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People are picky.
Makima loathes soggy noodles, Hayakawa turns his nose at the bread-jam concoctions Denji makes, and Power picks the vegetables out of her food like they’re fleas on a dog. Hayakawa’s cigarettes are the same brand as Himeno’s. Power eats her steak raw, to the point where it’s practically mooing.
Denji’s tried it once — raw meat.
He had been scavenging through the trash when the butcher's son had heard the ruckus and crept through the front door to watch him gnaw cartilage off the bones. It was a lifetime ago. Before Makima, before Pochita’s take over.
The butcher’s son had been disgusted with him. Most people are. It comes with the poverty. It comes with the lack of education which could be inferred simply from Denji’s speech. It comes with digging in trash cans and eating leftovers.
But instead of shooing Denji away, the butcher’s son had slipped inside and returned with a chunk of meat. The flesh was a bright red, and strands of white wove around it like spider webs. It could have been from the chest or the thigh or the ass. Denji wouldn’t know. He wasn’t a fucking butcher.
“This meat’s no good to sell,” the butcher’s son had said. “But if you can eat it all, I won’t charge.”
Raw meat makes you sick. Denji’s stupid, but not that stupid.
But then his stomach had growled, Pochita had whimpered, and —
The point is that people are picky.
If Power keeps insisting that they, as devils, should eat raw meat together, Denji’s going to have to resort to good old-fashioned beatdown to shut her ass up.
“Denji, what is this?” Hayakawa asks. He leans against the kitchen doorway and crosses his arms.
It’s food, obviously. Meat he had found in the freezer, defrosted while showering, then plopped onto a pan after heating the stove. No oil, no butter — the pork chop now clings to the skillet with tenacity found only in helpless loves.
Denji scrapes it off with a spatula. When it detaches, he picks it up with his bare hands and tosses it into his mouth. His teeth sink into the flesh neatly, and it’s a bit hot. Really hot, actually.
Hot, hot, hot —
Denji fans his tongue. “Fuck.”
“Do you even know how to cook?”
“With an open fire.”
Hayakawa hesitates. He always does when Denji’s past is mentioned.
Denji thinks it’s because Hayakawa doesn’t want to feel bad for him. Which is fine, because Denji hates being pitied. But that also implies Hayakawa might actually kinda like him, and it’d be really nice not to have holes drilled into him whenever Makima is mentioned.
Or maybe Hayakawa has a Makima complex.
“Do you know how to boil water?”
“I don’t!” Power announces from the bathroom.
“Uh,” Denji says. He’s never really needed to boil water for cooking. He can eat what's lying around, and ramen noodles actually taste pretty good when they’re crunchy. They’re kinda like chips. You just need to sprinkle the seasoning.
But Denji’s been hurt before. He’s had to stitch himself up, and bite into a tattered belt to stifle his screams as the needle stabbed through his flesh and brought skin together. You need to sterilize the needle when that happens. You need boiling water.
But Denji’ is used to a pack of matches and a pile of wood. Not a stove with a knob.
“Uh,” Denji says again.
Hayakawa pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable!” Power parrots.
“Wash your hands,” Hayakawa says. He tosses the pan into the sink. It clatters against the dirty dishes, but nothing breaks. “We’re going to go at this step by step. First, you wash your hands.”
Denji’s kinda insulted. He can boil water. He can absolutely boil water. He might mess up with the stove knobs, but he’s capable. He just cooked some meat. Boiling water is absolutely within the confines of what he can do.
But Hayakawa is the one boiling the water. Hayakawa is the one adding noodles. Hayakawa is the one putting the effort into teaching him. It’d be a crime to reject that help.
“Does Miss Makima like guys who can cook?”
Hayakawa twists his ear.
..
Denji’s had cake before. Mixed the flour and vegetable oil and egg, then drank it like a thick soup. The texture left much to be desired, but it was as sweet as promised, so Denji can’t complain. It was edible, so he’s eaten it.
Makima has a different cake. It’s solid, for one. Looks kinda spongey. The cake is yellow like the dandelions outside and dusted with powdered sugar that reminds Denji of snow clinging onto treetops.
She sits across from him. She holds the plate with one hand and cuts a piece with a spoon. It clinks against the ceramic.
Today, Denji is doing paperwork. He takes notes and reads the documents out loud, stuttering over every other word because it’s hard and he just doesn’t get it, but they want him to improve his literacy and comprehension and all that smart people mumbo jumbo. It makes his brain hurt. The words can only swim in so many directions before they cease being words.
He can read. Kinda. And write, but not really.
So Makima showed him the alphabet, helped him trace the letters, her hand over his, then watched his pen jerk across the paper to form lines which made words that later strung along sentences. It’s a slow process. Denji’s hand aches and he’d rather tussle with a devilman, but Makima wants him to learn how to write so he will.
He sits at Makima’s desk, in Makima’s chair. The cushion is soft, and the chair swivels. When Makima leaves the room, Denji spins. When she returns, he stops.
Clink. Makima eats another piece of cake
She’s so pretty, with her smooth skin and shiny hair and lips. Denji would like to hold her hand. Maybe even sit on her lap, and be held. He’d like her to comb his hair with her fingers, and hug him until he falls asleep.
She notices his staring.
“Is there something on your mind, Denji?”
“You,” Denji blurts out. “The thing you’re eating.”
Makima smiles, amused. It makes Denji feel small, and kind of stupid. But he likes it from Makima because that means Makima will show him something, and he doubts Hayakawa gets this kind of attention from her. “It’s a Japanese Cheesecake. Would you like a piece?”
Makima doesn’t wait for a response. “Say ‘Ah’.”
“Ah.”
The cake is soft, sweet, and tastes like heaven. Denji’s enjoyment must be obvious because Makima cuts him another piece.
“Cake goes so well with coffee,” she says. “Coffee and tea. Wouldn’t you like to drink something hot as well, Denji?”
Hot, cold. A beverage is a beverage. Cold foods warm up in your stomach. It doesn’t matter what you eat or drink as long as it gets the job done.
Still, Denji nods.
..
Later that day, when Denji returns to Hayakawa’s apartment, he practices making tea. That involves boiling water.
Hayakawa supervises. He doesn’t trust Denji not to set the place on fire, which is bullshit because Hayakawa was the one who taught him to use the stove. And that means Hayakawa considers himself a shit teacher. And that means Hayakawa deserves to get made fun of.
But Denji doesn’t, because he’s too busy preparing the tea. Makima and her ringed eyes, Makima and her auburn hair, Makima and her sly smile.
Makima, Makima –
“Denji, the water is spilling.”
It splashes onto Denji’s hand. It hurts, but not that much. The water is below boiling. He’s heard, through grapevine, that one shouldn’t use boiling water when making tea. It burns the leaves, and people are picky.
Makima wouldn’t like burned leaves in her tea.
The water overflows, so he tosses it all out and wipes the counter with a rag.
Denji’s stomach churns. He convinces himself it’s love.