A snowflake for Yuuki_Nyanmaru!
Sep. 2nd, 2022 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snowmods09 posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
snow_exchangeTitle: going off-menu
Pairings: Mukai Koji/Miyadate Ryota; Meguro Ren/Watanabe Shota
Genres: Non-famous AU, Character Study, Slice of life, Strangers to Lovers, Romance, Friendship, Coming of age
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ryota picks up a shift at Edogawa Camera as a favour, only for it to alter the direction of his life.
Warnings: (if any) N/A
Author's notes: (if any) Thank you to my friends for betaing this fic and all the cheerleading along the way!
For the first time in weeks, Ryota is woken up by the ringing of his phone.
He nearly dashes into the bathroom on autopilot, convinced he’s late for work and it’s only when he finally looks at his phone that he notices it’s a call.
“Shota?” he yawns. It takes a beat for his eyes to adjust to the dim bedroom. The blackout curtains are so effective he has no idea what time it is.
“Hey. Sorry, did I wake you?” There’s a muffled voice in the distance, but it’s too noisy to make out what’s being said. “Hold on—yeah, I got him on LINE—Ryota?”
“I’m here.” Ryota blinks the sleep out of his eyes. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and winces at the iciness of the floor. “What’s up?”
“I need a favour.”
—
Ryota is ten when he runs a kitchen for the first time.
In retrospect, “chef” is probably a strong word for “someone who made a bunch of yakitori one time”, but when his mother talks the local summer festival committee into letting him run a food stall, it becomes the biggest event of his little life.
As ten-year-olds go, Ryota is extraordinarily shy. He can count all his casual acquaintances-sort of friends on one hand, his best friend on one finger. His friendship with Shota shouldn’t work but it just does somehow and Ryota knows better than to question it. It also helps that Shota doesn’t expect to be entertained and is happy to be Ryota’s guinea pig as he bustles about the family kitchen.
Talking to new people is hard. But this—carefully stirring mirin and soy sauce together, heaping in spoonfuls of sesame seeds and miso and waiting for that look of delight to bloom on people’s faces—thispart he’s good at.
Ryota’s miso yakitori is a runaway hit at the festival that summer.
His neighbours talk about it for weeks. People he’s never met before drop by and ask for his recipe. Even though that part is kind of embarrassing, Ryota decides he wants to chase this feeling for the rest of his life.
—
It’s still chilly out when Ryota makes the trek to the train station, Suica and keys jangling in his coat pocket.
“My friend is looking for camera lenses but he can’t find them anywhere,” Shota had explained. “I know we’re closed for Golden Week, but could you open the store? Just for a couple of hours. I’d do it myself but I’m in Beppu…”
The train station is mostly empty at this hour but the attached shopping centre is buzzing with activity. Ryota realises with a start that he’s never been inside.
It had opened to much fanfare two years earlier, a few weeks after he first moved to this neighbourhood. Ryota had been very excited at the prospect of having an international supermarket so close to his apartment. He had precious little time off and not needing to commute all the way to Shibuya to satisfy a feta craving sounded heavenly.
But between leaving for work at sunrise and getting home past midnight, Ryota never managed to be around when the supermarket was open, let alone browse fancy cheeses.
As if on cue, his phone buzzes.
Watanabe Shota:
His name is Mukai Koji
He said he’ll be there by noon
He’s in Yokohama right now
Okay, Ryota types out. I’ll get there around eleven.
He swipes through the ticket gate and waits for the little Read notification to pop up in their chat window before sliding his phone back into his pocket.
There are five stations between his house and the old camera store. It’s kind of funny, if he thinks about it. Ryota’s passion for cooking had taken him all over the world but he still ended up living close to the little store. Who would he be now if he had decided to just follow his mother into the family business, like Shota had? It wouldn’t be so bad, working with his best friend. Their mothers had certainly made it work for thirty years.
Take the West Exit, walk down the first alley, turn left at the corner and walk down the street until you see the FamilyMart. The directions are burned into his memory. His feet move of their own accord. He finds himself at the familiar rustic door before he knows it.
Was the store always this small? Ryota fumbles with the old metal key. The hinges on the door are as rusty as ever. The store has only been closed for a couple of days for the holidays, but there’s already a thin layer of dust on the counter. Ryota frowns.
He’s in the back room surveying the cleaning product situation when the bell attached to the door chimes fifteen minutes later.
“Hello,” a meek voice calls. “Is this Edogawa Camera?”
Ryota checks his watch and sighs. It’s not even half past eleven yet. He shouldn’t have flipped over the OPEN! sign already. He takes a deep breath and walks back to the counter, pasting on a customer service smile with practised ease.
…and it’s a good thing he did because of all the things Ryota was expecting that morning, he didn’t have extremely handsome stranger on his bingo card. It’s like a frame out of a movie—the late morning sunlight falls just right on the man’s face, bouncing off his glasses and throwing his face into sharp relief. His hooked nose, dotted with moles, is pink from the cold. When he absently bites his lower lip, Ryota’s breath catches in his throat.
To his credit, Ryota recovers impressively.
“Yes, hello.” He overcorrects and dips into a too-formal bow. Focus. He has to focus. He’s here to help Shota’s friend and it’s far too early for this to be him. “My apologies, we’re closed today—”
“Ah, I’m really sorry for the imposition, but Shota-kun sent me—”
“…Oh!” A small flush creeps up the back of Ryota’s neck. This is Shota’s friend? “My deepest apologies. Yes, he informed me of your visit. You must be Mukai-sama.” Ryota doesn’t presume to know all of Shota’s friends, nor does he care to, but he feels mildly disgruntled he doesn’t know this one.
Mukai’s face crinkles into a smile that’s equal parts embarrassed and adorable. “Please just call me Mukai. You must be Miyadate-san.”
Now it’s Ryota’s turn to protest. “Miyadate is fine. Shota mentioned you were looking for camera lenses?”
“Oh! Yeah!” Mukai unearths a camera bag from his backpack and gingerly places it on the counter. “I found an old SLR recently that’s perfect for a project but I’m having trouble finding the right lens for it.” He hands it to Ryota to inspect. “I remembered Shota-kun saying his family ran a vintage camera store so I thought I’d try my luck here.” He runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “Sorry, I forgot it’s Golden Week.”
When Ryota doesn’t comment, Mukai continues. “I live in Thailand,” he explains.
“I see.” He sets the camera down and tries to gather his thoughts. “Sorry.” He clears his throat. “Could you give me a moment to check our inventory? Please have a seat.”
“Actually,” Mukai’s mouth curves into a hopeful grin. “I know you’re technically closed, but can I look around? I saw a really interesting looking tripod by the window—”
The excitement in his eyes catches Ryota off-guard. It’s refreshing.
“Of course. Please help yourself.”
Mukai doesn’t run but he does walk very fast; he’s kneeling before the tripod before Ryota can blink. Probably unaware that Ryota can hear him across the store, he keeps up a steady stream of commentary to himself, at one point pulling out his phone to furiously type down notes. Ryota can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips. Mukai is so enthusiastic. It’s endearing.
Some ten minutes later, he politely coughs. Mukai, now poring over the cannisters in the film aisle, jumps back guiltily. It’s kind of funny.
“I’m sorry, we don’t carry anything for this model.” He hands back the camera, freshly dusted and wiped down. When Mukai’s face falls, he hurriedly adds, “But one of our suppliers might. I can place an order, but it will take a few days for it to be delivered.”
Mukai’s forehead immediately creases with worry. “I couldn’t possibly ask—”
“I’d be happy to.” Ryota tells himself he would do this for any of Shota’s friends. And it’s good for the store, right? This is purely a business transaction.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Ryota says firmly. “I’ll need to check with our suppliers, but would sometime before this weekend be alright?”
The worry lines on Mukai’s forehead soften and his mouth curves into that bright smile again. “I’m here until Sunday.”
“That should be plenty of time.” In theory, this next question is the easiest part. Ryota is just playing the role of a dutiful salesperson and this is just a line in the script. But for some reason, his heart is in his throat. “May I have your phone number?”
Mukai looks at his phone thoughtfully. “Is LINE okay?”
—
Sometime in the months leading up to his first high school cultural festival, Ryota makes up his mind.
Everywhere he turns, people are mapping out their futures. The hallways are filled with half-conversations about university choices and cram school reviews. Ryota puts it out of his mind for as long as he can, but things come to a head one Thursday morning when their homeroom teacher hands out a career survey.
“They’re due next week,” he announces, writing down the date on the chalkboard. “Think carefully about what you want to do. We can go over your scores together and make a plan.”
Ryota spends the next three lessons working himself into a ball of anxiety. Things have not improved much by the time lunch rolls around. He takes the stairs to the rooftop two at a time and makes a beeline for the lone bench in the shade. Shota flops down next to him a few minutes later, melon pan and coffee in hand.
“You look serious,” he comments, ripping through the plastic packaging.
“What if I don’t go to college,” Ryota blurts out, staring at his feet.
Shota blinks. “Okay.”
“No, I mean it,” he barrels on. “I mean, what if I don’t apply? What if I want to do something else?”
“Then do something else,” Shota says easily.
“It’s not—it’s not that simple. I can’t just tell my mom I want to go to culinary school.”
“Why not?”
“You know she would kill me.”
Shota takes a long swig of his coffee. “I don’t think so.” He crushes the now empty can and tosses it into a trash bag. “I’ve known Shizuka-san for a long time. She’ll probably be madder at you if you don’t tell her how you really feel.”
Ryota exhales slowly.
“Besides,” Shota adds dryly. “This isn’t as shocking as you think it is. I’d be more shocked if you showed up at the class karaoke party or something.”
That jolts a laugh out of Ryota.
“Maybe I’ll surprise you yet.”
—
The next few days pass the same way as the last two weeks: slow, tired, each hour indistinguishable from the last. Having spent every minute of the last many years hustling his way into five star kitchens across Paris and Tokyo, Ryota doesn’t know what to do with this much free time.
He glances at a stack of new, unopened cookbooks on the kitchen island; even cooking is unappealing these days.
When did cooking lose its magic?
An image of Mukai seriously examining rolls of film spontaneously pops into his mind. Ryota’s smiling before he knows it.
It would be completely unprofessional of him, but he’s so tempted to contact Mukai. Just to ask Why do you love photography? Maybe How do you keep that enthusiasm alive? Perhaps even Do you love anything more than photography?
As if on cue, the doorbell rings, making the decision for him.
—
Fukui is nothing like Ryota imagined it would be. After eighteen years in Tokyo, this corner of Japan almost feels like a different country.
The culinary institute is as bright and busy as he remembers it from the campus visit a month ago, but it’s an oasis of activity in an otherwise laid-back town. There are little clusters of houses and stores near campus, but all the local hangout spots close by sundown. The air is cleaner here and Ryota has never seen supermarket produce so fresh, but the station only has one platform and the train out of town only runs once an hour.
His roommate is nice enough and the culinary program is every bit as exciting as the brochure promised, but a potent combination of culture shock and homesickness threaten to knock Ryota off his feet.
Things shift for Ryota at the end of his first month. Over the course of two days, he notices the same handful of students answering questions in every class.
They’ve all been here the same amount of time; how could Ryota let himself fall behind already?
No more, he decides firmly. He makes a plan that afternoon. In two weeks, his cohort will start practical lessons in the food science labs—he fully intends to beat whoever he needs to in order to be in the front of that class.
Ryota uprooted his whole life to chase what felt like an impossible dream—Michelin, Michelin, Michelin—and he isn’t going to let something as small as homesickness get in the way.
—
Despite spending almost two hours picking out his outfit and trying very hard to not acknowledge why, Ryota still arrives at the restaurant ten minutes early. Somehow, Mukai is already there, idly thumbing through his phone. He looks up just then and his whole face crinkles into a smile. Cute.
Mukai offers a cheerful, “Shall we?” and steps inside. He must have made a reservation because they’re immediately led to a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant. The lights are warm and soft ambient music plays in the background. It’s nice.
“I’m so glad you were free for dinner,” Mukai says brightly.
“This wasn’t necessary…”
“I wanted to,” Mukai says firmly. “You did me such a huge favour; taking you out for a meal is really the least I can do.”
Ryota relaxes.
“Then thank you.” He smiles. “It’s very nice of you.”
After the server takes their orders, Ryota carefully pulls the lens case out of his bag and hands it across the table. Mukai’s whole face lights up with so much wonder Ryota’s breath catches a little.
“I checked it when it arrived and everything looked okay.”
“I can’t believe it,” Mukai murmurs, thumbing the lens like it’s something precious. “Ah, I’m so happy.” He fastens the lens to the camera and holds the viewfinder up to his eyes. “Miyadate-san, say cheese.”
Forgetting to be embarrassed, Ryota protests, “I told you to call me Miyadate!”
A tinge of exasperation creeps into his tone, which only seems to delight Mukai.
“Only if you call me Koji.”
“Eh?”
His grin widens. “I was beginning to think you would never drop formal speech with me.” He lowers the camera and beams at Ryota expectantly. “If you call me Koji, I’ll stop calling you Miyadate-san.”
A beat passes.
“Koji,” Ryota says evenly.
“Yes, Date-san,” Mukai—Koji replies airily.
This time Ryota is the one who laughs. “That’s cheating!”
“No, it’s not!” Koji argues as their server arrives with their drinks and appetisers. “You’re too cool to be just a Miyadate, you have an image of—I don’t know.” Koji leans in close to get a good look at him. “Maybe a rocker.”
Ryota snorts into his beer.
“Hey, take me seriously, I’m really good at this stuff!” Koji pouts but the effect is ruined somewhat by the laughter in his voice and Ryota doesn’t know if it’s that or the beer, but it has him chuckling too.
After they lapse into silence, Koji puts his camera away and smiles that wide crinkly-eyed smile again. “So, Date-san,” he starts conversationally, “what’s it like, running a camera store? It’s always been a dream of mine.”
Ryota could take advantage of the misunderstanding but Koji is looking at him with such sincere interest that Ryota can’t help but be honest.
“I couldn’t tell you. I used to be a chef at a Michelin star restaurant.” He can’t bring himself to look at Koji when he says it, though. Instead, he folds and unfolds his napkin. “I quit a couple of weeks ago. I just helped out at the store this week as a favour to Shota.”
Ryota steels himself for a look of pity when he looks up, but to his surprise Koji just nods.
“I hated working in that kitchen.” Now that he’s started, Ryota finds he can’t stop. This is the first time he’s put these feelings into words; it isn’t as scary as he thought it would be. “I kept butting heads with the head chef and they refused to promote me. So I quit.” Ryota takes a long sip of his beer. “Not very rocker of me,” he adds with a short laugh.
Koji snaps his edamame open and frowns at that.
“What about you?” Ryota changes the topic, ready to move on from the conversation. “It must be really cool to be a professional photographer.”
“Eh?” Koji looks up at him in surprise and laughs. “I’m not a photographer!”
Ryota blinks.
“I used to manage bands,” Koji explains, moving plates aside to make room for their entrées. “That’s how I met Shota-kun. I was his boyfriend’s manager.”
A light bulb goes off in Ryota’s head.
“Wait, are you the—” he screws his eyes shut and tries to summon the memory. “Are you the manager who cooked for everyone?”
Koji’s eyes widen.
“How do you know about that?”
“You made Meguro a whole bunch of curry, right? Not Japanese, maybe Thai?” When Koji just stares at him in disbelief, Ryota laughs. “He wasn’t able to finish it before he—you?—went on tour again and it was too spicy for Shota, so Shota brought it over. I ate it for dinner for a week.”
Ryota hasn’t known Koji very long, but he’s pretty sure being struck speechless is not a common occurrence for him.
“I… Yeah, that was me.”
“It was delicious,” Ryota says sincerely. “Thank you for treating me.”
Koji groans and covers his face. “I can’t believe Meme did this to me.”
“What?” Now it’s Ryota’s turn to be delighted. For once, he isn’t the one who’s embarrassed. Koji’s face is so red, he looks like an adorable strawberry. He can’t help the grin on his face.
“He gave my amateur curry to a hot professional chef!” Koji complains. “Without my permission!”
Ryota’s brain catches at the hot but he lets it go in favour of, “Would you have said yes? If he’d asked?”
“That’s not the point,” Koji grumbles. “It wasn’t even good! I just threw it together that afternoon! Only because Meme said he didn’t have time to go grocery shopping!”
Perhaps the most endearing part is that Ryota can tell Koji isn’t fishing for compliments. “It was very good,” he counters. “I wouldn’t have savoured it for a whole week if it wasn’t.”
Koji flushes. “It wasn’t as good as my mother’s,” he says loyally. “It was her recipe, though.”
“Then I’ll just have to try your mother’s next time.” The words slip out of Ryota’s mouth before he can process the implication of meeting the parents, but luckily they’re both saved from the conversation by the arrival of their server with another round of drinks.
“I decided it wasn’t for me. That job,” Koji snaps the last of his edamame open. “Don’t get me wrong, the guys were all great. I'm still friends with most of them. But the job took too much out of me and it wasn’t fun anymore. So I quit too.” He rolls the last few edamame beans on his plate and laughs. “Look at us, two beans in a pod!”
Something warm washes over Ryota’s heart.
“So photography is just a hobby?”
“Kind of?” Koji scrunches his face up into a thoughtful look. “It’s hard to explain.” He downs the rest of his beer. “I was really shy when I was little. Like, I wouldn’t talk to any of the other kids if my big brother wasn’t around! Ah, I was that kind of child, can you believe it?” A little smile plays over his lips. “My parents got me a camera when I was in elementary school and that really helped me open up a lot! In fact—” Koji digs through his backpack and pulls out the camera with a flourish. “It was this very camera!”
Ryota stares at him in surprise. “Really?”
Koji bursts out laughing. “No, no, I was just joking!” He puts the camera away and grins. “Sorry, you’re fun to tease, Date-san. No, my parents moved to Thailand when I started touring, so I don’t know where that camera went.” A hint of regret creeps into Koji’s eyes. “It’s fine, though!” He thumps the table cheerfully. “This camera actually is from the same series! It’s just a different colour. I found it in a secondhand store in Osaka.”
“That’s really lucky,” Ryota says earnestly. “What colour was your camera?”
“Beige! It wasn’t fancy or anything. But I like this one too! The orange casing makes it look really cheerful, don’t you think?”
Just like you, Ryota thinks fondly. In lieu of a reply, he just nods.
The rest of dinner passes in comfortable silence. It’s only after they exit the restaurant that Ryota thinks to check the time. The tall commercial buildings all around them are dark and while there are still enough people on the street, it looks late enough that—
“Shit.” Ryota checks his train app and looks up, grim. “I think I missed the last train home.”
—
Culinary school is gruelling. In theory, it’s only two years of his life, but in reality, it’s long hours of cramming theory, sitting for an endless series of tests and redoing dishes over and over until the perfectionists running the institute gave him a pass.
Sometimes Ryota envies the carefree life Shota describes. He got into a college close to home, meets their high school friends on and off and splits his free time between underground lives and classes at the local dance studio. It suits Shota in a way Ryota knows would make him restless, but he can’t help but wonder.
He looks forward to every visit, but Ryota feels more and more left behind every time he re-enters civilization on these trips home.
Before, Ryota had a fairly decent knowledge of all the popular idols and actors, but a sea of fresh faces have taken over in the four months he’s been away. Fukazawa, their former high school Class President, organises reunions over break and while they’re fun to attend, Ryota doesn’t even recognise half the songs trending at karaoke now.
It’s not all bad, though. The quiet kid from the grade below theirs, Iwamoto, tags along sometimes and he’s just as pleasant as Ryota remembers. Sakuma is often there too and while Ryota still has no idea what he’s talking about, he’s happy to sit in a quiet corner with Iwamoto and let Sakuma’s chatter wash over them.
Ryota always promises to keep in touch. He dutifully trades LINE contacts with everyone at the end of every meetup but in the end, Shota is the only person he texts with any regularity when he gets back to Fukui. It’s not from a lack of interest so much as the painful shyness that has followed him into adulthood.
He wonders if he would be better at staying connected if he were back in Tokyo.
This is worth it, he reminds himself on one particularly lonely night. One more year and I can work in any kitchen I want. One more month and I can apply to that internship abroad. I’m so close.
He’s not lying to himself—it’s all true. But maybe it would be easier to keep conversations alive if he could meet people instead of staring at the blinking cursor in the chat window.
—
Koji freezes.
“I’m so sorry, oh my god.” The bright white light of his phone screen bounces off his glasses as he frantically thumbs through his phone. “This place is open late and we—the band used to take vans home, so I forgot about the train.” Ryota learns quickly that Koji is not very good at hiding his emotions; the guilt welling in Koji’s eyes makes Ryota want to hold him. “I’m so sorry, shit.”
“Are you staying nearby?”
Koji pauses. “No.”
Ryota takes a deep breath. “Let’s find somewhere to stay for the night.” The words are barely out of his mouth before his brain catches up and Ryota hurries to clarify, “Like a karaoke place. They’re open all night.” Not a love hotel!
“Of course,” Koji agrees too quickly. His ears are pink, though, and Ryota wonders how much of that is from the chill in the air.
Roppongi never sleeps. It’s also not as glamorous as Ryota pictured, at least not at this time of night. Party-goers at varying stages of intoxication wander past them, laughing at jokes Ryota can’t hear, swinging their arms just wide enough to occasionally bump into him.
“Date-san,” Koji’s voice is a murmur at his neck. “Here.” A warm pair of hands come to a rest at his waist and gently nudge him to the other side of the pavement. “Be careful.”
Koji’s fingers linger for a beat longer than they need to and Ryota feels tendrils of heat curling from his waist into his stomach.
Oh.
Koji steps away just as quickly as he appeared, leaving Ryota with the memory of his fingertips on hips.
“So you said you were a chef.” Koji clears his throat, not at all subtle about trying to change the subject. “Do you still like cooking?”
Ryota plays along.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I was stuck as a chef de partie for the longest time. I had no future at that restaurant. At least not one where I’d get to do anything other than cook the same five recipes every day for the rest of my life.”
“Chef de partie,” Koji repeats carefully, failing adorably at the pronunciation. “Wow, Date-san, you speak French too?”
Ryota huffs an embarrassed laugh. They arrive at a pedestrian crossing and wait for the light to change even though the intersection is deserted.
“A little bit,” Ryota admits when the light turns green. “I did a summer abroad in Paris.”
“That’s so cool!” Koji enthuses. He bumps their shoulders together lightly. “So you’re a chef and you speak French? You could open up your restaurant!”
“It’s not that easy!” Ryota protests lightly, feeling his own ears burn. “But that would be nice.”
—
Paris is a city of firsts for nineteen-year-old Ryota.
He drinks his first glass of red wine—his first drink, ever—at the welcome dinner his host family throws for him. He goes touristing alone and dutifully emails photos from his adventures to his parents every night. He feels like an adult, responsible for himself in a way he never has to be back in Japan.
He also quickly realises how much he took for granted in Japan.
Despite studying for months in advance, French is still a challenge. Ryota powers through; he stays up late, writes down all the new phrases he learned and reviews material he’s already memorised. In the daytime, he takes every opportunity to speak French—at the pâtisserie near campus, at the little café he likes to go to for lunch and even in class.
French turns out to be harder than cooking. Even with instructions in a foreign language, Ryota finds following recipes a breeze. Talking about his creations is harder. But even though he routinely conjugates verbs wrong, stumbles over vocabulary and struggles with accents, he stubbornly keeps trying. For the first time in his life, Ryota forgets to be shy.
Six weeks later, he finishes the summer program at the top of his class. At the institute’s farewell dinner, Ryota shares his new dream with his batchmates.
“Someday,” he starts in shaky French, “Someday, I want to open my own restaurant.”
—
“What about you?” It’s Ryota’s turn to change the subject. “Do you want to be a professional photographer?”
Koji hums. “That’s a good question. I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Yeah?”
“Photography… to me, it’s a way to make memories.” Koji checks his navigation app and grabs Ryota’s arm to guide him in the right direction. “I’m an amateur, but it really makes me happy.”
“You sounded very happy,” Ryota murmurs. At Koji’s questioning glance, he adds, “At Edogawa Camera. You sounded very happy looking around the store.”
“It’s a cool store!” Ryota notices Koji hasn’t let go of his arm yet. He lets it be. “There were some things there I’ve only seen online!”
Koji’s grip loosens a little and their arms end up loosely intertwined. Ryota smiles at a manhole cover.
“But I don’t know if I could do it professionally.” Koji says, voice softer. “I don’t know. I’m not much of a planner these days.”
They arrive at their destination just then; a neon blue sign with bright red letters that spell out KARAOKE KAN flashes overhead. Koji frees his arm when they step inside and Ryota feels strangely lonely.
“Is five hours okay?” Koji calls from the front desk, checking his watch. “The trains start running at six.”
“Sounds good.”
The front desk staff usher them into a too-small elevator that carries them up to the ninth floor and soon they stumble into a room, the exhaustion from the evening finally kicking in. Koji queues up a couple of songs on the karaoke system before shucking his shoes off and making himself comfortable on the couch next to Ryota.
“Speaking of memories.” Koji sits up. “Let’s take a picture together.”
—
The first five years of Ryota’s twenties melt into each other.
He moves back to Tokyo and finds a tiny apartment in Shinjuku. He works in one kitchen, then another, then another. When relatives and neighbours ask him about his plans, Ryota pastes on a smile and says, “Everything is going great.”
It is and it isn’t.
His goal becomes a bit more realistic, a bit more tangible after he returns from Paris. On his last trip home before graduation, he tells Shota.
“I want to work in a Michelin star restaurant.”
It’s a goal with a clear direction. He’s confident he can work his way up to Head Chef in time.
But somehow, even though he gets accepted into prestigious kitchens, Ryota just can’t seem to catch a break.
The first restaurant shuts down within a year, a month after the owner promises Ryota a sous chef position. The second place lasts longer, but the team is smaller; there isn’t even a sous chef position to aspire to.
The last place is perfect on paper—it has two Michelin stars, the Head Chef is widely regarded as a genius and the cuisine the restaurant offers is exactly what Ryota wants to work with. It’s also longer hours than anywhere he’s worked before, more limited skills-wise and so physically demanding that Ryota spends almost all of his time off work resting. Forget cooking for pleasure, he doesn’t remember the last time he turned the stove on in his apartment.
It takes three years of this grind for Ryota to remember this was never his dream.
He quits the very next day.
—
“A picture?”
“Yeah.” Koji pulls out his camera and fiddles with the settings. “Like I said, I take pictures to make memories.” He holds up the viewfinder to his eye, points the camera at Ryota and smiles. “You’re memorable.”
Ryota lets himself look at Koji, really look at him, and his traitorous heart skips a beat.
Koji, meanwhile, stretches his arm out and repositions himself until he’s squeezed into the frame with Ryota. They’ve been drifting closer and closer to each other all night, but now Koji is practically in Ryota’s lap, one arm slung around his shoulders. A soft ballad plays in the background. It really is quite romantic.
Koji adjusts the angle of the camera one last time and murmurs, “Say cheese.”
Instead of looking at the camera, Ryota moves on instinct, turning to plant a soft kiss on Koji’s cheek.
What he doesn’t expect is for Koji to meet him halfway.
The shutter of the camera goes off in the background but Ryota is too distracted by the soft, warm, beautiful boy in his lap to notice. Koji pulls back just long enough to set the camera down before taking Ryota’s face in his hands and kissing him.
After a beat, Ryota pulls back. Koji mouths his jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach.
“Koji,” he asks quietly, running his hands up and down his sides. “Are you going back to Thailand this weekend?”
Koji pulls back slowly. Ryota is struck once again by how beautiful he looks with his hair messed up, lips red from kissing and shirt slipping off his shoulders that he has trouble focusing. He gives in to the urge to kiss him again, a peck, two, three, before Koji finally answers.
“Yeah.”
An I’m sorry hangs in the air, unspoken, heavy.
“But I’ll be back in a month,” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’m thinking about spending the summer at my parents’ old house in Nara.”
Ryota’s heart leaps to his throat.
“Yeah?”
Koji presses a kiss to the column of Ryota’s throat. “Date-san,” he murmurs directly into the skin. “What are you up to next month? Can I take you out on a date?”
Ryota laughs. “What, this isn’t a date?”
Koji scrunches his face up in distaste, which just has Ryota laughing harder.
“I think I can do better than a make out at Karaoke Kan while,” Koji twists in Ryota’s lap to squint at the kanji on the display, “1582 by Kamenashi Kazunari plays in the background.”
“Kazuya,” Ryota corrects, eyes brimming with mirth. “Kamenashi Kazuya. This is my ideal first date, actually.”
“Date-san!” Koji whines, burying his face in Ryota’s chest. “Mean!”
“You’re just fun to tease,” Ryota quips, laughing harder at Koji’s noise of betrayal.
When the laughter dies down, Koji sits up so he can look Ryota in the eye. “It’s an awful lot to ask, I know. But I don’t want you to…” Koji shrugs in an attempt to look casual but it only succeeds in underscoring his nervousness. “I don’t want you to wait for me or anything. But I’ll be back in town next month and if you’re free then—”
For the first time in his life, Ryota takes a leap of faith.
“Hey,” Ryota lets his hand trail down until it comes to a rest at the small of Koji’s back. “Let’s go on a date next month.”
—
After forty two dates spread across three countries over two years, Ryota will loyally insist that kissing in a random Karaoke Kan in a grimey corner of Roppongi was still the best first date ever. Koji takes it as a challenge every single time.
Pairings: Mukai Koji/Miyadate Ryota; Meguro Ren/Watanabe Shota
Genres: Non-famous AU, Character Study, Slice of life, Strangers to Lovers, Romance, Friendship, Coming of age
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ryota picks up a shift at Edogawa Camera as a favour, only for it to alter the direction of his life.
Warnings: (if any) N/A
Author's notes: (if any) Thank you to my friends for betaing this fic and all the cheerleading along the way!
For the first time in weeks, Ryota is woken up by the ringing of his phone.
He nearly dashes into the bathroom on autopilot, convinced he’s late for work and it’s only when he finally looks at his phone that he notices it’s a call.
“Shota?” he yawns. It takes a beat for his eyes to adjust to the dim bedroom. The blackout curtains are so effective he has no idea what time it is.
“Hey. Sorry, did I wake you?” There’s a muffled voice in the distance, but it’s too noisy to make out what’s being said. “Hold on—yeah, I got him on LINE—Ryota?”
“I’m here.” Ryota blinks the sleep out of his eyes. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and winces at the iciness of the floor. “What’s up?”
“I need a favour.”
—
Ryota is ten when he runs a kitchen for the first time.
In retrospect, “chef” is probably a strong word for “someone who made a bunch of yakitori one time”, but when his mother talks the local summer festival committee into letting him run a food stall, it becomes the biggest event of his little life.
As ten-year-olds go, Ryota is extraordinarily shy. He can count all his casual acquaintances-sort of friends on one hand, his best friend on one finger. His friendship with Shota shouldn’t work but it just does somehow and Ryota knows better than to question it. It also helps that Shota doesn’t expect to be entertained and is happy to be Ryota’s guinea pig as he bustles about the family kitchen.
Talking to new people is hard. But this—carefully stirring mirin and soy sauce together, heaping in spoonfuls of sesame seeds and miso and waiting for that look of delight to bloom on people’s faces—thispart he’s good at.
Ryota’s miso yakitori is a runaway hit at the festival that summer.
His neighbours talk about it for weeks. People he’s never met before drop by and ask for his recipe. Even though that part is kind of embarrassing, Ryota decides he wants to chase this feeling for the rest of his life.
—
It’s still chilly out when Ryota makes the trek to the train station, Suica and keys jangling in his coat pocket.
“My friend is looking for camera lenses but he can’t find them anywhere,” Shota had explained. “I know we’re closed for Golden Week, but could you open the store? Just for a couple of hours. I’d do it myself but I’m in Beppu…”
The train station is mostly empty at this hour but the attached shopping centre is buzzing with activity. Ryota realises with a start that he’s never been inside.
It had opened to much fanfare two years earlier, a few weeks after he first moved to this neighbourhood. Ryota had been very excited at the prospect of having an international supermarket so close to his apartment. He had precious little time off and not needing to commute all the way to Shibuya to satisfy a feta craving sounded heavenly.
But between leaving for work at sunrise and getting home past midnight, Ryota never managed to be around when the supermarket was open, let alone browse fancy cheeses.
As if on cue, his phone buzzes.
Watanabe Shota:
His name is Mukai Koji
He said he’ll be there by noon
He’s in Yokohama right now
Okay, Ryota types out. I’ll get there around eleven.
He swipes through the ticket gate and waits for the little Read notification to pop up in their chat window before sliding his phone back into his pocket.
There are five stations between his house and the old camera store. It’s kind of funny, if he thinks about it. Ryota’s passion for cooking had taken him all over the world but he still ended up living close to the little store. Who would he be now if he had decided to just follow his mother into the family business, like Shota had? It wouldn’t be so bad, working with his best friend. Their mothers had certainly made it work for thirty years.
Take the West Exit, walk down the first alley, turn left at the corner and walk down the street until you see the FamilyMart. The directions are burned into his memory. His feet move of their own accord. He finds himself at the familiar rustic door before he knows it.
Was the store always this small? Ryota fumbles with the old metal key. The hinges on the door are as rusty as ever. The store has only been closed for a couple of days for the holidays, but there’s already a thin layer of dust on the counter. Ryota frowns.
He’s in the back room surveying the cleaning product situation when the bell attached to the door chimes fifteen minutes later.
“Hello,” a meek voice calls. “Is this Edogawa Camera?”
Ryota checks his watch and sighs. It’s not even half past eleven yet. He shouldn’t have flipped over the OPEN! sign already. He takes a deep breath and walks back to the counter, pasting on a customer service smile with practised ease.
…and it’s a good thing he did because of all the things Ryota was expecting that morning, he didn’t have extremely handsome stranger on his bingo card. It’s like a frame out of a movie—the late morning sunlight falls just right on the man’s face, bouncing off his glasses and throwing his face into sharp relief. His hooked nose, dotted with moles, is pink from the cold. When he absently bites his lower lip, Ryota’s breath catches in his throat.
To his credit, Ryota recovers impressively.
“Yes, hello.” He overcorrects and dips into a too-formal bow. Focus. He has to focus. He’s here to help Shota’s friend and it’s far too early for this to be him. “My apologies, we’re closed today—”
“Ah, I’m really sorry for the imposition, but Shota-kun sent me—”
“…Oh!” A small flush creeps up the back of Ryota’s neck. This is Shota’s friend? “My deepest apologies. Yes, he informed me of your visit. You must be Mukai-sama.” Ryota doesn’t presume to know all of Shota’s friends, nor does he care to, but he feels mildly disgruntled he doesn’t know this one.
Mukai’s face crinkles into a smile that’s equal parts embarrassed and adorable. “Please just call me Mukai. You must be Miyadate-san.”
Now it’s Ryota’s turn to protest. “Miyadate is fine. Shota mentioned you were looking for camera lenses?”
“Oh! Yeah!” Mukai unearths a camera bag from his backpack and gingerly places it on the counter. “I found an old SLR recently that’s perfect for a project but I’m having trouble finding the right lens for it.” He hands it to Ryota to inspect. “I remembered Shota-kun saying his family ran a vintage camera store so I thought I’d try my luck here.” He runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “Sorry, I forgot it’s Golden Week.”
When Ryota doesn’t comment, Mukai continues. “I live in Thailand,” he explains.
“I see.” He sets the camera down and tries to gather his thoughts. “Sorry.” He clears his throat. “Could you give me a moment to check our inventory? Please have a seat.”
“Actually,” Mukai’s mouth curves into a hopeful grin. “I know you’re technically closed, but can I look around? I saw a really interesting looking tripod by the window—”
The excitement in his eyes catches Ryota off-guard. It’s refreshing.
“Of course. Please help yourself.”
Mukai doesn’t run but he does walk very fast; he’s kneeling before the tripod before Ryota can blink. Probably unaware that Ryota can hear him across the store, he keeps up a steady stream of commentary to himself, at one point pulling out his phone to furiously type down notes. Ryota can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips. Mukai is so enthusiastic. It’s endearing.
Some ten minutes later, he politely coughs. Mukai, now poring over the cannisters in the film aisle, jumps back guiltily. It’s kind of funny.
“I’m sorry, we don’t carry anything for this model.” He hands back the camera, freshly dusted and wiped down. When Mukai’s face falls, he hurriedly adds, “But one of our suppliers might. I can place an order, but it will take a few days for it to be delivered.”
Mukai’s forehead immediately creases with worry. “I couldn’t possibly ask—”
“I’d be happy to.” Ryota tells himself he would do this for any of Shota’s friends. And it’s good for the store, right? This is purely a business transaction.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Ryota says firmly. “I’ll need to check with our suppliers, but would sometime before this weekend be alright?”
The worry lines on Mukai’s forehead soften and his mouth curves into that bright smile again. “I’m here until Sunday.”
“That should be plenty of time.” In theory, this next question is the easiest part. Ryota is just playing the role of a dutiful salesperson and this is just a line in the script. But for some reason, his heart is in his throat. “May I have your phone number?”
Mukai looks at his phone thoughtfully. “Is LINE okay?”
—
Sometime in the months leading up to his first high school cultural festival, Ryota makes up his mind.
Everywhere he turns, people are mapping out their futures. The hallways are filled with half-conversations about university choices and cram school reviews. Ryota puts it out of his mind for as long as he can, but things come to a head one Thursday morning when their homeroom teacher hands out a career survey.
“They’re due next week,” he announces, writing down the date on the chalkboard. “Think carefully about what you want to do. We can go over your scores together and make a plan.”
Ryota spends the next three lessons working himself into a ball of anxiety. Things have not improved much by the time lunch rolls around. He takes the stairs to the rooftop two at a time and makes a beeline for the lone bench in the shade. Shota flops down next to him a few minutes later, melon pan and coffee in hand.
“You look serious,” he comments, ripping through the plastic packaging.
“What if I don’t go to college,” Ryota blurts out, staring at his feet.
Shota blinks. “Okay.”
“No, I mean it,” he barrels on. “I mean, what if I don’t apply? What if I want to do something else?”
“Then do something else,” Shota says easily.
“It’s not—it’s not that simple. I can’t just tell my mom I want to go to culinary school.”
“Why not?”
“You know she would kill me.”
Shota takes a long swig of his coffee. “I don’t think so.” He crushes the now empty can and tosses it into a trash bag. “I’ve known Shizuka-san for a long time. She’ll probably be madder at you if you don’t tell her how you really feel.”
Ryota exhales slowly.
“Besides,” Shota adds dryly. “This isn’t as shocking as you think it is. I’d be more shocked if you showed up at the class karaoke party or something.”
That jolts a laugh out of Ryota.
“Maybe I’ll surprise you yet.”
—
The next few days pass the same way as the last two weeks: slow, tired, each hour indistinguishable from the last. Having spent every minute of the last many years hustling his way into five star kitchens across Paris and Tokyo, Ryota doesn’t know what to do with this much free time.
He glances at a stack of new, unopened cookbooks on the kitchen island; even cooking is unappealing these days.
When did cooking lose its magic?
An image of Mukai seriously examining rolls of film spontaneously pops into his mind. Ryota’s smiling before he knows it.
It would be completely unprofessional of him, but he’s so tempted to contact Mukai. Just to ask Why do you love photography? Maybe How do you keep that enthusiasm alive? Perhaps even Do you love anything more than photography?
As if on cue, the doorbell rings, making the decision for him.
—
Fukui is nothing like Ryota imagined it would be. After eighteen years in Tokyo, this corner of Japan almost feels like a different country.
The culinary institute is as bright and busy as he remembers it from the campus visit a month ago, but it’s an oasis of activity in an otherwise laid-back town. There are little clusters of houses and stores near campus, but all the local hangout spots close by sundown. The air is cleaner here and Ryota has never seen supermarket produce so fresh, but the station only has one platform and the train out of town only runs once an hour.
His roommate is nice enough and the culinary program is every bit as exciting as the brochure promised, but a potent combination of culture shock and homesickness threaten to knock Ryota off his feet.
Things shift for Ryota at the end of his first month. Over the course of two days, he notices the same handful of students answering questions in every class.
They’ve all been here the same amount of time; how could Ryota let himself fall behind already?
No more, he decides firmly. He makes a plan that afternoon. In two weeks, his cohort will start practical lessons in the food science labs—he fully intends to beat whoever he needs to in order to be in the front of that class.
Ryota uprooted his whole life to chase what felt like an impossible dream—Michelin, Michelin, Michelin—and he isn’t going to let something as small as homesickness get in the way.
—
Despite spending almost two hours picking out his outfit and trying very hard to not acknowledge why, Ryota still arrives at the restaurant ten minutes early. Somehow, Mukai is already there, idly thumbing through his phone. He looks up just then and his whole face crinkles into a smile. Cute.
Mukai offers a cheerful, “Shall we?” and steps inside. He must have made a reservation because they’re immediately led to a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant. The lights are warm and soft ambient music plays in the background. It’s nice.
“I’m so glad you were free for dinner,” Mukai says brightly.
“This wasn’t necessary…”
“I wanted to,” Mukai says firmly. “You did me such a huge favour; taking you out for a meal is really the least I can do.”
Ryota relaxes.
“Then thank you.” He smiles. “It’s very nice of you.”
After the server takes their orders, Ryota carefully pulls the lens case out of his bag and hands it across the table. Mukai’s whole face lights up with so much wonder Ryota’s breath catches a little.
“I checked it when it arrived and everything looked okay.”
“I can’t believe it,” Mukai murmurs, thumbing the lens like it’s something precious. “Ah, I’m so happy.” He fastens the lens to the camera and holds the viewfinder up to his eyes. “Miyadate-san, say cheese.”
Forgetting to be embarrassed, Ryota protests, “I told you to call me Miyadate!”
A tinge of exasperation creeps into his tone, which only seems to delight Mukai.
“Only if you call me Koji.”
“Eh?”
His grin widens. “I was beginning to think you would never drop formal speech with me.” He lowers the camera and beams at Ryota expectantly. “If you call me Koji, I’ll stop calling you Miyadate-san.”
A beat passes.
“Koji,” Ryota says evenly.
“Yes, Date-san,” Mukai—Koji replies airily.
This time Ryota is the one who laughs. “That’s cheating!”
“No, it’s not!” Koji argues as their server arrives with their drinks and appetisers. “You’re too cool to be just a Miyadate, you have an image of—I don’t know.” Koji leans in close to get a good look at him. “Maybe a rocker.”
Ryota snorts into his beer.
“Hey, take me seriously, I’m really good at this stuff!” Koji pouts but the effect is ruined somewhat by the laughter in his voice and Ryota doesn’t know if it’s that or the beer, but it has him chuckling too.
After they lapse into silence, Koji puts his camera away and smiles that wide crinkly-eyed smile again. “So, Date-san,” he starts conversationally, “what’s it like, running a camera store? It’s always been a dream of mine.”
Ryota could take advantage of the misunderstanding but Koji is looking at him with such sincere interest that Ryota can’t help but be honest.
“I couldn’t tell you. I used to be a chef at a Michelin star restaurant.” He can’t bring himself to look at Koji when he says it, though. Instead, he folds and unfolds his napkin. “I quit a couple of weeks ago. I just helped out at the store this week as a favour to Shota.”
Ryota steels himself for a look of pity when he looks up, but to his surprise Koji just nods.
“I hated working in that kitchen.” Now that he’s started, Ryota finds he can’t stop. This is the first time he’s put these feelings into words; it isn’t as scary as he thought it would be. “I kept butting heads with the head chef and they refused to promote me. So I quit.” Ryota takes a long sip of his beer. “Not very rocker of me,” he adds with a short laugh.
Koji snaps his edamame open and frowns at that.
“What about you?” Ryota changes the topic, ready to move on from the conversation. “It must be really cool to be a professional photographer.”
“Eh?” Koji looks up at him in surprise and laughs. “I’m not a photographer!”
Ryota blinks.
“I used to manage bands,” Koji explains, moving plates aside to make room for their entrées. “That’s how I met Shota-kun. I was his boyfriend’s manager.”
A light bulb goes off in Ryota’s head.
“Wait, are you the—” he screws his eyes shut and tries to summon the memory. “Are you the manager who cooked for everyone?”
Koji’s eyes widen.
“How do you know about that?”
“You made Meguro a whole bunch of curry, right? Not Japanese, maybe Thai?” When Koji just stares at him in disbelief, Ryota laughs. “He wasn’t able to finish it before he—you?—went on tour again and it was too spicy for Shota, so Shota brought it over. I ate it for dinner for a week.”
Ryota hasn’t known Koji very long, but he’s pretty sure being struck speechless is not a common occurrence for him.
“I… Yeah, that was me.”
“It was delicious,” Ryota says sincerely. “Thank you for treating me.”
Koji groans and covers his face. “I can’t believe Meme did this to me.”
“What?” Now it’s Ryota’s turn to be delighted. For once, he isn’t the one who’s embarrassed. Koji’s face is so red, he looks like an adorable strawberry. He can’t help the grin on his face.
“He gave my amateur curry to a hot professional chef!” Koji complains. “Without my permission!”
Ryota’s brain catches at the hot but he lets it go in favour of, “Would you have said yes? If he’d asked?”
“That’s not the point,” Koji grumbles. “It wasn’t even good! I just threw it together that afternoon! Only because Meme said he didn’t have time to go grocery shopping!”
Perhaps the most endearing part is that Ryota can tell Koji isn’t fishing for compliments. “It was very good,” he counters. “I wouldn’t have savoured it for a whole week if it wasn’t.”
Koji flushes. “It wasn’t as good as my mother’s,” he says loyally. “It was her recipe, though.”
“Then I’ll just have to try your mother’s next time.” The words slip out of Ryota’s mouth before he can process the implication of meeting the parents, but luckily they’re both saved from the conversation by the arrival of their server with another round of drinks.
“I decided it wasn’t for me. That job,” Koji snaps the last of his edamame open. “Don’t get me wrong, the guys were all great. I'm still friends with most of them. But the job took too much out of me and it wasn’t fun anymore. So I quit too.” He rolls the last few edamame beans on his plate and laughs. “Look at us, two beans in a pod!”
Something warm washes over Ryota’s heart.
“So photography is just a hobby?”
“Kind of?” Koji scrunches his face up into a thoughtful look. “It’s hard to explain.” He downs the rest of his beer. “I was really shy when I was little. Like, I wouldn’t talk to any of the other kids if my big brother wasn’t around! Ah, I was that kind of child, can you believe it?” A little smile plays over his lips. “My parents got me a camera when I was in elementary school and that really helped me open up a lot! In fact—” Koji digs through his backpack and pulls out the camera with a flourish. “It was this very camera!”
Ryota stares at him in surprise. “Really?”
Koji bursts out laughing. “No, no, I was just joking!” He puts the camera away and grins. “Sorry, you’re fun to tease, Date-san. No, my parents moved to Thailand when I started touring, so I don’t know where that camera went.” A hint of regret creeps into Koji’s eyes. “It’s fine, though!” He thumps the table cheerfully. “This camera actually is from the same series! It’s just a different colour. I found it in a secondhand store in Osaka.”
“That’s really lucky,” Ryota says earnestly. “What colour was your camera?”
“Beige! It wasn’t fancy or anything. But I like this one too! The orange casing makes it look really cheerful, don’t you think?”
Just like you, Ryota thinks fondly. In lieu of a reply, he just nods.
The rest of dinner passes in comfortable silence. It’s only after they exit the restaurant that Ryota thinks to check the time. The tall commercial buildings all around them are dark and while there are still enough people on the street, it looks late enough that—
“Shit.” Ryota checks his train app and looks up, grim. “I think I missed the last train home.”
—
Culinary school is gruelling. In theory, it’s only two years of his life, but in reality, it’s long hours of cramming theory, sitting for an endless series of tests and redoing dishes over and over until the perfectionists running the institute gave him a pass.
Sometimes Ryota envies the carefree life Shota describes. He got into a college close to home, meets their high school friends on and off and splits his free time between underground lives and classes at the local dance studio. It suits Shota in a way Ryota knows would make him restless, but he can’t help but wonder.
He looks forward to every visit, but Ryota feels more and more left behind every time he re-enters civilization on these trips home.
Before, Ryota had a fairly decent knowledge of all the popular idols and actors, but a sea of fresh faces have taken over in the four months he’s been away. Fukazawa, their former high school Class President, organises reunions over break and while they’re fun to attend, Ryota doesn’t even recognise half the songs trending at karaoke now.
It’s not all bad, though. The quiet kid from the grade below theirs, Iwamoto, tags along sometimes and he’s just as pleasant as Ryota remembers. Sakuma is often there too and while Ryota still has no idea what he’s talking about, he’s happy to sit in a quiet corner with Iwamoto and let Sakuma’s chatter wash over them.
Ryota always promises to keep in touch. He dutifully trades LINE contacts with everyone at the end of every meetup but in the end, Shota is the only person he texts with any regularity when he gets back to Fukui. It’s not from a lack of interest so much as the painful shyness that has followed him into adulthood.
He wonders if he would be better at staying connected if he were back in Tokyo.
This is worth it, he reminds himself on one particularly lonely night. One more year and I can work in any kitchen I want. One more month and I can apply to that internship abroad. I’m so close.
He’s not lying to himself—it’s all true. But maybe it would be easier to keep conversations alive if he could meet people instead of staring at the blinking cursor in the chat window.
—
Koji freezes.
“I’m so sorry, oh my god.” The bright white light of his phone screen bounces off his glasses as he frantically thumbs through his phone. “This place is open late and we—the band used to take vans home, so I forgot about the train.” Ryota learns quickly that Koji is not very good at hiding his emotions; the guilt welling in Koji’s eyes makes Ryota want to hold him. “I’m so sorry, shit.”
“Are you staying nearby?”
Koji pauses. “No.”
Ryota takes a deep breath. “Let’s find somewhere to stay for the night.” The words are barely out of his mouth before his brain catches up and Ryota hurries to clarify, “Like a karaoke place. They’re open all night.” Not a love hotel!
“Of course,” Koji agrees too quickly. His ears are pink, though, and Ryota wonders how much of that is from the chill in the air.
Roppongi never sleeps. It’s also not as glamorous as Ryota pictured, at least not at this time of night. Party-goers at varying stages of intoxication wander past them, laughing at jokes Ryota can’t hear, swinging their arms just wide enough to occasionally bump into him.
“Date-san,” Koji’s voice is a murmur at his neck. “Here.” A warm pair of hands come to a rest at his waist and gently nudge him to the other side of the pavement. “Be careful.”
Koji’s fingers linger for a beat longer than they need to and Ryota feels tendrils of heat curling from his waist into his stomach.
Oh.
Koji steps away just as quickly as he appeared, leaving Ryota with the memory of his fingertips on hips.
“So you said you were a chef.” Koji clears his throat, not at all subtle about trying to change the subject. “Do you still like cooking?”
Ryota plays along.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I was stuck as a chef de partie for the longest time. I had no future at that restaurant. At least not one where I’d get to do anything other than cook the same five recipes every day for the rest of my life.”
“Chef de partie,” Koji repeats carefully, failing adorably at the pronunciation. “Wow, Date-san, you speak French too?”
Ryota huffs an embarrassed laugh. They arrive at a pedestrian crossing and wait for the light to change even though the intersection is deserted.
“A little bit,” Ryota admits when the light turns green. “I did a summer abroad in Paris.”
“That’s so cool!” Koji enthuses. He bumps their shoulders together lightly. “So you’re a chef and you speak French? You could open up your restaurant!”
“It’s not that easy!” Ryota protests lightly, feeling his own ears burn. “But that would be nice.”
—
Paris is a city of firsts for nineteen-year-old Ryota.
He drinks his first glass of red wine—his first drink, ever—at the welcome dinner his host family throws for him. He goes touristing alone and dutifully emails photos from his adventures to his parents every night. He feels like an adult, responsible for himself in a way he never has to be back in Japan.
He also quickly realises how much he took for granted in Japan.
Despite studying for months in advance, French is still a challenge. Ryota powers through; he stays up late, writes down all the new phrases he learned and reviews material he’s already memorised. In the daytime, he takes every opportunity to speak French—at the pâtisserie near campus, at the little café he likes to go to for lunch and even in class.
French turns out to be harder than cooking. Even with instructions in a foreign language, Ryota finds following recipes a breeze. Talking about his creations is harder. But even though he routinely conjugates verbs wrong, stumbles over vocabulary and struggles with accents, he stubbornly keeps trying. For the first time in his life, Ryota forgets to be shy.
Six weeks later, he finishes the summer program at the top of his class. At the institute’s farewell dinner, Ryota shares his new dream with his batchmates.
“Someday,” he starts in shaky French, “Someday, I want to open my own restaurant.”
—
“What about you?” It’s Ryota’s turn to change the subject. “Do you want to be a professional photographer?”
Koji hums. “That’s a good question. I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Yeah?”
“Photography… to me, it’s a way to make memories.” Koji checks his navigation app and grabs Ryota’s arm to guide him in the right direction. “I’m an amateur, but it really makes me happy.”
“You sounded very happy,” Ryota murmurs. At Koji’s questioning glance, he adds, “At Edogawa Camera. You sounded very happy looking around the store.”
“It’s a cool store!” Ryota notices Koji hasn’t let go of his arm yet. He lets it be. “There were some things there I’ve only seen online!”
Koji’s grip loosens a little and their arms end up loosely intertwined. Ryota smiles at a manhole cover.
“But I don’t know if I could do it professionally.” Koji says, voice softer. “I don’t know. I’m not much of a planner these days.”
They arrive at their destination just then; a neon blue sign with bright red letters that spell out KARAOKE KAN flashes overhead. Koji frees his arm when they step inside and Ryota feels strangely lonely.
“Is five hours okay?” Koji calls from the front desk, checking his watch. “The trains start running at six.”
“Sounds good.”
The front desk staff usher them into a too-small elevator that carries them up to the ninth floor and soon they stumble into a room, the exhaustion from the evening finally kicking in. Koji queues up a couple of songs on the karaoke system before shucking his shoes off and making himself comfortable on the couch next to Ryota.
“Speaking of memories.” Koji sits up. “Let’s take a picture together.”
—
The first five years of Ryota’s twenties melt into each other.
He moves back to Tokyo and finds a tiny apartment in Shinjuku. He works in one kitchen, then another, then another. When relatives and neighbours ask him about his plans, Ryota pastes on a smile and says, “Everything is going great.”
It is and it isn’t.
His goal becomes a bit more realistic, a bit more tangible after he returns from Paris. On his last trip home before graduation, he tells Shota.
“I want to work in a Michelin star restaurant.”
It’s a goal with a clear direction. He’s confident he can work his way up to Head Chef in time.
But somehow, even though he gets accepted into prestigious kitchens, Ryota just can’t seem to catch a break.
The first restaurant shuts down within a year, a month after the owner promises Ryota a sous chef position. The second place lasts longer, but the team is smaller; there isn’t even a sous chef position to aspire to.
The last place is perfect on paper—it has two Michelin stars, the Head Chef is widely regarded as a genius and the cuisine the restaurant offers is exactly what Ryota wants to work with. It’s also longer hours than anywhere he’s worked before, more limited skills-wise and so physically demanding that Ryota spends almost all of his time off work resting. Forget cooking for pleasure, he doesn’t remember the last time he turned the stove on in his apartment.
It takes three years of this grind for Ryota to remember this was never his dream.
He quits the very next day.
—
“A picture?”
“Yeah.” Koji pulls out his camera and fiddles with the settings. “Like I said, I take pictures to make memories.” He holds up the viewfinder to his eye, points the camera at Ryota and smiles. “You’re memorable.”
Ryota lets himself look at Koji, really look at him, and his traitorous heart skips a beat.
Koji, meanwhile, stretches his arm out and repositions himself until he’s squeezed into the frame with Ryota. They’ve been drifting closer and closer to each other all night, but now Koji is practically in Ryota’s lap, one arm slung around his shoulders. A soft ballad plays in the background. It really is quite romantic.
Koji adjusts the angle of the camera one last time and murmurs, “Say cheese.”
Instead of looking at the camera, Ryota moves on instinct, turning to plant a soft kiss on Koji’s cheek.
What he doesn’t expect is for Koji to meet him halfway.
The shutter of the camera goes off in the background but Ryota is too distracted by the soft, warm, beautiful boy in his lap to notice. Koji pulls back just long enough to set the camera down before taking Ryota’s face in his hands and kissing him.
After a beat, Ryota pulls back. Koji mouths his jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach.
“Koji,” he asks quietly, running his hands up and down his sides. “Are you going back to Thailand this weekend?”
Koji pulls back slowly. Ryota is struck once again by how beautiful he looks with his hair messed up, lips red from kissing and shirt slipping off his shoulders that he has trouble focusing. He gives in to the urge to kiss him again, a peck, two, three, before Koji finally answers.
“Yeah.”
An I’m sorry hangs in the air, unspoken, heavy.
“But I’ll be back in a month,” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’m thinking about spending the summer at my parents’ old house in Nara.”
Ryota’s heart leaps to his throat.
“Yeah?”
Koji presses a kiss to the column of Ryota’s throat. “Date-san,” he murmurs directly into the skin. “What are you up to next month? Can I take you out on a date?”
Ryota laughs. “What, this isn’t a date?”
Koji scrunches his face up in distaste, which just has Ryota laughing harder.
“I think I can do better than a make out at Karaoke Kan while,” Koji twists in Ryota’s lap to squint at the kanji on the display, “1582 by Kamenashi Kazunari plays in the background.”
“Kazuya,” Ryota corrects, eyes brimming with mirth. “Kamenashi Kazuya. This is my ideal first date, actually.”
“Date-san!” Koji whines, burying his face in Ryota’s chest. “Mean!”
“You’re just fun to tease,” Ryota quips, laughing harder at Koji’s noise of betrayal.
When the laughter dies down, Koji sits up so he can look Ryota in the eye. “It’s an awful lot to ask, I know. But I don’t want you to…” Koji shrugs in an attempt to look casual but it only succeeds in underscoring his nervousness. “I don’t want you to wait for me or anything. But I’ll be back in town next month and if you’re free then—”
For the first time in his life, Ryota takes a leap of faith.
“Hey,” Ryota lets his hand trail down until it comes to a rest at the small of Koji’s back. “Let’s go on a date next month.”
—
After forty two dates spread across three countries over two years, Ryota will loyally insist that kissing in a random Karaoke Kan in a grimey corner of Roppongi was still the best first date ever. Koji takes it as a challenge every single time.
no subject
Date: 2022-09-02 11:05 am (UTC)EDIT: Finished!! Aaah dear author, thank you so much for this!! I loved their meeting and the chemistry that was clear right at that moment. Datekoji go so well together, and they clicked immediately :') And that "date" at the restaurant, with Date finally opening up about his feelings over his job... And the way Koji could understand him because he himself quit. Loved it. And of course the scene at the karaoke. Not Date going to kiss his cheek when Koji was going to do the same 😭😭😭 That's so freaking cute 😭 And the kisses then! And making plans for a date for next month?? So so adorable and nice and good and everything 🥺🧡❤ And the ending, "After forty two dates spread across three countries over two years",,,,, my heart,,,, 🧡❤🧡❤ DATEOKOJI MY BELOVED 😭😭😭
Also!! I enjoyed a lot that you added in between the scenes some portions of Date's past. I liked to read about his journey, his worries, and his dreams. It was very interesting, and I also emphasized with him since I'm currently going through some life journey myself lol, so I'm wishing him all the best :')
And of course loved the tiny bits of humor you added, and also thanks a lot for the sneaky memenabe❤❤
Thanks a lot, dear author, this fic made me skip a lot of beats. I'm surely going to re-read this in the future 🥰🥰🥰
no subject
Date: 2022-09-02 08:43 pm (UTC)“Koji,” Ryota says evenly.
Why is this so hot, actually.
But somehow, even though he gets accepted into prestigious kitchens, Ryota just can’t seem to catch a break.
Welp, now I have Suno struggle feelings ;______;
“You’re memorable.”
KOJI GIVE SOME WARNING WTF
“I think I can do better than a make out at Karaoke Kan while,” Koji twists in Ryota’s lap to squint at the kanji on the display, “1582 by Kamenashi Kazunari plays in the background.”
“Kazuya,” Ryota corrects, eyes brimming with mirth. “Kamenashi Kazuya. This is my ideal first date, actually.”
Date-sama you are RIGHT and VALID.
After forty two dates spread across three countries over two years, Ryota will loyally insist that kissing in a random Karaoke Kan in a grimey corner of Roppongi was still the best first date ever. Koji takes it as a challenge every single time.
T___________________________________T <3
Koji was so spot on and cute, too, with his mom feelings and orange camera and warmth and cute whining. Also MemeNabe!! But most of all the DateKoji just woah, I could feel the chemistry!
Thank you for writing this, op, I really really loved this!
no subject
Date: 2022-09-02 10:44 pm (UTC)also i literally had my hands over my facing peeking through my fingers reading the karaoke scene like 🫣 it was so sweet and funny, and the last lines!!! i can't even begin to imagine all the fun dates they've been on, and still, that first simple one is the best 🥹
thank you so much for writing this, dear author.
no subject
Date: 2022-09-03 06:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-09-03 07:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-09-03 12:40 pm (UTC)