Chapter Text
The first time Momo has a meal with Okarun—like, a real dinner, at the table, with one of Grandma’s signature spreads that could feed a small army—he doesn’t eat a thing. Which is fine with Momo. More for her. What kind of idiot doesn’t like crab, anyway?
The second time, he seems just as reluctant. When she invites him to stay, he mutters something about not overstaying his welcome, and Momo has to strong-arm him to the table. Grandma sets a heaping plate of yakisoba in front of him, and he murmurs his thanks, defeated. While Momo scarfs hers down, Okarun pokes around his noodles with his chopsticks, taking tiny, polite bites, and leaves with half his plate untouched.
By the third time, it’s becoming a pattern. Momo watches Okarun nibble gingerly at his hambagu, like if he took a bite too big, the Serpos would come steal his ding-dong for good. She swallows her swig of barley tea and sets her cup down with a clunk that makes him jump.
“What gives?” she demands.
He blinks. “Huh?”
“You’ve barely eaten anything.”
“Oh. I’m just not that hungry.”
Grandma’s eyes narrow. “What, my cookin’ not good enough for ya?”
“N-no! I mean, yes!” Okarun stammers. “It’s good. Thank you.”
Grandma cocks an eyebrow. “You a vegetarian?”
“No …”
“Ya sick?”
“No!”
At this point, Momo’s convinced that Okarun’s just a picky eater. She should just add it to the list of Okarun-isms: his weird alien obsession, his overly formal speech, his habit of fidgeting with his glasses, the way he always avoids eye contact. Just another one of his little quirks. She tries to shrug it off, focusing on her steak while Grandma continues to sauteé him on medium-high.
But strangely, stupidly, she can’t help but be a little disappointed. Maybe it just comes with being related to Seiko Ayase, but food has always felt … special, in a way she can’t quite explain. Even after their worst fights, Momo and Grandma always eat together. In silence, sometimes—but they eat. Grandma cooks, and Momo cleans, and in between, they sit across the table from each other and fill their bellies up, letting the comfortable weight of a hot meal settle inside them and bury all their anger till it all goes soft and warm.
Momo can’t remember ever going to bed hungry. The ritual of a shared meal, to her, has always been the surest sign that Grandma loves her. She could say the most awful things in the world, and Grandma would still set out a plate for her, filled with a meal she had prepared with her own hands, just for Momo, just like always.
And Grandma’s food is good. The kind of food that empties you as much as fills you—drains away your fatigue, strips away your sorrows, clears your head and cleans you out and makes you feel calm and sure.
“Food is medicine,” Grandma always says. “There’s nothin’ more healin’ than a good meal.”
Okarun doesn’t feel that, apparently. Maybe for him, food is simply a way to stay alive. Just an annoying, basic human need to distract him from his wacky conspiracy mags. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.
Still, Momo thinks as she swallows her last delicious bite, there’s gotta be something that little dweeb likes to eat. And she’s determined to figure out what it is.
“You’re comin’ to my place for dinner tonight,” she informs him one day after school. It’s not a question. It’s barely an invitation.
His eyes slip to the ground, cheeks flushed. She's prepared to drag him all the way there, but he agrees without a fight.
At home, she stations him next to Grandma and Turbo Granny—their bizarre new roommate—in front of the TV.
“I’m gonna cook dinner,” she announces.
Grandma doesn’t even glance away from Bakatono. “Knock yourself out. Just don’t burn the house down.”
“And hurry up!” Turbo Granny adds. “I’m starvin.’”
Momo looks pointedly at Okarun, who’s sitting stiffly with his hands clasped in his lap. He hasn’t even taken his backpack off.
“Okarun,” she says. “You’re the guest. Whatcha in the mood for?”
He pinches the rim of his glasses, hiding his face from her view. “A-anything would be fine, Miss Ayase.”
She groans. Not even a hint.
In the kitchen, Momo rifles through every cupboard, every shelf in the fridge. Miso. Ramen. Salmon. Tofu. She could make gyudon? But he doesn’t seem like much of a meat-eater. Something vegetarian, then? Veggie tempura? Or maybe he has a sweet tooth. She could make soufflé pancakes … or maybe just stick with something simple and familiar, like omurice …
Her eyes fall on their stash of curry roux—one of the few things Grandma never bothers to make from scratch. “It’s good right outta the box,” she told Momo once. “But with a couple secret ingredients, it’s damn delicious.”
She’d made it for Momo, years ago, on an awful day when the world felt dull and dark, and Momo felt even worse. She can’t even remember why—a flunked test, maybe, or a fight with Miko and Muko. Grandma asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn’t answer. So Grandma retreated to the kitchen while Momo slumped to the floor and turned on the TV, not even bothering to change the channel.
A half-hour later, Grandma was standing in front of the TV, blocking Momo’s view of an infomercial about a mini blender.
“Here,” she said, offering a steaming plate. “Curry for what ails ya.”
Momo took one bite, and she was healed.
It wasn’t like she’d never had curry before. In fact, Grandma had served it to her probably hundreds of times. But for some reason, in that moment, it was exactly what she needed.
After she cleaned her plate, she insisted that Grandma teach her how to make it. It turned out, there was nothing magical in Grandma’s curry—just a few shavings of dark chocolate and a dash of instant coffee—but Momo was convinced right then and there that it could cure anything. The common cold. Period cramps. Disappointment. Heartache. Whatever it was, Grandma’s curry could fix it—or at least make you forget about it for a while.
Momo’s not sure what’s ailing Okarun right now, but she is sure that almost everyone has a secret pain, and she’s already seen glimpses of his. So she grabs a box of roux and makes it up, just like Grandma taught her, with beef and potatoes and carrots and onions and her special secret ingredients. She lets it all simmer till it’s thick and golden and then ladles it onto plates with rice.
When she calls them in, Turbo Granny snatches her plate immediately. “It’s about time!” she grumbles. “I’m wastin’ away!”
Grandma settles into her cushion with a satisfied sigh. “Ah. Looks good, Momo.”
Momo sets the extra curry and rice on the table and sits down next to Okarun. They all press their palms together and give thanks.
Grandma and Turbo Granny tuck in right away. But Okarun stays frozen, staring down at his plate. He seems to be studying the curry, like it’s an interesting article about Bigfoot’s brother Bigass, or whatever the hell he reads. His eyes are hidden by the white glare of his glasses.
Come on, Momo thinks. He’s gotta like curry, right? Everyone likes curry.
Slowly, Okarun picks up his spoon. Momo follows suit.
He takes a bite. Chews. Swallows.
Momo waits.
He lifts his spoon and takes another bite—and another, and another, picking up speed as he goes. Soon he’s absolutely wolfing it down, like he’s been starving for weeks, like it’s the best thing he’s eaten in his whole freakin’ life.
Momo watches, stunned, while Okarun scrapes his spoon against the empty plate, trying to get the last few grains of rice. Her own spoon is suspended halfway to her mouth.
Grandma barks out a laugh. “So Four Eyes does have an appetite! Good. You were startin’ to piss me off, always refusin’ to eat. Or peckin’ around your plate like a damn bird.”
Okarun smiles sheepishly. “Miss Ayase, your curry is really good! Thank you.”
It’s stupid how that little scrap of praise makes Momo’s whole brain light up like a Christmas tree. She’s done it. That picky little bastard likes her food.
An idiotic grin spreads over her face. “Glad you like it. Want some more?”
“Yes, please!”
“Oh, I see how it is.” Grandma points her spoon accusingly at Okarun. “You’ll eat Momo’s cookin’ but not mine. Even though I taught her how to make it. With my special recipe.”
His face colors. “Th-that’s not it! I just … didn’t want to be impolite, before. But—but the curry—”
“I’ll tell ya what’s impolite,” Grandma cuts in. “Snubbin’ your host by not eatin’ what she cooks for ya. Not to mention, it’s a waste of food.”
Okarun bows his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Seiko. I’m just … not used to eating in someone else’s house. But your food is delicious. Thank you for letting me join you all these times.”
Grandma considers him for a moment. Then she nods, shoving the pot of extra curry toward him. “Our pleasure, kid. There’s plenty more where that came from. Eat up.”
Turbo Granny shrieks as Okarun obediently refills his plate. “Don’t take all the leftovers, you glutton!”
“Calm your whiskers,” Grandma says around a bite. “We’ve got heaps. Plus, kids get priority. They’re still growin’. You’re dead. You don’t even need to eat.”
Turbo Granny is on the table now, snatching the ladle out of Okarun’s hand. “I’m not lettin’ some scrawny little brat steal my powers and my curry!”
Okarun lets her drag the curry away, reaching for the rice instead. Then he starts on his second plate—slower, this time, but still eager.
He glances up and catches her staring. She’s almost embarrassed, but then he smiles—bright and warm and happy.
She’s never really seen him smile before, she realizes. Not like this, at least. There’s been plenty of angry scowls, and panicked grimaces, and worried frowns—but smiles, for Okarun, seem kind of few and far between. All the ones she’s seen so far have been a flash in the pan. A shy little tilt of the lips that’s gone as soon as she moves closer, like a bird startled into flight.
Not this smile. It's bold and bright and golden, and she finds herself basking in it, letting it soak it into her bones. Something stirs inside her gut—not painful, but strange. Like she’s swallowed a butterfly. She takes another bite to settle herself, lowering her eyes from the sun.
“So,” she says to her plate, “guess you really like curry, huh?”
She regrets it as soon as she says it, because when she looks back up, his smile has faded a little.
“Yeah,” he says, cheeks pinking under her gaze.
“I’m just glad to know you like food after all.” Grandma turns to Momo. “Y’know what he asked me to make him, that first night in the shrine? Plain rice balls. Plain. I said, ‘Kid, ya’ve had it rough today. You must be bone tired, not to mention starvin’. Let me make ya somethin’. Anything you want.’ And this nerd asks for plain rice. It was insulting. I felt like a damn prison guard bringin’ that to him.”
Okarun’s blush deepens. “I didn’t want to impose!”
“It ain’t an imposition to feed a kid ya almost killed. Or any kid, for that matter. I’ll never let any kid go hungry who comes through my doors. Don’t care who ya are.” Grandma pauses. “Unless you’re a scumbag who hurts my grandkid, of course.’
Okarun’s brows flatten over his eyes. “I would never hurt Miss Ayase.”
“She’s not talkin’ about you, dummy.” Momo shovels in another bite. “So is curry, like, the only thing you’ll eat, or what?”
“No! No,” he says quickly. “I like a lot of stuff. Anything, really. Or … all the normal stuff, I guess.”
Grandma raises her eyebrows. “So you’ll clean your plate next time too? Even if we ain’t havin’ curry?”
Okarun straightens. “Yes, ma’am! I promise.”
“Alright, then.”
“But you like curry the most, right?” Momo asks.
He nods, then hesitates. “M-my mom used to make it for me when I was a kid. Whenever I didn’t feel good. It always made me feel better, somehow. I don’t know.”
Momo freezes with her mouth full. Okarun’s never mentioned his family before. She’s never asked either. It feels like some unspoken agreement. An invisible bruise she doesn’t want to accidentally touch. Even now, she feels like she’s crossed a line somehow, just by hearing what he volunteered to offer. Her eyes fall to her half-eaten plate.
“Your mom’s a smart lady,” Grandma says. “A good curry is some of the best medicine there is.”
“Really?” Okarun asks.
“Yep. A hot meal is always healin’, but in my experience, nothin’ gets the job done like curry. All that warm, spicy goodness in your belly opens your chakra right up and lets your chi flow.”
“Curry for what ails you,” Momo adds quietly.
She can feel Okarun watching her. Slowly, she lifts her eyes to meet his.
There’s a weight between them. An understanding, maybe. (Does he know that she can feel his hidden hurt? That she wants to help him heal?)
He smiles softly. “Thanks again, Miss Ayase. I feel … better than I have in a while.”
The warmth of the curry seems to expand inside her, moving from her belly up to her chest—a sunbeam caught between her lungs. His smile framed behind her ribs.
She smiles back. “Good.”