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Snow had been falling since morning. Thin, steady flakes, the kind that dusted rooftops and parked cars but refused to stick to the roads. Tokyo didn’t stop for this sort of thing. Still, Satomi thought, people moved slower today. Umbrellas tilted lower, breaths came out in puffs of white, and the hum of the city softened under the blanket of cold.
Kyouji hadn’t seemed to notice the weather at all. He stood in the genkan with his coat hanging open, rubbing his hands together like he could coax warmth into them by sheer will.
“You’re the one who said we should go out today,” Satomi muttered, pulling on his scarf.
“Mm. We were running low on things,” Kyouji said, watching the way Satomi adjusted the scarf ends until they sat perfectly even. “Nice to get out for a bit, anyway.”
“Of course you pick the coldest day for it,” Satomi said.
Kyouji smiled faintly. “Can’t help my timing.”
“Or your sense,” Satomi said, stepping into his shoes.
“Fair enough,” Kyouji replied, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. “Ready?”
Satomi nodded, tucking two reusable shopping bags under his arm. The cold air hit as soon as they stepped outside—a sharp, clean chill that cut through his layers. The sidewalk was wet but not icy; the smell of grilled chicken skewers drifted faintly from a nearby food stall, mingling with the city’s damp winter scent.
Kyouji reached up to shake the snow off his shoulders, glancing sideways at Satomi. “You sure you don’t want to take the car?”
“It’s a ten minute walk,” Satomi said. “And you’d have to scrape the windshield first.”
“Ah, you wound me, Satomi-kun. You think I’d make you wait in the cold?”
“You’d make me wait in the car while you smoke,” Satomi shot back. He earned a quiet laugh.
At the grocery store, the automatic doors sighed open, releasing a wave of warm air that fogged Satomi’s glasses. He took them off, wiped them against his sleeve.
“Basket or cart?” Kyouji asked, leaning lazily against the handle.
“Cart,” Satomi said. “We’re getting rice. And you’re not carrying that by hand again.”
“Strong young man like me could handle it,” Kyouji said, flexing his fingers.
Satomi ignored him. “And don’t try sneaking those cookies in this time.”
“Someone can hold a grudge.”
“I hold receipts.”
They began down the produce aisle. The overhead lights were bright, almost too bright, reflecting off the plastic packaging. Satomi moved efficiently, scanning the labels, squeezing vegetables with quick precision.
At the cabbages, Kyouji trailed behind while Satomi compared two heads of nearly identical size.
“That one’s fine,” Kyouji said, pointing.
“It’s small,” Satomi replied, turning it in his hand.
“It’s a cabbage.”
“They’re not all the same.”
Kyouji squinted. “Looks like a cabbage to me.”
Satomi gave him a look and set the smaller one back with a decisive thunk.
“You’d pick the prettier one just to prove me wrong, huh?” Kyouji said.
“It’s heavier,” Satomi corrected, and started walking.
Kyouji smiled faintly and followed, the wheels of the cart squeaking against the tile.
He kept tossing in extras when he thought Satomi wasn’t looking—mandarins, a pricier carton of milk.
“That’s expensive,” Satomi said without turning.
“Tastes better.”
“It’s milk.”
“Still tastes better.”
Satomi sighed, but left it. There was no winning that argument.
They lingered at the fish counter next, where the clerk was just setting out fresh fillets.
“How about grilled mackerel tonight?” Kyouji asked.
“I was going to make curry.”
“Curry again?” Kyouji looked wounded. “You’re gonna make me soft if you keep feeding me that good stuff.”
“Then don’t complain.”
“Brat. You’ve got an answer for everything, huh?”
When they reached the instant noodles, Satomi’s expression tightened. “We still have three at home.”
“These are different,” Kyouji said, holding up a pack. “Spicy miso.”
“They all taste the same.”
”That’s not true and you know it.”
A few older ladies in the aisle glanced over, smiling faintly at the sight of them—one young, one much older, bickering in low tones over ramen flavor. Satomi noticed and turned slightly away, lowering his voice. “We don’t need it.”
“Then I’ll eat it myself,” Kyouji said easily, tossing it into the cart.
Satomi exhaled through his nose, muttering something about wasteful spending, but he didn’t take it back out.
By the time they reached the checkout, their cart was fuller than planned: rice, vegetables, fish, tofu, coffee, cigarettes, two packs of spicy miso ramen, and a small bag of daifuku that Kyouji had somehow managed to sneak in.
Satomi caught sight of it and frowned. “When did you—”
“While you were picking onions,” Kyouji said, unrepentant. “You looked very serious, by the way.”
“Because I was picking onions.”
“Sexy when you concentrate.”
Satomi froze, glancing around. “Don’t say that here.”
Kyouji smirked but said nothing else, handing over a few bills to the cashier before Satomi could stop him. The total blinked across the register screen.
“Kyouji-san—”
“It’s fine.” He waved off the receipt. “Consider it an investment in our future meals.”
Satomi stared at him for a long second before sighing. “You always say that.”
“And you always eat half of what I buy. Seems fair.”
Outside, the snow had thickened, the flakes drifting slow and heavy under the streetlights. Satomi kept both hands around the carton of eggs, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. Kyouji walked beside him, the grocery bags hooked over one arm. They didn’t talk much—just the sound of their boots against slush and the soft rattle of something shifting in the bag whenever Kyouji adjusted his grip.
At the corner, Satomi said quietly, “You should’ve let me carry one.”
“You’ve got the eggs.”
“I can still hold a bag.”
“Yeah, but you won’t,” Kyouji said, and when Satomi glanced up at him, he looked too calm to argue with.
The light changed; they crossed. Their breath fogged pale against the night air. When they reached the apartment, Satomi shook the snow from his hair before slipping off his shoes. Kyouji set the bags down with a dull thud on the kitchen floor and flexed his hands, red from the cold.
“You always get more than you plan,” he said.
“You’re the one who keeps putting things in.”
“Enhances the experience.”
“Of wasting money?”
“Of living,” Kyouji said. Satomi gave him a pointed look.
They unpacked in a quiet rhythm, the kitchen filling with the soft sounds of crinkling plastic and clinking jars. Satomi lined up the vegetables on the counter, already reaching for the cutting board.
“I’ll handle dinner,” he said.
Kyouji leaned against the doorframe. “You sure? I can—“
“You’ll just over-salt it.”
“Harsh,” Kyouji said, but he came over anyway, rolling up his sleeves. “At least let me wash the rice.”
They worked side by side: Satomi slicing cabbage with quick, sure strokes; Kyouji rinsing rice in the sink, humming under his breath. The steam from the pot began to cloud the window, blurring the snow outside into pale smears of white.
When the mackerel hit the pan, the scent of soy and ginger filled the room. Kyouji stole a piece of tofu from the cutting board and nearly got his hand swatted for it.
“Patience,” Satomi said.
“Could die before dinner’s done.”
“You said that last time.”
They ate simply—mackerel, rice, miso soup, a side of cabbage dressed with sesame oil. Kyouji talked more than he ate, recounting something from earlier that didn’t seem all that interesting but made Satomi smile anyway.
When the plates were empty, Kyouji started to gather them up.
“I’ll help with the dishes,” he said.
“You cooked the rice,” Satomi said, standing. “I’ll handle it.”
“Doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s fine,” Satomi said, already turning on the faucet. “Go sit down.”
Kyouji lingered for a moment, then nodded and retreated to the couch. The soft sound of running water followed him across the room.
When the faucet clicked off, Satomi dried his hands and turned toward him, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Kyouji gestured toward the couch. “Come here.”
Satomi raised an eyebrow. “You could say please.”
“I could,” Kyouji said, not moving.
Satomi sighed but came over anyway, settling beside him. Kyouji’s arm came around him easily, more habit than thought. The heater hummed low; the windows glowed faintly with reflected snow.
Neither of them said anything for a long while. The TV was off. The clock kept ticking.
Satomi shifted a little, resting his head against Kyouji’s shoulder. His hair brushed against the collar of Kyouji’s shirt, faintly damp from the snow that hadn’t quite dried yet. Kyouji reached up and brushed it back, fingers lingering at the nape of his neck.
“You smell like cabbage,” Kyouji murmured.
“Your fault.”
“Mm. Worth it.”
Satomi huffed a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath, and Kyouji felt the sound against his chest. Outside, the world was all white and still. Inside, it was warm, the air thick with the faint scent of soy.
The snow kept falling.