Agrippa
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All Right! Fine! I Will Take You! – Chapter 62
🕑 Added 2022-12-14 03:46:37 +0000 UTCWhen one takes a more than perfunctory look at most anime plots, a worrying, even disturbing trend soon becomes apparent: grudges.
They all have grudges.
Be it the everlasting rivalry of two martial artists being born out of stolen bread, the regret of a genocidal prince at an alien real estate mogul killing his whole species before he could, or somebody called Kamille protesting that it is a man’s name and launching a bloody war because of it, most of our stories are filled with more grudges than a horror movie franchise with creepy kids crawling beneath your sheets.
(Incidentally: Komachi is never again allowed to pick during movie night. Her privileges have been permanently revoked, no matter how many points she tries to redeem to make it otherwise.)
Is the Japanese nation so filled with rancor? Is this some deep reflection on how one of our culture-establishing myths is about a bunch of people who decided to put aside their revenge for two entire yearsbefore throwing all that they had built away just to murder someone who would have died of old age regardless not long after? Is this some concerning reflection on how honor-based systems of ethics tend to focus on personal offense to a point that is indubitably detrimental to both society and the individual?
Am I thinking too much about this?
“So, let me get this straight,” Iroha demands with a tone that would make 47 ronin nod in approval. “I can eat a soup that has been cooked with this,” she points at an almost comically small glass cup filled with a murky, milky liquid sitting to the side of Shizu’s dish of bouillabaisse (I hate the spelling of the thing) in front of her, “yet I cannot drink it.”
Haruno, seemingly uncaring of inciting a grudge to rival the foundational legends of our country, sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.
It is very unbecoming of her maidly duties, yet I admit that what that sigh just did to her compressed cleavage is enough for me to forgive her for her breach of etiquette.
I am such a magnanimous butler. Truly, she doesn’t deserve me.
“For the last time, Iroha,” Haruno says, not calling her ‘mistress’ for some mysterious reason that surely has nothing to do with her being increasingly annoyed at the undercover kunoichi’s shenanigans, “the alcohol evaporates when cooking; it’s the rest of the pastis that gives the soup its distinctive aroma.”
“Pastis,” I say, trying to parse the unfamiliar word.
“It’s an aperitif,” Haruno quickly latches on as if desperate for a change of subject. “Really, the proper way to drink it,” here she glares at Shizu for yet another unfathomable reason, “is to water it down. The anise is somewhat cloying, and the flavor can be too overwhelming if not properly chilled and diluted.”
“Why would anyone do that to proper alcohol?” Shizu asks with mayhap a tad of hostility toward foreigners and their drink-fouling ways.
“Whisky is also meant to be watered down. If I haven’t told you a hundred times—”
“Blasphemy!”
“That’s how the Scots do it! Don’t argue with the Scots about whisky!”
“The best whisky in the world in Japanese! The Scots can prance around in their skirts all they want; I’m not changing my mind!”
I blink at the two women arguing about things that go right over my head.
Then I silently snatch away the glass of pastis Iroha was about to sneakily grab.
The look of betrayal she offers me warms my heart.
“Oh, for—give me that!” Haruno says as she makes her order impossible when she, in turn, steals back the glass I just rescued and drinks it down in a single elbow-raising, head-tilting gulp.
She makes the kind of face I imagine I will make when I take my second beer (pro-parenting tip: don’t leave a fridge unguarded when impressionable minds roam the house), and then she all but slams the cup down right in front of her with enough exuberant energy that her cleavage revisits her greatest hits from the past five minutes.
“There,” she says with the tone of somebody who wanted to wipe her mouth with her sleeve only to realize her current outfit doesn’t have any. “Now you—”
“See? You drank it just fine,” Shizu snidely adds from where she’s seated to Haruno’s left.
And the girl sitting in front of me (Haruno, for those who haven’t been keeping count) turns to our shared ‘mistress’ with murder in her eyes.
“I personally know the heir to the Suntory breweries. I can call him right now and have him explain to you why adding cold water is far better than murdering the subtleties of the drink with ice that causes the volatile aromas to precipitate and get trapped. I can tear your worldview asunder.”
“Miss Yukinoshita, I’m afraid if you keep being this unruly, I shall be forced to discipline you,” I tell her, yet again straightening my lapels, but mostly because that’s about the only butlery body language trick that I know of.
Maybe adjusting my gloves would work? I mean, that tends to come off as somewhat assassin-y, but if there are combat butlers, there should also be assassin butlers. That’s just common sense.
“I thought we agreed to drop the roleplay until we had eaten? Because if you are up to both of us swallowing things in the kitchen—”
“Haruno, I need all available hands on deck to stop Iroha from drinking any alcohol. I dread what would happen if I don’t manage,” Shizu says, going from belligerent to deferentially weary as she shoots a quick look at Iroha seemingly plotting something involving the bottle labeled ‘Ricard,’ her own glass of soda with grapes in it (don’t ask, Haruno insisted) and, possibly, my lower body.
Not that she’s looking, it’s just something I never discard when it comes to Iroha and her plots.
“Oh? You mean you don’t already have her on a tight leash after a single—” Haruno starts.
And, judging by something that sends the tablecloth on their side of the table flying up as Haruno’s mouth shuts with a resounding snap, Shizu finishes.
Haruno. Shizu finishes Haruno.
… That doesn’t sound much better.
“Isn’t the food going to get cold?” I ask the duo of allegedly more mature women while giving Iroha a side eye that makes her stare suspiciously at me before, for some unfathomable reason, blushing up to her ear tips.
“Yes. Yes, it will,” Haruno grumbles.
And then picks up her spoon, takes up a portion of the rice I cooked under her guidance, and puts it in her mouth with a grimace.
Ouch.
“No! No, sorry, Hachiman, it’s just… Too much pastis. Let me drink some water; I’m sure the rice is marvelous,” she hurriedly says in about as much of a panic as I’d expect from… Well, from Shizu.
I blink at her, and the shared teacher of three-quarters of the attendance gives me a shrug that makes me focus on her bare shoulders just as Iroha’s blush, for yet another unfathomable reason, makes a reappearance.
“There, I’m sure… Oh, this is good,” she says after a second try.
I blink at her.
“You know, I barely did anything. You prepared the stock and—”
“Don’t be modest. The rice is just right, and that’s not something everybody can manage.”
“I mean, we have rice cookers.”
“Which you didn’t use. Take the compliment, you obstinate man,” she says with an eye roll and an almost growl.
“Make me,” I tell her with the kind of smile I now realize made Mom worry about me getting punched.
And now there’s a stocking-clad foot on my lap.
And a pointedly arched eyebrow in front of me.
Also, Iroha’s hand is slowly crawling toward the green bottle.
Which gets swiftly taken away by Shizu.
“I don’t even like anise…” my Christmas Cake mutters.
“It’s the spirit of things,” Haruno counters.
And I groan.
“Wha—that wasn’t a pun! I… how can you three throw me off this badly?” she asks, a white maidly glove brushing an errant strand of black hair back.
“Because you love us,” I tell her with my own cheeky grin firmly in place.
She glares. Her foot presses down on my crotch.
I beam.
“Should we start eating before they tear each others’ clothes on top of your table?” Iroha asks.
And Shizu nods.
And starts eating.
“Is the rice to your taste, Mistress?” I can’t resist but ask with my earlier voice-deepening growl.
Mostly? Because the Deep-Voiced Bastard hasn’t made an appearance in a while, and I kind of miss him, but also because I wanted to see how comically Shizu’s eyes would fly open at the reminder of me handfeeding her for a brief moment of theater before we sat down to try Haruno’s version of French cuisine.
It’s about as satisfying as I expected it to be. A tad better than Haruno wriggling her toes.
“How come you didn’t do that for me, Senpai?” someone to whom the concept of grudges seems to come naturally asks.
“Because, my Young Mistress, I fear I have been favoring you too much as of late, and I should balance things out.”
Iroha blinks.
Then blushes.
Then smiles a soft, shy thing as she ducks her head down that makes my heart squeeze and—
“Are you giving him a stealth footjob?” she asks Haruno with something that swiftly erases all the groundwork she just laid down.
That’s terrible, Iroha. I shall have to instruct you in the most enlightened of energy-saving teachings. Prepare to meet your Lord and Savior, Oreki-sama himself.
“No, I’m making him drop the snark through the only means I know of that wouldn’t get in the way of our collective appetite,” Haruno swiftly replies in something that is pretty near to Tohsaka Rin’s Lecturing Pose Number Two.
Ah, damn.
There goes my self-control.
“He just got hard,” Iroha states in a flat tone.
“Not my fault,” I mutter.
“You’re the man in here, Senpai; it’s always your fault.”
“They grow up so fast,” Shizu comments with (what I hope is) a fake tear in her eye.
“Would you all do me the favor of eating Hachiman’s rice before the bouillabaisse gets cold?” Haruno grumbles.
There’s a set of exchanged looks.
“Only if you explain to me how it’s spelled once more,” I say to encouraging nods from my other, currently non-murderous girlfriends.
Haruno, somehow, kicks me in a spot that doesn’t get me to bend over in pain in any way that threatens her elaborate table spread.
‘Admirable self-restraint, I’d say.’
Thanks, Brain-chan. I do my best.
‘… That you do. Which is somehow worse.’
***
My rice was a resounding success.
Mostly? Because it’s rice. And we’re Japanese. Do the math.
But… it was a small portion. Something Haruno planned as a somewhat familiar dish for us to get started before the actual main dish, the thing that I understand how much work has taken just due to a simple commentary.
“So, those are… mussels?” Iroha asks with some eyebrow scrunching.
And… yes. That’s the thing.
I know what mussels are. I’ve read enough cooking mangas to know just about any kind of thing that different cultures think it’s a good idea to get inside your body.
But, in Japan?
The orange shellfish are exotic. This is something you only eat at certain restaurants, and nobody would blame you for not knowing about it.
“Yes,” Haruno says, her usual smile a tad uncertain. “They are a bit chewy, but are one of the traditional ingredients. They eat them in a lot of dishes in Europe.”
“One of the traditional ingredients? What else does the recipe call for?” I ask conversationally as I gather the empty bowls of rice on a circular silver platter that adds about ten extra points to all my butler skills and that I will someday dare ask Haruno where she got it from on such short notice.
“The… the soup is cooked in two phases. One part of it is strained to remove anything that would make it hard to eat, such as the rockfish and baby crabs, and then it’s poured on top of the already cooked onions, tomatoes, monkfish, and langoustines. Some people serve it together, but it’s also traditional to separate the soup from the fish so anyone can enjoy it to taste. I thought that would be… more Japanese?” she answers.
Uncertain.
Oh, dear.
‘Took you quite a while.’
Yes, it certainly did.
I smile at her far too didactical explanation and set the tray on Shizu’s counter before quickly getting back to the table.
“It’s the first time I’ve eaten a soup that requires instructions,” Iroha comments.
“If it was the only thing at this table that needed a manual, I’d be elated…” Shizu adds.
Haruno giggles.
Nervously.
Damn it.
I hurry to put each dish of soup in front of my girlfriends, slapping Shizu’s hand away when she insists on doing it herself, and then move the platter of fish and baguette to the middle of the table, equidistant to all of us.
Then I sit in front of Haruno and, before anybody can say anything that pushes things slightly too far, I reach for one of the slices of toasted French bread with something that looks not quite like mayonnaise on top of it.
“All right, I presume you dip this in the soup?” I ask her.
Haruno, always so alert, always too perceptive, always painfully cunning, nods with a smile that drips with gratitude.
“You’re supposed to eat the bread together with the soup. You can just drop it in, but maybe just a piece at once? You’re supposed to enjoy the crispy texture.”
I nod and snap the thin slice in two before setting one half on the rim of the deep dish and the other inside of it.
Then…
Well, c’est la vie. Or alea jacta est. I don’t even know which one is French, and I’m not about to call Zaimokuza to ask.
So I further break down the piece of toast with the spoon before I scoop a piece of it, the orange-red soup already soaked into it, and…
Huh.
I mean, it is good.
What I presume is the aroma of anise wafts off it, preparing the palate for a flavor that is more fragrant than what I actually get when I put the spoon in my mouth and the essence of garlic mixes with all the familiar nuances of fish and shellfish. It’s a strong dish, a bold one, you may say if you were going for cooking manga judge dialog, but it’s also easy to eat. The crunching of the toasted baguette releases even more flavor as the rouille sauce mixes with the soup over my tongue, the three textures, that of the soup, the bread, and the creamy sauce, turning into something that, far from overwhelming, compliments each of the tastes before they lose their distinctness and turn into a cohesive whole.
It’s good.
But, more than that?
It’s a French dish.
It’s a French dish carefully selected by someone who knows how painfully Japanese her three lovers are, someone who, among all the French cuisine recipes sje knew of, selected something fish-based that would pair perfectly well with a rice entrée that, while not entirely similar to the usual staple of our own traditional cooking, would be a good way to transition to something slightly less familiar. Someone who hasn’t yet said what it means for her to know this much about a dish she would’ve rarely had the chance to cook, if ever, and, knowing Haruno…
This is the first time.
I don’t exaggerate my satisfaction or my enjoyment. Because I know she’ll see through it and wonder what else I’d be lying about. Because I know she’s watching me with far more interest than even Iroha and her camera-wielding ways.
Shizu’s head is tilted to the side in something endearing but also ignorant.
Because she knows Haruno, but is too used to ignoring warning signs.
So, I let myself…
Be genuine, I guess.
“Delicious,” I tell her with a warm, open, undisguised smile that still makes something in my chest clench when I share it with them. “It’s delicious, Haruno,” I tell her.
And Haruno, my terrifying girlfriend, the girl I’ve learned so much about, the girl I know will still teach me so much more that I still lack, looks… relieved.
“It really is,” Iroha says from my right, licking her lips before once again dipping a piece of toast in the soup and chewing on it.
“This must’ve taken you ages of prep work,” Shizu says with a chagrined, appreciative tone as she spoons a few pieces of monkfish into the soup. “Thank you.”
And…
Haruno looks at each of us, at how three people enjoy her dish in three different ways, and the smile that blooms on her face makes me…
It makes me forget about eating.
“It was worth it,” she whispers.
This time, it’s my foot that reaches under the table to poke at the inside of her ankle.
And, when she looks up at me, I mouth three words that I hope she’ll someday grow used to:
“We love you.”
***
“I can’t eat anymore,” I say, leaning back on my chair and resting both hands on top of what feels like an about-to-burst stomach that would make double-mouthed, phallic aliens Freudianly confused.
I’m sure this is butlerish in some way. Some butler must’ve died from an exploding gastrointestinal tract at some point in history. That’s a statistical fact.
“I can’t even fit in this dress anymore,” Shizu moans, yet not in my preferred way for a Shizu unable to be clothed to moan.
“This… Is this one of those things that you’re supposed to fast for? It feels like I should have fasted. Is bouillabaisse a religious event or something?” Iroha says, cunningly mirroring my current pose to earn extra sympathy points.
“Just… There’s just dessert left,” Haruno says, her own eyes closing briefly at the mention of more food.
“Are you trying to murder me? Did I finally fulfill my life-long dream of being killed by a yandere with full housewife charm?” I say.
‘Shut. Up.’
I think I’m drunk. The pastis is getting to me.
‘It didn’t have any alcohol! It evaporated entirely!’
Your confounding science ways mean nothing to me, Brain-chan.
“I’m not going to lie; it’s tempting at times,” Haruno mutters, presumably referring to my earlier utterance about murdering me.
“At times?” Shizu asks, presumably referring to how bewildering it is that the notion would ever occur to Haruno.
“At times?” Iroha asks with the same righteous shock.
‘At times. Brain-chan dully stated, bewildered at the idea not being the background noise of Creation itself.’
Don’t be so chuuni, Brain-chan.
‘You cheeky little—’
“To be fair…” Haruno says as she stands up and walks to the fridge, shooting us a warm smile over her shoulder. “There also are the other times.”
Shizu blushes as she meets then quickly avoids my eyes.
Iroha fidgets as she smiles down at her lap.
‘Brain-chan groans at the utter unfairness of it all.’
And Haruno walks back with a round tray covered with profiteroles.
“These should be light enough not to be an issue,” she says with that same insecure tone that she had while serving us her pretentiously French fish soup that must’ve taken obscene amounts of money to get all the ingredients for and that she slaved hours on end for after my rushed petition to get her help in planning today’s events.
You know, what was supposed to be an orgy.
And I’m now unable to even breathe too deeply.
I look at her, and she shoots me her more usual cheeky grin. The one that tells me she has outmaneuvered me, and I’ve yet to discover the actual reason why.
So, as I take one of the puffy pastries from the tray the cosplaying maid’s still holding, the ball of dough feeling almost like empty air, barely weighing a tad more than the whipped cream in its middle and the dollop of chocolate decorating its top, I reflect that being Haruno’s rival, as unwise a decision as it will certainly prove to be, and as uncharacteristically non-grudge filled as said rivalry currently stands…
Is more than worth it.
