Major Tags: swearing, threatened violence with a knife. Other Tags: none except thank u for this wonderful glorious prompt Word Count: 641
***
Ever since graduating culinary school, Youichi’s heard the phrase, “if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” too many times to count. He’s cooked at shitty hole-in-the-wall joints, and expensive restaurants, and any number of places in between, but Seidou is the only place where he might think the phrase applies.
“Sawamura!” Youichi roars, sweat beading the handkerchief he’s tied hachimaki-style around his forehead. “Get your illiterate ass over here!”
“Coming, coming,” Sawamura grumbles back, wiping his hands hastily on his apron. “What,” the kid huffs, like he hasn’t done the shittiest job on the planet julienning vegetables.
“What do you mean, what,” Youichi hisses, grabbing a handful of suspect carrots. “What the fuck is this! What the fuck are you?”
In another place, Sawamura would have been fired long ago and Youichi would have several complaints written up on an official docket simply for the degree of violent shouting he’s had to perform in this kid’s ear. But fortunately, Sawamura is thicker than tomato paste.
“I’m Eijun,” he replies, confused. “You just said--”
Youichi resists the urge to give his idiot kitchen slave (the official title, Chris reminds them, is commis) a real Wrestlemania smackdown. It’s quarter to five o’clock and his asshole sauté chef needs to be torn away from his station to collect his disaster servant. “Furuya!” He does not have the time to babysit someone like Sawamura, not now.
Amidst the clatter of pots and pans, their pantry chef emerges from the deeps. Tall, reticent, and pale, Furuya reaches out to drop an ice cube under Sawamura’s collar. “Hey!” he yelps, and Youichi turns on his heel to leave them to it. Better Sawamura suffer now than when Ryou-san finds out what he’s done to the carrots.
On some days (most days), Seidou feels more like a massive hellscape of mistakes instead of a successful restaurant. It’s only due to the grace of their maitre d’ and the sheer skill of their executive chef that people here are employed, or so Youichi reminds them. They’re already taking something of a gamble on a few new hires: Furuya Satoru, who came in as their pantry chef with high recommendations from some Michelin-starred place in Hokkaido, Sawamura Eijun, who had, by some miracle, actually graduated culinary school, and Ryou-san’s little brother, who serves as their roundsman at the tender age of--
“Boo.”
“Holy shit--”
It’s hard to not elbow his sauté chef in the gut, with the way he just pops up behind Youichi like that, but Youichi’s always been a believer in striving for the highest of goals. And besides, despite his gourmand talents, exceptional skills with a knife, and fantastically particular taste buds, Miyuki Kazuya was still first and foremost a royal pain in the ass. There was something to be said about a man who only smiled in the face of Youichi’s favorite knife, but before Youichi can gut him like a fish Ryou-san’s presence filters into the kitchen, at long last.
Merely by stepping into the kitchen, a preternatural chill invades the space. Youichi drops the jokes and goes full-bore into business mode, one eye on Tetsu-san as he and the chef de partie divide and conquer, making the rounds.
Nori at the roasts, good, Tanba-san at the grill, good, Miyuki at his post, Youichi counts them all off, the entire kitchen turning itself over from a working buzz to a frenzied clatter.
Behind him, liquid footsteps register in Youichi’s ears. “Ryou-san,” he starts, and turns to see the ever-calm, ever-smiling face of his executive chef. Grinning, Youichi brushes a quick kiss on his cheek, Ryousuke’s eyes curved in an imperceptible welcome.
“Youichi,” he replies, and begins to roll up his sleeves. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
FILL: TEAM PRINCE OF TENNIS, T
Other Tags: none except thank u for this wonderful glorious prompt
Word Count: 641
***
Ever since graduating culinary school, Youichi’s heard the phrase, “if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” too many times to count. He’s cooked at shitty hole-in-the-wall joints, and expensive restaurants, and any number of places in between, but Seidou is the only place where he might think the phrase applies.
“Sawamura!” Youichi roars, sweat beading the handkerchief he’s tied hachimaki-style around his forehead. “Get your illiterate ass over here!”
“Coming, coming,” Sawamura grumbles back, wiping his hands hastily on his apron. “What,” the kid huffs, like he hasn’t done the shittiest job on the planet julienning vegetables.
“What do you mean, what,” Youichi hisses, grabbing a handful of suspect carrots. “What the fuck is this! What the fuck are you?”
In another place, Sawamura would have been fired long ago and Youichi would have several complaints written up on an official docket simply for the degree of violent shouting he’s had to perform in this kid’s ear. But fortunately, Sawamura is thicker than tomato paste.
“I’m Eijun,” he replies, confused. “You just said--”
Youichi resists the urge to give his idiot kitchen slave (the official title, Chris reminds them, is commis) a real Wrestlemania smackdown. It’s quarter to five o’clock and his asshole sauté chef needs to be torn away from his station to collect his disaster servant. “Furuya!” He does not have the time to babysit someone like Sawamura, not now.
Amidst the clatter of pots and pans, their pantry chef emerges from the deeps. Tall, reticent, and pale, Furuya reaches out to drop an ice cube under Sawamura’s collar. “Hey!” he yelps, and Youichi turns on his heel to leave them to it. Better Sawamura suffer now than when Ryou-san finds out what he’s done to the carrots.
On some days (most days), Seidou feels more like a massive hellscape of mistakes instead of a successful restaurant. It’s only due to the grace of their maitre d’ and the sheer skill of their executive chef that people here are employed, or so Youichi reminds them. They’re already taking something of a gamble on a few new hires: Furuya Satoru, who came in as their pantry chef with high recommendations from some Michelin-starred place in Hokkaido, Sawamura Eijun, who had, by some miracle, actually graduated culinary school, and Ryou-san’s little brother, who serves as their roundsman at the tender age of--
“Boo.”
“Holy shit--”
It’s hard to not elbow his sauté chef in the gut, with the way he just pops up behind Youichi like that, but Youichi’s always been a believer in striving for the highest of goals. And besides, despite his gourmand talents, exceptional skills with a knife, and fantastically particular taste buds, Miyuki Kazuya was still first and foremost a royal pain in the ass. There was something to be said about a man who only smiled in the face of Youichi’s favorite knife, but before Youichi can gut him like a fish Ryou-san’s presence filters into the kitchen, at long last.
Merely by stepping into the kitchen, a preternatural chill invades the space. Youichi drops the jokes and goes full-bore into business mode, one eye on Tetsu-san as he and the chef de partie divide and conquer, making the rounds.
Nori at the roasts, good, Tanba-san at the grill, good, Miyuki at his post, Youichi counts them all off, the entire kitchen turning itself over from a working buzz to a frenzied clatter.
Behind him, liquid footsteps register in Youichi’s ears. “Ryou-san,” he starts, and turns to see the ever-calm, ever-smiling face of his executive chef. Grinning, Youichi brushes a quick kiss on his cheek, Ryousuke’s eyes curved in an imperceptible welcome.
“Youichi,” he replies, and begins to roll up his sleeves. “Let’s get started, shall we?”