Ship/Character: Isshiki Satoshi/Tsukasa Eishi Fandom: Shokugeki no Souma Major Tags: None Other Tags: Satoshi is impossible! Word Count: 1757 Remix Permission: Oh yes, go ahead. A/N: This was fun, but golly this pair make it hard for me to be concise.
***
“You don’t have to, you know.”
“Hmm, I think I do.”
“It was an accident.”
“But my fault.”
“You were … careless. It’s hardly a crime.”
“But still … Let me?”
“Okay, so where are we going?”
“Nearly there.”
Nakamura Kiyo was late for work. Or she would be if she didn’t get a move on. If she picked up her pace, she could make it in time for her shift. Unfortunately her way was barred by two people ahead of her, two people who were meandering across the pavement (well, to be more accurate, one of them was meandering, the other was walking in a straight line, but he was dawdling, and the one that was meandering also kept twisting around, a wide smile on his face).
They were clearly enjoying the sunshine, both wearing shorts (although the wanderer’s were cut off jeans, raggedy at the edges, and the other one’s were linen and well-pressed) and the one who could walk in a straight line, the one who’d done something careless, was wearing a large brimmed straw hat, while the other one was hatless. Kiyo didn’t approve of being hatless in the summer, but then she had fair skin like the straw-hatted boy (she could see his legs were pale while the other had bronzed limbs and was no doubt one of those annoying people who never burnt in the sun).
She hitched her bag further up her shoulder, furrowed her brow into what she hoped was a determined expression, and attempted to wriggle past them.
She would probably have got away with it, if the meandering boy, the one with the smile and sunkissed face, hadn’t chosen that moment to twirl on the spot, and caught her eye.
“Ah, I am sorry,” he said, giving her a bow and elongating his smile so his eyes crinkled at the side. “Eishi, I think we’re in the way.”
“I apologise,” the companion said to Kiyo, “for my friend. He doesn’t understand that walking is best done when you use the most efficient route to get from A to B.” And he tilted the brim of his hat up. “Oh … Nakamura-san, isn’t it?”
She blinked, and found herself staring up at a pair of eyes she would once have described as intense and icy, but now seemed to take on the colour and warmth of the day.
“Tsukasa-san?” she queried, not quite sure. And it wasn’t that she hadn’t seen him for over a year, rather that she’d not seen him framed this way before. He was familiar and yet strange all in one glance. “I thought you’d graduated.”
“I did,” he agreed. “I’ve returned for a visit.”
“Ah… good. I …” Acutely aware of the other boy, still smiling as he observed them, she cleared her throat. “I really have to get going or I’ll be late.”
“We’re actually heading your way, but we won’t keep you,” Tsukasa replied, and shot a glance at his friend. “Nakamura-san works in the shop I was telling you about, Satoshi.”
“AH!” Astonishingly, his smile widened even more. “Then we’ll have to call on your expertise.”
Expertise? For selling aprons? To the chef who’d been widely regarded as the best at Tootsuki, who used to order aprons to be made to his own specification, who would brook no deviation in style or colour.
And looking at him again, she wondered anew at the change in him. Gone was the chilly exterior, and the face carved from ice to be replaced by a warmer man, one with a smattering of freckles across his nose and pink cheeks.
“I’ll see you there,” she muttered, bowed twice (a deeper bow to Tsukasa-san) and scurried off. It was as she turned the corner, pausing to let a lady walking her dog go past, that she heard the laughing boy who meandered over pavements and got in the way, say, “She looked at me the way Nene-chan, does.”
“Must be your charm,” Tsukasa-san snorted.
“You’re cutting it fine.” Yamata-san, the owner and manager of the store, looked down her nose at Kiyo when she arrived. “You know I like my employees to be here in plenty of time. It doesn’t create the right impression if you’re rushed.”
“Tsukasa-san,” Kiyo gasped.
That produced a volte-face. Her employer practically simpered. “What about him? Is there news?”
“I’ve just seen him,” Kiyo replied, stepping closer. “He’s on his way … here.”
“F-for aprons?”
“Um, yes, I think so.” That’s what the annoying boy had said, hadn’t he?
She gasped and wrung her hands. “B-but, he’s not placed an order. And I don’t think I have the Indian Cotton with the silk twist he likes in. At least not in bulk.”
“He’s with someone,” Kiyo interrupted.
“Kobayashi?” Yamata-san asked, her eyes narrowing. (She did not approve of Tsukasa-san’s friend, possibly because she’d pick an apron at random and wasn’t interested in the provenance of each cotton plant. Kiyo rather liked her, even if she was rather scared of the sweaty palms, Kobayashi-san caused whenever she spoke to her.)
“No, it was a boy … Um, I think he called him Satoshi.”
“Ah.” Yamata flapped her hand in the air. “No doubt one of his waiting staff. He’ll want to ensure he looks the part. A quiet boy, I assume. Self-effacing and unobtrusive.”
“Uh…” She thought of the grin and the tanned face, and more to the point, the way he talked to Tsukasa-san, as if they were equals, as if Tsukasa-san were a normal person and not a god. And she was about to answer, to disabuse Yamata-san of the notion that a timid mouse was about to enter, when the door bell tinkled and the ‘self-effacing waiter’ bowled in.
“Hi,” he trilled, greeting Kiyo as if they’d known each other for years rather than three minutes.
Then Tsukasa-san stepped over the threshold, removing his hat and bowing low to Yamata-san. “I’m after an apron,” he said, dismissing all the preliminaries.
“Your usual,” Yamata replied, and turned to finger a bolt of the Indian Cotton, without the silk twist. “Only, I would have to order—”
“Ah, no, this is for my friend Isshiki,” Tsukasa-san cut in. “I think he’d prefer pink.”
“I’m in your hands,” Isshiki said, ostensibly to Kiyo and Yamata, but his eyes were laughing across at Tsukasa. “And I have another pink apron. Maybe it’s time for something new.”
Tsukasa raised his hands to his chin, his scrutiny all on Isshiki. “Blue,” he said slowly. “I think it would suit you. What material bolts do you have, Yamata-san?”
“We have readymade aprons,” she said, the faint reproof in her tone clearly irritated he was going to so much trouble for an employee.
“In cyan-blue?” he murmured, a touch of steel in his voice.
“Readymade is fine,” Isshiki put in. “I’m sure there’ll be something."
“Uhm…” Kiyo raised her hand, then realising she wasn’t at school, she shuffled her feet instead. “We do have blue. I sewed some aprons yesterday using offcuts, and … um …” She flushed, as she became the centre of attention, then swallowed when she caught sight of Isshiki’s eyes … perfect cyan-blue. “It only needs the strings, which you could choose now.”
Gesturing towards the shelf containing rolls of webbing, Kiyo touched her hand to the pale blue cord, which she’d had in mind when she was making the apron. Tsukasa, however, wandered to the next set of shelves, touching cream ribbons and letting them slide through his fingers.
“What about this, Satoshi?”
“Hum, slippery,” came the reply. “And harder to keep in place. I like that colour, though.”
“I could hem the apron in ribbon,” Kiyo offered, and unwound some of the canvas webbing, “and use something like this for the strings.”
Tsukasa was frowning, not in anger, she thought, but as if he couldn’t quite work out the point she was making.
“You must excuse my friend,” Isshiki said, laughing. “He likes those buttoned up aprons, covering him completely, whereas I prefer something less … uh … restricting.”
Not knowing how to reply, Kiyo brought the unfinished apron out, then gestured for Isshiki to hold it against himself, so she could accurately make the neck loop.
“First time I’ve had such personal service,” Isshiki said, and smiled at her. “I have three kumabear aprons… well, two now … which they gave me for free. This is such a treat.”
With a mouth full of pins she merely nodded, but when she was finished, and the cream ribbon had been pinned around each hem, she asked, “What happened to your apron?”
“Ha … it landed on the hob,” Isshiki replied, and gave Tsukasa a slight wink. (Tsukasa looked away, deciding to talk to Yamata-san about tablecloths.) “And I was … um distracted, so I didn’t realise until too late. It has rather a large scorch mark on it.”
Careless, she thought, then blinked. Careless was what Isshiki had called Tsukasa-san. She couldn’t imagine him ever being anything other than careful, but if this story was true about the apron landing on the hob, then it wasn’t only careless but reckless.
“You remind me very much of a friend of mine,” Isshiki murmured, tilting his head as he scrutinised her. “She disapproves of me, too.”
“I d-don’t disapprove,” she stuttered, eyes wary in case Yamata-san overheard and gave her a reprimand.
“Do you find Tsukasa-san much changed from when you last saw him?” Isshiki asked, having followed her gaze.
Thinking she might have misjudged him, Kiyo considered his question. “Yes,” she replied after a pause. “He’s less pernickety.”
“Pernickity!” Isshiki gasped. “What a perfect word. Describes him to a tee. He gets so flustered.” He raised his voice, still grinning. “Eishi, this would work better than ribbon. It holds firm. ” Having wound some of the canvas around his hands, he looped it into a slip knot, then pulled it free. “Quick release, though.”
And Kiyo was not imagining the even deeper blush staining Tsukasa-san’s cheeks. She scowled, and began to pin the strings into place, and although she was sorely tempted to jab this far-too-smiley boy with a pin, she remained professional and gritted her teeth until she was finished.
Misjudged him? Not at all. Meandering over pavements, leading sensible people astray, it was clearly in Isshiki’s blood, feckless and far too free.
But Tsukasa-san was smiling back now, and his eyes sparkled, and perhaps that was more important than the propriety of always sticking to the path.
FILL: Team Knife Emoji, T
Ship/Character: Isshiki Satoshi/Tsukasa Eishi
Fandom: Shokugeki no Souma
Major Tags: None
Other Tags: Satoshi is impossible!
Word Count: 1757
Remix Permission: Oh yes, go ahead.
A/N: This was fun, but golly this pair make it hard for me to be concise.
***
“You don’t have to, you know.”
“Hmm, I think I do.”
“It was an accident.”
“But my fault.”
“You were … careless. It’s hardly a crime.”
“But still … Let me?”
“Okay, so where are we going?”
“Nearly there.”
Nakamura Kiyo was late for work. Or she would be if she didn’t get a move on. If she picked up her pace, she could make it in time for her shift. Unfortunately her way was barred by two people ahead of her, two people who were meandering across the pavement (well, to be more accurate, one of them was meandering, the other was walking in a straight line, but he was dawdling, and the one that was meandering also kept twisting around, a wide smile on his face).
They were clearly enjoying the sunshine, both wearing shorts (although the wanderer’s were cut off jeans, raggedy at the edges, and the other one’s were linen and well-pressed) and the one who could walk in a straight line, the one who’d done something careless, was wearing a large brimmed straw hat, while the other one was hatless. Kiyo didn’t approve of being hatless in the summer, but then she had fair skin like the straw-hatted boy (she could see his legs were pale while the other had bronzed limbs and was no doubt one of those annoying people who never burnt in the sun).
She hitched her bag further up her shoulder, furrowed her brow into what she hoped was a determined expression, and attempted to wriggle past them.
She would probably have got away with it, if the meandering boy, the one with the smile and sunkissed face, hadn’t chosen that moment to twirl on the spot, and caught her eye.
“Ah, I am sorry,” he said, giving her a bow and elongating his smile so his eyes crinkled at the side. “Eishi, I think we’re in the way.”
“I apologise,” the companion said to Kiyo, “for my friend. He doesn’t understand that walking is best done when you use the most efficient route to get from A to B.” And he tilted the brim of his hat up. “Oh … Nakamura-san, isn’t it?”
She blinked, and found herself staring up at a pair of eyes she would once have described as intense and icy, but now seemed to take on the colour and warmth of the day.
“Tsukasa-san?” she queried, not quite sure. And it wasn’t that she hadn’t seen him for over a year, rather that she’d not seen him framed this way before. He was familiar and yet strange all in one glance. “I thought you’d graduated.”
“I did,” he agreed. “I’ve returned for a visit.”
“Ah… good. I …” Acutely aware of the other boy, still smiling as he observed them, she cleared her throat. “I really have to get going or I’ll be late.”
“We’re actually heading your way, but we won’t keep you,” Tsukasa replied, and shot a glance at his friend. “Nakamura-san works in the shop I was telling you about, Satoshi.”
“AH!” Astonishingly, his smile widened even more. “Then we’ll have to call on your expertise.”
Expertise? For selling aprons? To the chef who’d been widely regarded as the best at Tootsuki, who used to order aprons to be made to his own specification, who would brook no deviation in style or colour.
And looking at him again, she wondered anew at the change in him. Gone was the chilly exterior, and the face carved from ice to be replaced by a warmer man, one with a smattering of freckles across his nose and pink cheeks.
“I’ll see you there,” she muttered, bowed twice (a deeper bow to Tsukasa-san) and scurried off. It was as she turned the corner, pausing to let a lady walking her dog go past, that she heard the laughing boy who meandered over pavements and got in the way, say, “She looked at me the way Nene-chan, does.”
“Must be your charm,” Tsukasa-san snorted.
“You’re cutting it fine.” Yamata-san, the owner and manager of the store, looked down her nose at Kiyo when she arrived. “You know I like my employees to be here in plenty of time. It doesn’t create the right impression if you’re rushed.”
“Tsukasa-san,” Kiyo gasped.
That produced a volte-face. Her employer practically simpered. “What about him? Is there news?”
“I’ve just seen him,” Kiyo replied, stepping closer. “He’s on his way … here.”
“F-for aprons?”
“Um, yes, I think so.” That’s what the annoying boy had said, hadn’t he?
She gasped and wrung her hands. “B-but, he’s not placed an order. And I don’t think I have the Indian Cotton with the silk twist he likes in. At least not in bulk.”
“He’s with someone,” Kiyo interrupted.
“Kobayashi?” Yamata-san asked, her eyes narrowing. (She did not approve of Tsukasa-san’s friend, possibly because she’d pick an apron at random and wasn’t interested in the provenance of each cotton plant. Kiyo rather liked her, even if she was rather scared of the sweaty palms, Kobayashi-san caused whenever she spoke to her.)
“No, it was a boy … Um, I think he called him Satoshi.”
“Ah.” Yamata flapped her hand in the air. “No doubt one of his waiting staff. He’ll want to ensure he looks the part. A quiet boy, I assume. Self-effacing and unobtrusive.”
“Uh…” She thought of the grin and the tanned face, and more to the point, the way he talked to Tsukasa-san, as if they were equals, as if Tsukasa-san were a normal person and not a god. And she was about to answer, to disabuse Yamata-san of the notion that a timid mouse was about to enter, when the door bell tinkled and the ‘self-effacing waiter’ bowled in.
“Hi,” he trilled, greeting Kiyo as if they’d known each other for years rather than three minutes.
Then Tsukasa-san stepped over the threshold, removing his hat and bowing low to Yamata-san. “I’m after an apron,” he said, dismissing all the preliminaries.
“Your usual,” Yamata replied, and turned to finger a bolt of the Indian Cotton, without the silk twist. “Only, I would have to order—”
“Ah, no, this is for my friend Isshiki,” Tsukasa-san cut in. “I think he’d prefer pink.”
“I’m in your hands,” Isshiki said, ostensibly to Kiyo and Yamata, but his eyes were laughing across at Tsukasa. “And I have another pink apron. Maybe it’s time for something new.”
Tsukasa raised his hands to his chin, his scrutiny all on Isshiki. “Blue,” he said slowly. “I think it would suit you. What material bolts do you have, Yamata-san?”
“We have readymade aprons,” she said, the faint reproof in her tone clearly irritated he was going to so much trouble for an employee.
“In cyan-blue?” he murmured, a touch of steel in his voice.
“Readymade is fine,” Isshiki put in. “I’m sure there’ll be something."
“Uhm…” Kiyo raised her hand, then realising she wasn’t at school, she shuffled her feet instead. “We do have blue. I sewed some aprons yesterday using offcuts, and … um …” She flushed, as she became the centre of attention, then swallowed when she caught sight of Isshiki’s eyes … perfect cyan-blue. “It only needs the strings, which you could choose now.”
Gesturing towards the shelf containing rolls of webbing, Kiyo touched her hand to the pale blue cord, which she’d had in mind when she was making the apron. Tsukasa, however, wandered to the next set of shelves, touching cream ribbons and letting them slide through his fingers.
“What about this, Satoshi?”
“Hum, slippery,” came the reply. “And harder to keep in place. I like that colour, though.”
“I could hem the apron in ribbon,” Kiyo offered, and unwound some of the canvas webbing, “and use something like this for the strings.”
Tsukasa was frowning, not in anger, she thought, but as if he couldn’t quite work out the point she was making.
“You must excuse my friend,” Isshiki said, laughing. “He likes those buttoned up aprons, covering him completely, whereas I prefer something less … uh … restricting.”
Not knowing how to reply, Kiyo brought the unfinished apron out, then gestured for Isshiki to hold it against himself, so she could accurately make the neck loop.
“First time I’ve had such personal service,” Isshiki said, and smiled at her. “I have three kumabear aprons… well, two now … which they gave me for free. This is such a treat.”
With a mouth full of pins she merely nodded, but when she was finished, and the cream ribbon had been pinned around each hem, she asked, “What happened to your apron?”
“Ha … it landed on the hob,” Isshiki replied, and gave Tsukasa a slight wink. (Tsukasa looked away, deciding to talk to Yamata-san about tablecloths.) “And I was … um distracted, so I didn’t realise until too late. It has rather a large scorch mark on it.”
Careless, she thought, then blinked. Careless was what Isshiki had called Tsukasa-san. She couldn’t imagine him ever being anything other than careful, but if this story was true about the apron landing on the hob, then it wasn’t only careless but reckless.
“You remind me very much of a friend of mine,” Isshiki murmured, tilting his head as he scrutinised her. “She disapproves of me, too.”
“I d-don’t disapprove,” she stuttered, eyes wary in case Yamata-san overheard and gave her a reprimand.
“Do you find Tsukasa-san much changed from when you last saw him?” Isshiki asked, having followed her gaze.
Thinking she might have misjudged him, Kiyo considered his question. “Yes,” she replied after a pause. “He’s less pernickety.”
“Pernickity!” Isshiki gasped. “What a perfect word. Describes him to a tee. He gets so flustered.” He raised his voice, still grinning. “Eishi, this would work better than ribbon. It holds firm. ” Having wound some of the canvas around his hands, he looped it into a slip knot, then pulled it free. “Quick release, though.”
And Kiyo was not imagining the even deeper blush staining Tsukasa-san’s cheeks. She scowled, and began to pin the strings into place, and although she was sorely tempted to jab this far-too-smiley boy with a pin, she remained professional and gritted her teeth until she was finished.
Misjudged him? Not at all. Meandering over pavements, leading sensible people astray, it was clearly in Isshiki’s blood, feckless and far too free.
But Tsukasa-san was smiling back now, and his eyes sparkled, and perhaps that was more important than the propriety of always sticking to the path.