[Fanfic, 100% Orange Juice] Inevitable

Series: 100% Orange Juice
Genre: Slice of Life
Length: 1646 words
BD: I am obsessed with breakfast. You have no idea.

Eggs, milk, flour, butter; from those ingredients, the day is born. She glances down at the recipe, checking through the steps just one more time before she launches into action. It isn't the first time she's made pancakes, but she's had enough mishaps in the kitchen not to count her eggs before they're cooked.

The smell of hot fat in a heavy iron pan was never one she imagined she'd grow to appreciate, but there are many things about her new home that have surprised her, and pleasantly at that. Every morning, birdsong winds its way through the yew tree beside the house and into the living room; there's nothing in space that can compare to being woken so gently, so naturally. Even now, songbirds twitter outside the window, dipping and carving through the air more gracefully than even she can.

Cooking does not come naturally to her, not nearly as much as singing, or dancing, or war. There's a science to it, and an art, and she can never quite seem to combine the two, but her enthusiasm makes up for it – or so Suguri says. Really, she thinks Suguri is just happy to get breakfast at all. For all her unflappable skill in other areas, the girl makes a hapless chef, always just a little impatient and overly willing to take short cuts on the way to getting fed. Her omelettes are always speckled with long, silvery hair, her eggs are always overcooked, and she'll happily cut her toast with a beam sword if she can't find a knife. Hime quickly learned that if she wanted real meals, she'd be making them herself; today, like every morning, she dons her apron dutifully, if not with gusto.

With the pancake batter gently sizzling in the pan and the bacon safely in the oven, she allows her mind to drift a little towards other, less gratifying concerns. She'll need to set the table, which is usually easier said than done. Historically, home decoration is not a thing Suguri has afforded a lot of thought to, and as a result what little cutlery she has in an eclectic, unfathomable mix. They have more corkscrews than they do forks, and there are five different can-openers but only one sad, bent little silver teaspoon. Knives, however, seem to multiply in their drawers at an alarming rate.

The same design philosophy – or lack thereof – applies to the furniture. Alongside the cavernous beanbag chair currently serving as Hime's sleeping quarters, they have an old wicker chair, a barstool and a coffee table that has never seen a cup of coffee in its life – principally because Suguri insists that it belongs in the bathroom, for reasons that only make sense in an alternative universe. After a week of not-so-subtle prodding, Suguri had finally capitulated and brought home a loveseat so they could sit down together, and Hime had been very pleased until she lifted out the cushions and found a collection of coins that hadn't been minted in over a hundred years. Still, it was progress, and that was what counted.

Definitely their most attractive piece was the kitchen table, which had almost nothing wrong with it provided that you didn't check the underside for fire damage. Otherwise, it almost seemed a shame to cover it with a cloth; it was elmwood, hard and smooth and cool to the touch, with attractive flecks between the grain. Trees, and the gifts that they gave, were one of Hime's favourite things about a terrestrial lifestyle.

With the pancakes cooked (or a close approximation of it), she piles them onto the plates and sets out to capture some chairs. She takes the wicker chair for herself, and leaves the barstool for Suguri; it makes her feel a bit taller, and there's no weave to catch her hair in. She pours out the last of the milk for Suguri and some apple juice for herself, both served in whiskey glasses because of course they don't have anything resembling a normal glass. By the time she's finished she can hear the familiar bump, bump, bump of slippers coming down the stairs.

Suguri, she has learned, is not a morning person. Suguri is hardly even an afternoon person. If there's nothing catastrophic to motivate her, she spends her first two waking hours in a warm, contented daze, before eventually transitioning into the calm, slightly bemused state that Hime knows and loves. That wasn't, of course, to say that there aren't perks to Morning Suguri.

“G'morning,” Suguri says as she wanders into the kitchen, her hands balled in the sleeves of her powder-blue pyjamas. It actually comes out as 'guurmaaahnnnin', because syllables are not a thing Suguri really endorses at the best of times and even less so when freshly awoken, but Hime has a keen ear and a passion for Suguri-whispering. There is one thing she can pronounce, though. 

“Hug.”

Morning hugs were one of the pleasant surprises that Hime found herself with in her new home. Why Suguri demanded one every morning without fail was a mystery to her, and one she could care less about the answer to; it was far easier, and more pleasant, to let Suguri shuffle over to her, wrap her arms around her waist, and gently headbutt her shoulder. Hime's part of the hug was to gently run her hands through Suguri's long hair until the girl relaxed into the embrace.

“Hime,” Suguri mumbles into her shoulder. “You smell of bacon.”

Hime smiles, and rubs her cheeck against the top of Suguri's head. “Yes, well, bacon is delicious. You, on the other hand, smell of not showering.”

“Muuuuuh. I'll do it after breakfast.”

“Ahh. So childish,” Hime teases, perhaps a little indulgently. In the morning Suguri acts like a kid, but she gets to be childish for the rest of the day.

“Nyuh. It takes too long. I wanna cut my hair.”

“Well, I don't disagree. We could get matching hairstyles.”

The thought goes without a reply; whatever strange desire propels Suguri to indiscriminate hugging has been temporarily sated, and now she has her stomach to attend to. Gently disentangling herself from Hime's arms, she floats over to the barstool (there is usually a no-flying pact while they're in the house, because it leads to a lot of collisions with lampshades, but Hime lets it slide), and perches precariously on top of it, her long silver hair hanging down behind her. She drinks half of the milk at a gulp, grimaces, and finishes off the rest; this part of Suguri's morning is, Hime has been told, Very Important. Before long a plate of pancakes has materialised in front of her, complete with a few crispy rashers of bacon as a bonus.

“How is it?” Hime asks, carefully dissecting her own pancakes with a knife. She's a little disappointed with how they turned out; she was going for fluffy, but ended up with dense instead.

“Mpfmf,” Suguri replied, attacking her own plate with considerably less restraint.

“I'll take that as a passing grade, then. C minus, perhaps.”

“Nuh. B.”

The meal continues in relative quiet; because neither of them is all that good at cooking, they both have a healthy respect for whatever food does survive their ministrations. Besides, they have all day for conversation, and birdsong in the meantime. There is nothing wrong, Hime thinks, with a comfortable silence. Before long, Suguri is sitting back – as much as she can on a barstool, anyway – and letting the food work its way through her system. The process of waking up has begun.

“You know,” Hime says, watching Suguri stretch, “I think breakfast is one of the planetside traditions I wish we'd kept most in when we went to space. Everybody just ate when they felt like it, there.”

Suguri yawns, and hops down from the barstool. “Mm. I think it's one of my favourite traditions now, too. I'll get the plates.”

Hime smiles, but there is just a touch of steel behind it. “Oh no, you don't. I think I shall get the plates, and you can get a shower. You smell fine right now, but you'd smell better with some of that body wash I picked up the other day.”

“Muurgh. Fine,” Suguri says, wearing what seems dangerously close to a pout. “I'll see you in an hour or so.”

Actually, it's usually an hour and a half, but she can dream. Before she walks out of the kitchen, Suguri turns, takes in Hime's golden hair and glowing smile, and remembers that her mornings were not always so; that once upon a time there was no sound, and breakfast was a slice of bread with nothing on it.

“Hime. Thank you for cooking for me. I'd like it if you'd cook for me tomorrow, too.”

“And the day after that, and the day after that... I'll be a respectable chef in no time,” Hime smiles. “It is, as always, a pleasure.”

Their gazes meet, and for a moment Suguri feels a warmth that has nothing to do with a full belly or the sunshine streaming in from the window. She feels herself waking up, her mind whirring into motion to really start the day.

“Wait,” she says, slowly. “Hime?”

“Yes?”

As the haze of sleep lifts, Suguri's placid smile drops a little; her eyes widen as she checks and re-checks what she's seeing. Bare shoulders, exposed legs. Her fingertips vaguely recall the feel of warm skin. “Uh. Well. Are you, um, wearing anything, under that apron?”

“Ah. I was wondering if you'd notice. I thought I'd try it out, just the once. Earth traditions are so very fascinating, don't you agree?” Hime asks, with a smile as golden as the sun. “I should probably warn you – I'm about to turn around to do the dishes. I do hope you enjoy your shower.”