#PLOT TWIST AYMERIC DOESN'T COOK IN THIS ONE

[blackestnight]

41. Comfort Food (for the micro story prompts C: )

“This would be easier at a real table,” Hanami said, and rocked forward to scoot her chair closer to Aymeric’s.

Aymeric ever-so-helpfully turned a bit to the side, the better to draw their chairs close without his damnable, obnoxious, broad, solid shoulders getting in the way. Hanami almost thought he would reach out himself to pull her seat closer, but thankfully he knew better. “The table seems solid enough to me,” he said, sunny with mirth while she struggled to shove the chair across the dining room’s rug without making the mortifying concession of standing up. “The chairs, too, for that matter.”

“Hush.” She hissed a curse as the carved foot of the chair caught again on the thick pile of the rug; finally, she leaned to the side long enough to plant her hands on the arm of Aymeric’s chair and haul herself over, vaulting the wood to perch herself on his lap. Close enough. “I cannot reach across this stupid table. It is too high. And you do not use chopsticks right, you will just drop everything on the floor.”

“I have a perfectly serviceable set of silverware. Should I prove too clumsy for the chopsticks again, I believe I could manage,” he said, though rather than reaching for the silver set where it was shoved further down the table, he reached instead for her waist, resettling her so her legs draped more easily across his.

Hanami caught his hand with her own, where it rested at the bottom of her ribcage, and slid her fingers between his; with her right hand, she reached for her chopsticks, the ebony inlaid with fine slivers of jade. “If you ate shabu-shabu with a fork, my mother would sail from Doma herself to slap you.” 

She felt Aymeric’s laugh as much as she heard it, his chest trembling against her side. “Gods help me should I earn the ire of the great Maki Hagane. Is this her famous swish soup, then?”

She twisted enough to round on him, pointing the blunt end of her chopsticks at his nose as a warning. Aymeric only smiled down at her, his eyes bright under the fringe of his pitch hair. “You are just being annoying,” Hanami said, not bothering to hide her accusatory tone, as it nicely covered her own near-laugh. “You know what it is called. Fuck the Echo.”

“My apologies, love,” he said, without a hint of regret. “You’re quite cute when you’re trying not to smile.”

“Hush.” Hanami waved her chopsticks at him once more, then turned back to the table, reaching out to hook her fingers on the edge of the tray and pull it closer. Not ideal, really; the plates were crammed together, saucers with sliced loaghtan and vegetables piled underneath the pot of simmering water, the kombu still drifting along the bottom. She plucked a slice of meat from the tray, dipped it in the pot just long enough to swish it back and forth--shabu, shabu! her mama had said, every time, even when Hanami was a grown woman no longer so easily entertained--and plucked it free, letting the broth drip back into the pot before she dunked it into the bowl of ponzu and ate it, scooping it into her own mouth before the sauce could drip.

She frowned. The meat was good--parchment-thin, salty from the broth and so tender it almost melted--but the ponzu was sweeter than it should have been. She’d used oranges from La Noscea, though, not the bitter variety from home, so that likely explained it. It wasn’t bad, anyway, and the soy sauce cut the sugar. Aymeric would enjoy it.

“Do your culinary skills pass muster, then?” he asked, squeezing her waist as she swallowed. “Or shall I have to tell your brother that you still haven’t treated me to your mother’s signature dish?”

“It is close enough.” She released Aymeric’s hand, picking up the sauce bowl instead as she ran another piece of loaghtan through the broth. So thin, it cooked almost instantly; she plucked it free and brought it to the bowl balanced in her hand, coating it in sauce and holding it up toward Aymeric as an offering.

He wrapped his hand around her wrist, steadying, as he leaned forward to accept the bite. It slid easily enough off the slick lacquer of the chopsticks, and he released her hand to wipe away a stray drop of sauce at his lip before she could reach for it. She watched as he finished the food, apparently giving it as much consideration as he did the legal documents that crossed his desk--he closed his eyes as he swallowed, and Hanami switched her grip to hold her chopsticks in her fist rather than risk a stray tremble of her hand clacking them together.

Finally, he smiled, leaning down with his eyes closed to press a kiss to her hair. “That was delicious,” he declared, beaming, and Hanami breathed a ghost of a sigh, her smile tucked into his neck where he would not be able to see it. “What is the sauce made from?”

“Secret recipe. You must defeat my mother in hand combat before she will tell you. Old family tradition,” she said, stifling her laugh as she leaned over to retrieve another piece for herself. She tossed a carrot chunk in the broth, too, to allow it to soften as she chewed.

Aymeric gave her a teasing pout as she ate, fishing out the carrot and replacing it with a mushroom. “Are you not going to allow me to try the rest?”

“Learn to use your own chopsticks,” she said, and swatted his hand away when he reached for the plate of onions.