fried glutinous rice— there was a faint, smoky undertone to it that made it chewy and fragrant in the best way. Each bite spread out the warmth of an almond, buttery taste through her tongue, and the gentle sugars of fresh dates was deeply warm, almost savoury, and she couldn’t help but reach for another one. 

Minase-sensei cleared his throat and she jumped.

“Oh!” her face flushed with embarrassment. She’s not supposed to be eating them all, much less acting completely biased. She cleared her throat and recomposed herself, “you two did really great! You both pass!” 

“Yay!” The two high-fived, cheering as they took their dishes away back to their stations. “Thanks, Miss de Niro!”

“Though I have to give you two some credit serving this together,” Minase-sensei cut in, flicking away Miss de Niro’s reaching hand again, “the black cane sugar and palm sugar you’ve both used, it really accentuates each other and deepens the flavours. I do wonder how it would’ve tasted if we had switched the order we ate them.” 

They grinned, like little menaces. “Maybe next time, sensei!” 

“Though, I’ll have to give Mok-kun a slightly lower score for the fruits,” Minase-sensei noted down in the papers, “the way you mashed them and fried them, the fruits didn’t really have its distinctively fresh taste any more. It feels more like a winter dessert, rather than summer as the theme required.” 

Haruno winced, but Moku’s face remained impassive.

“Well, I still passed, so good enough for me.” 

Miss de Niro mourned the loss of the dishes that finally satisfied her for the first time today, but alas. She signed up to be a teacher, not a professional food eater. It may or may not be too late to consider a career change.

“Alright, me next.” 

In contrast to the other two, Shinomiya’s dessert was something classic, so much that the teachers were honestly surprised no one else had done it yet, perhaps because of the difficulty in execution.

Rows of perfectly lined fruits glistened like crystals atop a bed of custard cream, resting in a cot of perfectly baked tart crust. Under the bright lighting of the classroom, the sugar glaze shone, perfect and even. 

“A fruit tart,” Miss de Niro perked up, genuinely happy about this. “There’s nothing more summery than this! It looks amazing!” 

Shinomiya huffed, looking aside pretending to scoff at the praise, “it was easy enough…”

The tart cut through smooth, perfectly baked in the center. The fruit juices burst across the soothing cream, soaking deeper into the warm, earthen crust. The flaky biscuit crunched pleasantly against the crispy sugar shell, contrasting warmly with the plump, ripe fruits.

There’s an explosion of different flavours present in every bite, the paradiasical harmony of textures nothing short of a symphony. The cream was a warm, buttery coating that made sure each flavour never went too far. 

Needless to say, the teachers had absolutely zero criticism. There was something just so remarkable about a dessert like this being presented by a Middle Schooler. They’d figured that Shinomiya, like the rest of this rising-star group of troublemakers, were always ahead of their peers. But seeing it just as high-level in desserts was something the teachers were not as prepared to learn. 

“Me next! Mine is definitely better!” Mizuhara barged in with hers, and Miss de Niro was pleasantly surprised as she set down the small glasses of tiramisu, the layers clear and gorgeous from the outside with its mix of generous whipped cream and mascarpone, large fresh raspberries, and fluffy, coffee-soaked sponge. 

Topped off with a dust of cocoa powder and shimmering raspberries— they really couldn’t bear to ruin something so pretty with a spoon. 

“French first, Italian next, huh,” Minase-sensei chuckled, “that age-old debate of which country has the better desserts. Visuals alone, I’d say Shinomiya’s has the edge on you. The layers are a little uneven.”

Mizuhara sulked at that, eyes furrowing, “If you dip a spoon in it, it’s all the same.” 

“Dessert is a treat for the eyes too,” Minase-sensei reasoned, “I know I’m being nitpicky, I’m not criticising you. But Shinomiya did go to Eda-kun for advice. Didn’t you as well?” 

Mizuhara went silent. She looked away, chastised. 

“Not really, beyond the recipe,” she admitted.

Minase-sensei let it go there. “You’re full of pride for everything you do, and that’s not a bad thing,” he said. “Let’s taste it then. Miss de Niro,” he prompted. “Since you’re already eating it, please remember to give a comment too.” 

Miss de Niro choke don her third bite and squeaked in embarrassment at the attention. She put down the cutlery, cleared her throat, and pretended nothing happened.

The presentation wasn’t bad— it’s just not perfect. It took two spoonfuls to get a bit of everything, but once they did, the deep, addictive aroma of the alcohol against the espresso spread through in every bite of the foamy, delicate sponge. The cream and mascarpone were nothing short of perfect in its balancing, and the raspberries christened the dessert with its distinctively sour and sweet, floral notes. It’s almost euphonious, how it all comes together. 

“It’s not the traditional wine, is it?” Miss de Niro asked. “You used… ah, something like nut wine, perhaps?” 

Mizuhara nodded. “Almond,” she clarified, “I used Amaretto , instead of the traditional Marsala wine. I believed the sweetness, with the raspberries, would overpower the rest of the dessert… that’s why I didn’t use Kahlua, either.” 

Minase-sensei nodded, “and you believed right. If you’ve used Coffee Liquer, the coffee would be too strong. The balance you’ve managed to achieve without any part of the dessert overpowering the other layers is very impressive.” 

Mizuhara lowered her head, “thank you, sensei.” 

It didn’t need to be said that she passed with flying colours. She retained her stoic professionalism until she turned toward her friends, to which Shinomiya immediately bristled like a feral dog.

“Wipe that smug look off your face, witch!” 

She exploded, (surprising the teachers because she’s usually softspoken,) right back with, “I win this time !” 

Shinomiya defended. “No you didn’t, your presentation sucked and your balance of flavours was wasted on the fact that the mixed layers didn’t allow them to be eaten at once!” 

“It’s all the same in your stomach! You did an easy, lackluster dish that just looked pretty!” 

“Take that back—” 

“Now now, all of you,” Sena Hiromi chuckled, “you’re both amazing, let it go, alright? Oh dear how am I supposed to follow up on you two with mine?” 

Mizuhara and Shinomiya snapped back in unison, “shut up, Sena!” 

Shinomiya added, “yours passed the fuckin’ Eda approval screening at first taste, you don’t get to complain!” 

Mizuhara nodded, eyes affixed on the dish in Sena’s hand, “it’s impressive how you manage to be the prettiest cake in all of us. Except maybe Eda.” 

Sena looked miserably down at his plate. “I really don’t think so…” 

“Just serve it already!” Mizuhara and Shinomiya snarled at him at once. Shinomiya shoved him and Mizuhara raised a foot, “go, you wimp!” 

“Yes, yes…” 

In contrast to the colourful presentations from before, Sena had largely kept to simple colours. The aurelian gold chiffon cake, coated in a marble of prim white icing against deep, buttery caramel glaze. Crisp lemon slices were slightly singed for a warm, earthen colour. The mint garnished around the edges— compared to everything else served today, this dish was aesthetically masterful even without the advantage of colours and textures that Shinomiya had. 

If Shinomiya’s dish was a practiced form of art, this was sheer talent unique to Sena Hiromi. 

“Sena, you don’t have anywhere in mind after you graduate, right?” Minase-sensei spoke up, gazing at his slice of Lemon Chiffon Cake, “it’s still a ways off but—” 

“Eh?” Sena stutttered. “Me? Uh, no…”

He did come from a family well-known in the luxury dining scene, but he had no right to inherit nor work with them due to internal family issues. He’d come to Tootsuki for the ladder and the eventual connections he would gain. 

“I can write you a letter of recommendation for Tootsuki, when the time comes,” Minase-sensei supposed. “Your eye for beauty would do really well in any one of the hotels here, but of course, that’s up to you.” 

Sena’s face flushed bright red, and suddenly Haruno and Shinomiya are beside him making very jealous noises of surprise. Sena seemed to shrivel up, “I-I I’m f-flattered? Sir? But— are you sure, I’m… it’s not really all that— remarkable— the taste—” 

“That’s not fair ,” Mizuhara whined, not a hint of heat in her voice as she pulled Sena’s ponytail because she can’t reach his head, “you’re in Middle School and you’re getting recommendation letters!”

“Holy—” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Is this real?”

“Sena? Not Shinomiya, Mizuhara, or even Eda— Sena?”

“It’s not even all that impressive, though…” 

Sena stiffened. Minase-sensei glanced up to notice there’s a peanut gallery all around the classroom outside. Students who had and hadn’t passed yet were either spectating or waiting their turn. 

Sena shrivelled up under the attention. Unlike Mizuhara, he lacked confidence, and Minase-sensei wasn’t really plotting anything or trying to express favoritism when he’d said it, yet he wondered if he could handle this any better. 

“It’s sho good ,” Miss de Niro, ever the unobservant little glutton, interrupted with her happy eating. She draws all the attention away as she tasted the cake dreamily. “The white chocolate icing is gently sweet, the chiffon cake is heavenly … the creamy, lemon gelee between the sponge layers, this is good!” 

Minase-sensei took a bite. 

“It’s not too sweet,” he supposed. The warm, slightly salty, butter sponge made the lemon spread warmer, sweeter with each bite. It complemented the butter caramel and chocolate icing  helped the flavours spread further, deeper, sweeter with each bite— no wonder Miss de Niro hadn’t remembered to stop eating yet. It was hard to resist. “It’s a great cake, Sena. You can be proud of yourself for this one, alright?”

Sena didn’t seem fully convinced, but he smiled and thanked them anyways. “I’m very honoured to hear that, Sensei. I will continue to do my best.” 

His friends patted him on the back as he returned to them. 

And now, the real reason why there’s a crowd outside the classroom. 

The only dish left from this classroom was Eda’s. Their Dessert Specialist had been so locked-in to his cake decorating, he hadn’t looked over, hadn’t commented, hadn’t said a single thing through the entire tasting session for his friends. He was focused, in a way where not even a snowstorm could deter him.

It made sense why Sena felt inferior, when this was what he was comparing himself to. Eda was understandably a step ahead of everyone else from flavours, to skills, and to the professional way he handled himself and his tools. Any one of their dishes could be served in a restaurant or pastry shop— but Eda’s desserts, when he went all out, could be submitted and hold its own in competitions.

And he’s only a Middle Schooler right now. 

When he cut the cake into rectangular slices, Minase-sensei felt the entire hall around them take a breath. The layers were impeccable , perfect segments of dark chocolate glaze, coffee buttercream, almond joconde, and a vibrant purple blackberry ganache. They were pristine, not a single layer flooding into the other, perfectly symmetrical. 

Each slice was topped off with blackberries, lightly toasted meringue, and chocolate decorations swirled with the bright pinks of blackberry cream. 

It’s almost unbelievable they’re getting served this in a school test. 

“It’s such a shame to have to eat this…” Miss de Niro hesitantly cut into her piece, the cool, savoury flavours of almond and coffee buttercream, against the tartberry compote and warm chocolate in the center. 

It’s delightfully rich, indulgently acidic against the aromatic blend of coffee and chocolate. The almond came through against the tartness, the texture of the joconde airy and moist against their tongues. 

“I did think you were crazy for doing a difficult cake like this for the test,” Minase-sensei admitted, chuckling. “And I wasn’t wrong. You’re crazy.” 

Eda’s eyes which were even and calm until this point, finally broke through to a hint of nervousness and self-consciousness. He glanced toward the crowd, fiddling with his hands as he moved them in front of him awkwardly. 

“...so,” Eda began, meekly. “Is it… too much?” 

Minase-sensei nodded. 

Miss de Niro had already finished her cake. “This is the best cake I’ve ever tasted, like, in general! Even compared to cake shops, Eda-kun!” she freaked out, “are you actually real?”

Eda blinked. “...I think so?”

Minase-sensei grinned. “You’re crazy, but that’s because the world hasn’t caught up yet,” he said. “When it comes to desserts, you’re already a level above everyone else. You’d even give the High Schoolers a run for their money.” 

“Of course, it goes without saying,” Miss de Niro found the grading papers, “that you’re passing this with the highest score in the whole school if I have anything to say about it.” 

Eda’s face brimmed into a smile. 

“Thank you, se—” 

“HE DID IT!” 

“THAT CRAZY BASTARD!” 

Eda screamed as he got bowled over by Shinomiya and Haruno before he could even finish his sentence. They dragged him all the way back to their station right away— along with the cake, eliciting a wail from Miss de Niro who wanted seconds— and started trading their desserts right away.

Upon noticing the crowd were getting restless and wanting to intervene, they whispered a plan to each other, packed up, and lunged out the window in unison like a bunch of delinquents. Moku had a mouthful of someone else’s cookies in his mouth as he saluted his way out. 

“HEY! MOKU, I HAVEN’T BEEN GRADED YET!” someone howled.

“You have three more, good luck!” 

“You took the one good one!!” 

“That menace!”

“For a guy that’s always sleeping, he sure has nimble fingers…” 

The problem children were gone now, but the teachers’ work day was hardly over yet. The students that needed to submit or resubmit their work were still lining up in hordes outside, and there was much to come.

But for now, it was like a storm had come and gone, and the world was back to normal all over again. 

“They’re not just ahead of their peers in terms of their specialties, but in the broad sense of culinary endeavours as a whole,” Minase-sensei found himself saying softly to Miss de Niro.

“Yeah,” Miss de Niro was breathless, unable to find the words. “I did think in jest before but… I think we really may be looking at a future Elite Ten lineup. All of them together, in one classroom.” 

This was a kind of phenomenon that didn’t even happen in the Golden Age of Polar Star. Even that generation only began to really rear its head in the High School section. Barely any political parties of note looked much at the Middle School section— this section was a playground in contrast to the above, after all. 

“Wouldn’t it be better to let them skip grades?” Miss de Niro asked, sipping on her coffee and mulling to herself. “The other teachers can’t keep up. It’s too early.” 

Minase-sensei stayed silent for a long moment at that question.

But in the end, his bitter words of, “can’t we let them stay like this?” was spoken out genuine and morose. “Do we really want to recreate history so soon? They should take their time… they don’t have to become the next Golden Age.” 

This place was a place of war, competition, and fierce talent in the culinary landscape— but after their mistake with Saiba Jouichirou, perhaps, just once— they were willing to make sure these kids stayed out of the spotlight.

These kids belonged in the shadows, in the corners, in the hallways— far away from the center of everyone’s line of attention. Just like this— in a classroom no one ever comes into, a place of learning and acceptance, just by themselves.

Tootsuki Culinary Academy doesn’t need any Golden Age of prodigies. 

At least, not so soon.

Notes:

Haha... this chapter was supposed to come out a while ago but it just kept going on and on. xD Moku-chan is a new OC, but Ai-chan, similar to Sena, is only halfway an OC. Anyways, thanks for reading as usual~

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 6 of in memory of the ones that live again.