calla

Tendou barely looks up from his work, the silken batter finally starting to aerate. His employee waits in the doorway, hands on his hips and foot impatiently tapping. When he doesn’t respond, Peter repeats it, “Hey, boss-”

 “Can it wait a sec’?” Tendou hums, “Papa’s kind of busy.”

“Please, stop calling yourself that.”

“What? It’s not sexual- I’m your business father. Your paycheck pop!” he hits the P’s hard, letting them pop.

Peter groans, “I’m trying to tell you that your girlfriend dropped off lunch for you, but since you’re being like that-”

That makes Tendou stop. In fact, he stops so abruptly he almost drops the bowl; part of the dark batter paints the front of his chef whites. “What?”

“Yeah, she just left.” Peter holds up a tiny, metal box- a bento. Tendou hasn’t seen one since he left Japan, “Said to make sure you take a lunch break.”

Tendou places the bowl on the counter and heads straight for his employee, mostly in confused shock. Really, he should have seen this coming.

‘I don’t think I’ve had lunch since I moved to France,’ he had mentioned casually one night, ‘My mom used to make me these bentos with little hotdogs cut like octopus and plum hearts- it doesn’t taste as good when I make them.’

“Are you messing with me?”Tendou takes it from him with both hands, studying the box suspiciously. It’s familiar. Strangely, perfectly familiar.

“Why would I lie about a lunch from your girlfriend?”

As soon as the metal is in his hands, Tendou knows Peter couldn’t fake this; the dented side, the scratched up cap, the gnawed on chopsticks: this isn’t just a bento box. It’s his– the same one he used in high school. He imagines you must have called his mom, begged her to ship it all the way here.

The most damning evidence is a handwritten note, taped down furiously with packing tape. Eat your vegetables! >:( is written in soft, bubbly kanji. It takes a second for his brain to register exactly why it makes him so unusually emotional, why his eyes suddenly burn with longing and love-

It’s just been so long since he’s seen his mom’s handwriting.

Tendou cracks the top. You’ve cut a plum -a fresh one, not pickled, a folly he can’t help but laugh at- so the half looks like a heart and tucked it between the bits of breaded pork and vegetables.  The rice is undercooked, he can see the inner kernel is still pearly white, but it smells like vinegar, black sesame, and childhood.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, more confused than concerned, “You look like you’re going to cry.”

“Papa’s fine!” Tendou sniffles, “Just realized that I’ve been homesick for a while. Do-”

He jerks a thumb to his concoction on the stove, “Do you mind finishing this while I take a break?”