#ff miso

Each lunch became exciting to you. You started cooking his favorite dishes more often, in the mornings, and packaging up the leftovers for that night. You payed more attention to the restaurant floor, enjoying little observations you made about certain customers and spinning them into anecdotes to tell Miso that afternoon. On away missions through the lands infested by Fallen Angels, you would take note of the exotic and pure beauty of the wilderness, and share that appreciation when your conversations turned to spirituality. Even Miso himself seemed to be looking forward to each lunch. The food he had snuck from the kitchens would be untouched, or his books not even opened, while Miso would gaze up at the clouds with an expression of pure bliss, one that wouldn’t fade when he saw you approach.

He began to open up about his past, the more often you talked. He would describe days spent in debauchery, drunkenness, and depravity. You were shocked by all the… lechery, he used to participate in.

“When was this?” you asked, no doubt getting dirt in your hair as you turned your head.

Miso lay in the grass beside you, eyes to the sky as he peered into old memories. “Oh, several Master Attendants ago,” he answered dismissively. Sighing, he continued. “But whenever I think back to those days, wallowing in vice… I can’t help feeling nostalgic.”

After a pregnant silence, throughout which Miso was lost in his thoughts, you scooched closer and asked one of the biggest questions on your mind. “So, why did you become a monk?”

“It was my second-to-last Master Attendant, really… I think. I think he was second to last, I mean.” He pursed his lips. “Anyway, he was a Buddhist monk, and as my boss, he insisted that I get my act together.”

“So you did?”

So I did,” he laughed, like golden bells. He turned on his side, facing you, and smiled. “Not only that, he insisted I become a disciple of Amitabha Buddha. He, ha, resolved to teach me the scriptures and the lessons, to form me into a good Buddhist follower. And it worked so well, I eventually became a monk.”

Your brows furrowed. “Was he strict?”

“Strict?” He seemed taken off-guard by the question. “I mean, strict, yes, but in no ways mean,” he answered. “He was a good Master Attendant. Almost as good as you.”

Heat creeped up and settled in your cheeks, and you deflected. “So, um, why Pure Land? Why, um, that type…”

Miso chuckled softly, either at the simplicity of the question or the sight of you so flustered. “My dear Master Attendant,” he crooned, “could a sinful, sinful monk such as myself reach enlightenment in any other sect?”

“I don’t think you’re sinful,” you replied without thinking. “Maybe you used to be a mess, man, but c’mon, that doesn’t define you. And now-a-days, you’re probably the most devout Buddhist I know, even if you do get distracted, or whatever you beat yourself up for. Which is, by the way, a natural part of, well, having a mind to begin with, so it’s totally understandable, y’know?”

When you saw Miso’s face, your chest tightened; you couldn’t breathe. He stared at you, aghast, wide eyes sparkling, yes, but welling with tears he refused to let fall. His nostrils flared, and he opened and closed his mouth as he looked for the next thing to say.

“Miso, oh! Oh, I’m soaagh!”

He had pulled you into his chest, arms tight around you. From over your shoulder, you heard his voice. “Thank you for your generosity, Master Attendant.”

You smiled, wrapped your arms gently around his waist, and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. In the back of your head, little alarms were going off, that this drop-dead gorgeous man was too close for the friend zone and that he could probably feel your rapid-firing heart pounding in your chest, since your chest was dangerously pressed to his chest… but you were so comfortable here in his arms. You were light-headed, but you felt so safe, giddy yet calm. You could feel the softness of his hair, silkiness of his skin, the even pacing of his breaths. It was magical.

Still, the little voice won out, and it hijacked your voice to diffuse the mood. “Yeah. Plus, the only sin I’ve seen you commit is stealing food from the restaurant’s fridge.”

“I am but a poor monk!” he cried in faux persecution as he rolled away onto his back. “Denying ourselves all excess leaves us in scarcity and hunger~!”

“I pay you guys with room and board,” you argued, laughing and propped yourself up on your elbows, “and an allowance that you refuse to take.”

“How could I?” He sat up, smiling despite the charade. “When I strive to maintain the Buddhist principles on this earthly plane~”

And just like that, things were back to normal. You stayed with him for a while longer, and when your responsibilities drew you away, and he pled for you to linger, you politely refused.