#catch me write that hanahaki akesumi fic next lmfaooooooooooo

[kareofbears]

taste test

“To everyone who decided to come today…”

Makoto heaves a heavy sigh, palms flat on the table, eyes dark and shrouded.

“There’s no backing out now.”

—

read on ao3 or below the cut :)

(lovingly beta read by @mad4turtles)

“To everyone who decided to come today…”

Makoto heaves a heavy sigh, palms flat on the table, eyes dark and shrouded.

“There’s no backing out now.”

Ryuji squints from the sofa. “Are you about to invite us into a pyramid scheme?” his eyes light up with understanding. “Is that why Yusuke’s not here?”

“No,” Ann leans forward. “I think this is a yakuza proposition.”

His brows furrow, “Guys, my mom already thinks you’re all sketchy, can we not join the yakuza?”

“What’re you talking about?” Akira raises an eyebrow, poking Ryuji’s side. “Sakamoto-san loves me. We’re having brunch next week.”

“You’re what?”

Futaba rolls her eyes. “Yakuza isn’t even that bad. Some of them are just trying to protect their adoptive father from being kicked out and shamed for life.”

Ann makes a noise of indignation and slaps her hands over her ear. “No spoilers, no spoilers!”

“That was the first hour of the game!”

Slamming her hands down the table, Makoto glares down at all of them. “This is not a yakuza recruitment meeting.”

“So this is actually a pyramid scheme?” Akira asks slowly.

“This,” Makoto hoists a heavy bag onto the table with a thud, and sloshing sounds from within. “Is much more dangerous and life-altering.”

Four pairs of eyebrows shoot up.

“Alright, place your bets,” Futaba reaches over to jostle the bag. “My guess is that it’s filled with goldfishes and she wants us to learn about responsibility.”

Ryuji snaps his fingers. “Like a Tamagotchi?”

“No.”

“I remember getting one of those,” Ann says wistfully. “I got one, hopped on a train home, and I realized I forgot it on the train.”

“Okay, so at least now we know not to give Ann one of Makoto’s fishes,” Futaba sums up.

“Hold off for a second, children,” Akira interjects. “Makoto has an announcement, or some kind of gift-giving session, I don’t really know.”

Makoto smiles. “Thank you, Leader.” He gives her a deadpanned thumbs-up. “So as you all know, I’m a third-year that plans on going to university, which you should all start thinking about—” all of them suddenly avoid her eyes. “—and that means I need to start acquiring the essentials of adulthood.”

Futaba nods sagely. “R-rated mangas, but age never stopped me.”

“Don’t you already drive?” Ann accuses.

Ryuji’s grin is sharp. “The good mags? Age never stopped me for that, either.”

“Makoto’s about to admit to her smoking addiction,” says Akira.

“Cooking,” Makoto sighs, dejected. “The answer was cooking.”

There’s a collective sound of understanding as Makoto opens her bag and takes out a large pot, plastic utensils, and paper bowls with the words DAD TO THE BONE printed on, placing them all on Akira’s table. She shrugs. “Father’s Day clearance.”

“Ooo! Did you cook this yourself?” Ann peers closely at the pot.

“I did,” Makoto starts setting out the bowls, dropping spoons in one by one. “Though I didn’t get a chance to taste it before coming here. However, I gave it my all, so I hope it’s to your taste.”

The aroma begins to waft from the pot, and the scent of it hits them like a brick wall.

Futaba sniffs carefully. “Seafood?”

“Hmm? No, chicken actually,” Makoto uses a ladle to lovingly pour soup into each bowl.

Her eyes flicker over to Akira’s. His brow cocks up. Got something to say?

Eyes darting to the soup before going back to Akira, her expression morphs to one of alarm. The soup looks bad.

He leans back into the sofa, and raises a shoulder. What can we do about it?

She rolls her eyes. Nothing, obviously. I’m not that mean.

Ann shifts in her seat, and the three of them all watch as she studies the pot with a grimace. No, I’m with Futaba. That soup’s bad news.

Ryuji squints hard at Ann. Rude. You’re a rude person.

She squints back at him. So you’re not worried at all? Really?

Scoffing silently, Ryuji throws his arm around Akira. Nope. He and I are gonna chow down no problem.

Futaba nods patronizingly. Yeah, Ann. Kindness is a virtue.

Ann glares hard at her. “Faker!”

“How’s that soup coming along?” Akira asks quickly, seeing Ann’s outburst from a mile away.

“Ready to eat,” Makoto answers, gesturing to the bowls, expression hopeful. “Would you like to try some?”

Kurusu Akira isn’t lionhearted for nothing. “I’d love to.”

And if Akira’s lionhearted, Ryuji is positively fearless. “Alright, let’s all dig in!”

They all crowd around the table, lifting their respective Father’s Day themed bowls. Ann scoops a spoonful, take one last glance at Makoto’s optimistic smile, and takes a sip.

She almost drops the bowl.

The moment the broth hits her tongue, she immediately understands what Futaba means by seafood; it’s like the ocean had manifested in her bowl and its waved crashed directly into her mouth. It’s mercilessly, brutally, bile-inducingly salty, to the point that any other ingredient is completely overshadowed.

“Mmm,” Ann fights back a grimace with her life. She swallows, and her body trembles with effort. “What a taste.”

Tasting the Dead Sea is almost worth how bright Makoto beams. “Really?”

“For sure,” glancing past Makoto, Futaba looks like she’s being held at knifepoint with how profusely she’s sweating. “Really something special.”

Makoto nods seriously and takes out a notepad and pen. “I’d love to hear anything you’d have to say. Details, specifics, anything to help me improve.”

Ann sends a panicked look at Akira, whose expression is worryingly blank. Still, there’s a reason he’s their leader. “It brings...an explosion of taste,” he chokes out. Bravely, he takes another sip and his eyes water. “There are no words for it.”

Makoto is furiously writing in her notepad. “Explosion...got it. This is great. Anything else?”

Akira gives Ryuji a pleading look from the couch they’re sharing. Ryuji sighs and pats his thigh. Wordlessly, Akira moves to stand where Futaba’s sitting on his bed.

“Makoto,” Ryuji calls. “Sit beside me.” Confused, she does as she’s told. “You got that soup recipe on you?”

“Yes, just let me—” she flips her notepad back a few pages. “Here we go.”

“And, out of curiosity,” he continues gently. “How much salt did it say to add?”

“If I’m not mistaken, it said to put…two cups, I think?”

In the background, Futaba silently spits her soup back into her bowl. Akira moves to where Ann’s sitting instead.

Ryuji works to school his expression. “Did the recipe say to add two cups?”

“It did, look—” she points down at the paper. “See? ‘Add two pinches of—’” she pauses. “Wait a second.”

“Take your time.”

“It didn’t…” Makoto’s brows knit together as her eyes scan through her notes, and Ryuji leans forward to read along with her. “I distinctly remember it said ‘half a teaspoon of pepper, two tablespoons of parsley, two cups of salt, two punches of broth—”

Futaba inches towards Akira. “Did I hear that right?” she whispers, urgent. “Did she say punches? What the heck is that?”

“Just let Ryuji handle it,” he whispers back, eyes never leaving the pair on the couch.

Ryuji points at a line in her notes. “Senpai, it says two cups of broth, and two pinches of salt.”

Makoto could only stare at him.

He clears his throat. “And, uh, ‘punch’ isn’t a measurement. Or, at least not in cooking. Tell that to the guy in the alley, huh?” he laughs.

The silence only serves to punctuate how much that joke didn’t work.

And then, slowly, Makoto stands from the sofa and, hands shaking ever so slightly, lifts the ladle to her mouth, and sips. They all watch as she promptly walks over to the open window and spits out her mouthful.

Akira winces. “Really hope the neighbors didn’t see that.”

Collapsing back into the sofa, Makoto buries her face into her hands. “Oh my God.”

“I know.”

“That was terrible.”

He places a heavy hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“I basically fed my friends salt water.”

“Makoto, if it’s any consolation,” Futaba says while discreetly hiding her bowl under Akira’s blanket. “It was really good salt water.”

“That’s right,” Ann agrees. “Best salt water I’ve ever had.”

Makoto wails in response.

Akira strides forward and kneels in front of Makoto. “Hey, champ.”

“Don’t bother,” she mumbles into her palms. “I’m too stupid to understand what you’re going to say.”

Ryuji winces. “Damn, if she’s stupid, what the hell does that make me?”

“The guy Akira chose?” Ann offers.

That cheers him up. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Look,” Akira continues, focusing intently on the extremely distressed Makoto. “You remember that time I made coffee for you? The first time, back in June?”

She refuses to look at him. “Yeah?”

“And you almost threw up?”

“...Yeah.”

“What was that you said again?”

Flushing red, “I don’t remember.”

He knocks his knuckles against her knee. “Yes, you do.”

“I don’t want to say it. It was mean.”

“Come on.”

Sighing, she peeks through her fingers. “I said, ‘Kurusu, did you get these beans from Morgana’s litter box?’”

Ryuji coughs, and Akira holds back a smile. “And you said that because…?”

“Because it tasted pretty bad,” she admits.

Ann scowls. “Oh God, I forgot about that. That was so much worse than the soup.”

“Thank you, Ann.”

“Didn’t Sojiro ask why you put dirt into the filter because it tasted so much like crap?” Futaba muses.

“Alright, that’s enough—”

“Dude, I love you a whole lot, but it literally tasted like actual rat poison—”

“Basically,” Akira cuts in loudly. “You are going to improve. You’re not stuck here. I promise you, as long as you practice, you will improve.”

Makoto sighs. “Thank you, but you don’t know that.”

Gray eyes slide to lock with brown ones; even with how easily they all communicate with each other through gestures, it’s still a drop in the bucket compared to Ryuji’s and Akira’s near telepathy.

Do you have this?

You know I do.

Ryuji pats Makoto’s head. “This bastard is going to keep his promise, because I am going to make sure you practice and be a kick-ass chef.” He stands abruptly. “Get up.”

She blinks. “What?”

“There’s a grocery around the corner, and my chicken soup recipe is a thousand times better than whatever mommy website you pulled that one from.” His grin is bright enough to rival the sun. “Let me prove to you that you can move past this.”

Hesitantly, Makoto stands. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay!”

“Okay!” he grabs her wrist and leans forward to steal a kiss from Akira’s cheek. “Be back in ten.”

Akira waves at them half-heartedly as Ryuji sprints down the stairs, a newly-invigorated Makoto in tow. “I hope he buys me some fruit packs—we’re running low.”

“Ryuji’s good at that,” Futaba comments. “Handling her crises, I mean.”

“I was just thinking that.” Ann pours her bowl’s contents back into the pot. “Pretty unexpected. It was honestly kind of weird.”

Shrugging, Akira moves to tidy his room. “Not really. It’s probably because of his mom.”

The girls share a glance. “What about her?” Ann asks.

“When his dad was still around, he made them all get take-out every night,” he says, focused on collecting all the utensils scattered around the table. “And when he left, Ryuji was too young to cook and his mom had zero experience in cooking. So the two of them had to learn it together. And once that’s all done, Ryuji walked out of it knowing how to make great food and help other people learn how to make great food, too. Pretty on brand of him, honestly.”

Akira lifts his hand over his mouth, but it’s impossible to cover the sheer amount of adoration radiating off of him. “He taught me how to cook stuff other than coffee and curry, too. He’s good at what he does.”

Futaba and Ann didn’t know what to say, sincerity catching them off guard.

Akira reaches over to ruffle Futaba’s hair. “Help me clean, or I’ll have to sleep in your room tonight.”

She bats his hand away. “No way, not after you stole all my pillows last time.”

“I’ll get the trash bags,” he grins, heading for the stairs. “And don’t think I didn’t see you hide the soup under my blanket!”

“Shut up!”

Ann hears Akira laugh quietly from downstairs. “They’re good together,” she says softly. “Aren’t they?”

“Akira and trash bags? Yeah, I’d say so.”

—

An hour later, they’re overcome with food comas, stomachs full of soup and fruit packs. All through the night, Makoto couldn’t stop smiling.