yakitate!! japan: gomakashita
Egged on to write and post because of: niche.
Indirectly convinced to finish because of: absenceofmind, who wrote, of course, happy Yakitate!! fic. XD
I swear this was not my idea.
They are scientists, of course, the two of them, concerned with yeast and vital gluten and all the different types of flours in the world that they can get their hands into, painting themselves white. They are scientists, and they think alike, and they don't know how to think any other way. That's what Kanmuri suspects, anyway, because how else would he explain it? Their minds, connected, yeast to water to salt and flour, a sequential order. This is how Kanmuri likes it. This is how he understands, and how he understands Kuroyanagi.
Now he whores himself out to an impersonation of a human being made of three parts stupidity and one part cigarette smoke, for money so he can slide his fingers around test tubes full of what he can only consider tiny children gasping for air (carbon dioxide--sugar--). Endoprotease is sex, knowledge is the substitute for his body, science the brothel that stinks to high heavens of ethanol and breweries and salt, chemistry a flirtation. He sometimes considers stripping down to nothing and wearing only a lab coat when doing his experiments. Of course Yukino will come in and he'll have to say something about it being symbolic. It won't be like she would understand it anyway, the stupid bitch.
The smell of cigarette smoke in his hair after she visits. Disgusting thing.
He doesn't think much of Kuroyanagi anymore. He had been right; it was just a thing that happened when they were in college, not often, and not serious, and not even intense. They were alone together, dying for company, and adolescents. Later, of course, Kuroyanagi had that girl with long blonde hair that he used as his reaction for Kanmuri's bread (the look on the Meister's face, Kanmuri recalls, laughing to himself), and maybe Kuroyanagi had been serious about that, but they were kids, really, or at least Kanmuri was. They were only serious about bread and the ocean yeast and about eventually going back home. What happened elsewhere, other things, they were all inconsequential.
*
When they first met, he had shaken hands with Kanmuri and noted 'warmth--sun--solar hands--yellow' in that order, a vivid mess of words and heat. It was the Japanese name, of course, so shocking against that blonde hair, long eyelashes, red-brown eyes, disarming grin. Twelve years old. Kuroyanagi had thought it was a girl.
It wasn't, and Kanmuri was normal, and relaxed, and loose and casual, and easy with Kuroyanagi. He had this habit of putting two fingers to his chin, spread out, his fingernails neat and clean, and he would sit there and think. The smell of bread all the time, in his clothes and in his hair. So small, not that Kuroyanagi was so much older. Was he really fifteen then, and was Kanmuri really twelve? They were both young, Japanese, strangers and strange, and didn't have much contact with other people. Holed away in the laboratories, the two of them, they made friends and peace with each other, as if they knew they were not going to be here forever.
Kanmuri's Pain Aux Algues, later, after the fact, makes Kuroyanagi think of one more scene, which he doesn't recall at the time, overwhelmed by the immediacy and urgency of his forsaken love for Cathy. There had been a time in the summer when they went down to the ocean, purportedly to do more research on the ocean yeast, but the sun had been shining as hard as it could down on them. Kanmuri had been in shorts and sandals and held his hands up to the sun so it filtered down in his face. It was the summer right before Cathy. He was eighteen, just barely an adult, and Kanmuri was maybe just barely fifteen. Kuroyanagi still had glasses, and the sweat made him push them up constantly.
Kanmuri had reached over and pulled them off. He said, "Much better," and giggled, pressing them into Kuroyanagi's hands, leaving more sweat, taking off so he could run along the ocean. Kuroyanagi had thought that that was maybe how solar hands were made, people taking in the sunshine and compressing it, slipping it under the skin in a solid sheath like gloves.
Three years later Kanmuri is still in shorts and loose shoes, his apron tied gently against him. Kuroyanagi had expected nostalgia or something like it, but of course Kanmuri has not changed at all. A touch, a bit of warmth, him shocking and casual and quick, before he runs off, then later two fingers on his chin, splayed, a smile as he thought.
Practicality, he recants to himself now. They are scientists, after all, graduates from Harvard. Different from pure artists like Azuma. They had brains and the proper training and the heart for forgetting things that were unimportant.
*
(the heat in the stadium when they shut off the air conditioning--)
(the sun--)
(sweat--)
(the same smell of seaweed, salt, ocean--)
(but all that overpowered by the bread. the flour. the grain. the wheat. the grounded earthiness of the taste, the texture, that they both remembered better than they remembered each other. that was more important.)
A/N: Hi don't lynch me.
Indirectly convinced to finish because of: absenceofmind, who wrote, of course, happy Yakitate!! fic. XD
I swear this was not my idea.
They are scientists, of course, the two of them, concerned with yeast and vital gluten and all the different types of flours in the world that they can get their hands into, painting themselves white. They are scientists, and they think alike, and they don't know how to think any other way. That's what Kanmuri suspects, anyway, because how else would he explain it? Their minds, connected, yeast to water to salt and flour, a sequential order. This is how Kanmuri likes it. This is how he understands, and how he understands Kuroyanagi.
Now he whores himself out to an impersonation of a human being made of three parts stupidity and one part cigarette smoke, for money so he can slide his fingers around test tubes full of what he can only consider tiny children gasping for air (carbon dioxide--sugar--). Endoprotease is sex, knowledge is the substitute for his body, science the brothel that stinks to high heavens of ethanol and breweries and salt, chemistry a flirtation. He sometimes considers stripping down to nothing and wearing only a lab coat when doing his experiments. Of course Yukino will come in and he'll have to say something about it being symbolic. It won't be like she would understand it anyway, the stupid bitch.
The smell of cigarette smoke in his hair after she visits. Disgusting thing.
He doesn't think much of Kuroyanagi anymore. He had been right; it was just a thing that happened when they were in college, not often, and not serious, and not even intense. They were alone together, dying for company, and adolescents. Later, of course, Kuroyanagi had that girl with long blonde hair that he used as his reaction for Kanmuri's bread (the look on the Meister's face, Kanmuri recalls, laughing to himself), and maybe Kuroyanagi had been serious about that, but they were kids, really, or at least Kanmuri was. They were only serious about bread and the ocean yeast and about eventually going back home. What happened elsewhere, other things, they were all inconsequential.
*
When they first met, he had shaken hands with Kanmuri and noted 'warmth--sun--solar hands--yellow' in that order, a vivid mess of words and heat. It was the Japanese name, of course, so shocking against that blonde hair, long eyelashes, red-brown eyes, disarming grin. Twelve years old. Kuroyanagi had thought it was a girl.
It wasn't, and Kanmuri was normal, and relaxed, and loose and casual, and easy with Kuroyanagi. He had this habit of putting two fingers to his chin, spread out, his fingernails neat and clean, and he would sit there and think. The smell of bread all the time, in his clothes and in his hair. So small, not that Kuroyanagi was so much older. Was he really fifteen then, and was Kanmuri really twelve? They were both young, Japanese, strangers and strange, and didn't have much contact with other people. Holed away in the laboratories, the two of them, they made friends and peace with each other, as if they knew they were not going to be here forever.
Kanmuri's Pain Aux Algues, later, after the fact, makes Kuroyanagi think of one more scene, which he doesn't recall at the time, overwhelmed by the immediacy and urgency of his forsaken love for Cathy. There had been a time in the summer when they went down to the ocean, purportedly to do more research on the ocean yeast, but the sun had been shining as hard as it could down on them. Kanmuri had been in shorts and sandals and held his hands up to the sun so it filtered down in his face. It was the summer right before Cathy. He was eighteen, just barely an adult, and Kanmuri was maybe just barely fifteen. Kuroyanagi still had glasses, and the sweat made him push them up constantly.
Kanmuri had reached over and pulled them off. He said, "Much better," and giggled, pressing them into Kuroyanagi's hands, leaving more sweat, taking off so he could run along the ocean. Kuroyanagi had thought that that was maybe how solar hands were made, people taking in the sunshine and compressing it, slipping it under the skin in a solid sheath like gloves.
Three years later Kanmuri is still in shorts and loose shoes, his apron tied gently against him. Kuroyanagi had expected nostalgia or something like it, but of course Kanmuri has not changed at all. A touch, a bit of warmth, him shocking and casual and quick, before he runs off, then later two fingers on his chin, splayed, a smile as he thought.
Practicality, he recants to himself now. They are scientists, after all, graduates from Harvard. Different from pure artists like Azuma. They had brains and the proper training and the heart for forgetting things that were unimportant.
*
(the heat in the stadium when they shut off the air conditioning--)
(the sun--)
(sweat--)
(the same smell of seaweed, salt, ocean--)
(but all that overpowered by the bread. the flour. the grain. the wheat. the grounded earthiness of the taste, the texture, that they both remembered better than they remembered each other. that was more important.)
A/N: Hi don't lynch me.