“Geez, what’re you being so quiet for! That’s not like you, it’s kind of freaking me out!”

Flayon offered a little grunt in response to Hakka’s pestering, shoving back against the elbow prodding into his side.

“I’m just thinking, you don’t have to say every thought you have, you know,” Flayon replies, feigning indignity when Hakka hooks an elbow around his own, dragging him sideways off of the dirt road. “So pushy…!”

“Yeah? Well maybe I wanna hear ‘em!” Hakka says, flashing a toothy grin.

“Mmn,” Flayon fusses under his breath as he’s pulled along, not putting up a fight as the young tengu drags him up to the door.

The house itself isn’t anything impressive: two stories, with vinyl siding and a wooden door that was a strange shade of orange. It was better than where Flayon lived by any metric, and he found himself standing a little extra close to Hakka when he opened the door. Not even locked, apparently, as he opened it wide.

“I’m HOOOO-OOME!” Hakka’s voice was loud-—as it always was, but even more so now when he had a reason to yell. Another foreign concept, yelling in the house. Flayon made an effort to be as quiet as he could. It was easier to not be noticed. Safer.

Flayon stumbled a little at the doorway, kicking off his shoes when he saw Hakka doing the same. He could smell something rich in the air, onions and garlic and some sort of spice that made his nose wrinkle.

“Welcome home!” The voice from somewhere further into the house was deep and warm, like crackling fire. Flayon shudders involuntarily.

The source of the voice, the person Flayon had to assume was Hakka’s father, leaned into one of the doorways. His expression falters for a moment, clearly just expecting to see Hakka there.

“Oh!” To his credit, he quickly hides his slight surprise, stepping forward. “You must be…” There’s a brief pause. Flayon can feel the man’s eyes on him, scrutinizing his ill-fitting clothes and bruised limbs. “Flayon, right? Hakka has told me a lot about you.”

Flayon feels a flush on his cheeks of embarrassment, not sure what sort of stories Hakka could’ve been sharing. It’s only made worse by Hakka’s arm slung over his shoulder.

“Uh-huh!” Hakka says cheerily. “He’s spending the night! For a sleepover!”

“...if it’s okay, Mr. Josuiji,” Flayon adds quickly after.

“A sleepover, huh? In the middle of the week?” Shinri says with a raised eyebrow, resting a hand idly on his hip. “Well, as long as it’s okay with your parents. I made too much for dinner anyway, so I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m fine,” Flayon lies, the gnawing feeling in his stomach almost normal to him now. “But I guess I can eat something.”

He’s shooed into the dining room like it’s a matter of urgency, Hakka showing him one specific chair (“You have to sit next to me!”) and all but pushing him into it. It was more than a little overwhelming, and he was content to sit there awkwardly, swinging his legs under the table. It was weird getting this much attention, and at any second he expected for the other shoe to drop.

Instead, Hakka was putting cutlery in front of him—real ones, not plastic that had been rewashed a half-dozen times before it finally fell apart. He fusses, smacking Flayon’s hand away when he reaches for one, making sure they’re lined up just-so.

“Ahem, ahem. The world renowned butler, Banzoin Hakka, will pour a drink for you!” He announced, straightening his posture and lifting his head up tall.

“Why would a butler be famous? You’re stupid,” Flayon mutters, but a coy smile tugs at the corners of his lips anyway. He knows Hakka can see it, the smile reflected back at him as Hakka marches himself to the kitchen again.

He has water, of course, Hakka hoisting the glass towards Flayon before clambering into the chair beside him.

“I told you, dad’s food is the best fresh,” Hakka says in a hushed tone. “You’re gonna be sooo jealous that you only get to eat it out of my lunches.”

“I’m sure,” Flayon says dryly, blinking when Shinri starts to bring in bowls. Despite the smell in the air, he isn’t sure what he was expecting. Rice, of course, and if he was lucky maybe an egg, or some chopped vegetables boiled into an unrecognizable paste. That was, of course, if he wasn’t just eating cup noodles or a packaged granola bar.

There is rice. But there’s a thick brown curry with large pieces of potato and what he assumes must be carrots and maybe little peppers, and fried chicken cutlets, already cut into smaller portions--katsu curry, and so much of it that he’s not sure how he could ever hope to finish it all.

He doesn’t realize he had been staring at it, or for how long, until he hears Hakka pipe up next to him.

“Stop staring and try it already!”

He flinches, picking up his spoon in a wavering hand. Flayon glances up, once to Shinri, who was doing a poor job of pretending he wasn’t watching him with barely-veiled concern, and again to Hakka, who was…not even trying to be discreet with his stare.

His first mouthful is a burst of flavor—warm, spicy, salty, and something more than that. He tries to find the words to describe it beyond the tingling on his lips and the slight dull burn on his tongue. Maybe that was what people meant when they said something was made with love?

“...Flayon?” Shinri’s voice sounds distant. His food is blurry. His nose is running, but not from the spices, and suddenly he realizes he’s crying. The spoon falls from Flayon’s hands with a clatter, and he quickly covers his face. Tries to muffle the sound and stop the tears. He didn’t even cry when he got hit nowadays, so why was he doing this now?

“I-It must’ve just been a little too spicy!” Hakka is quick to back him up, defending Flayon’s sudden outburst.

“Sorry, s-sorry—-” Flayon chokes out. He flinches at a touch to his shoulder—on the left side, Shinri’s large hand. There’s no punch, no shoving, no glass following the motion and shattering against his back.

“It’s okay,” Shinri says. He sounds hesitant—he’s not stupid enough not to realize the pathetic shape Flayon is in, how unlikely it was he was getting decent portions at home to begin with, but still unsure about how far the depths of that neglect went. He opts to follow Hakka’s defense there, to let Flayon cling to a shred of dignity, if nothing else. “I do tend to be a little heavy on the spices,” he says, letting his words trail off as he tries to find the next ones, “do you want to go wash your face?”

“Please,” Flayon interjects before Shinri can finish the thought, standing up from the table and darting past Hakka.

“It’s up the stairs, on the--—” Hakka tries to call after him, but the loud thud of a door being slammed cuts him off. “...guess he found it?”

Shinri is quiet as Hakka returns to his meal. He’s not bold enough to chase his best friend down and ask about it right now, but he can’t help but push his food around more than he actually eats it.

“...Hakka, do you still have…that old bento box I used to send you to school with?” He breaks the silence, his own food untouched still.

“Mm–?” Hakka lifts his head through a mouthful of rice. “Umm, it’s probably in my room. I put pencils in it.”

“Before you and Flayon go to bed, could you bring it down to the kitchen for me?”

“Okay,” Hakka says, swallowing. “Why?”

“I just think it would be good to send Flayon to school with lunch tomorrow. Since it’s a sleepover, after all, he won’t get to bring something from home,” Shinri explains, diplomatically avoiding too many details.

“Well, he never brings anything anyway,” Hakka says, “I share with him, sometimes.”

“That won’t do,” Shinri mutters, but he doesn’t sound surprised by that bit of information. “It’s not hard to make extra, though. If I sent you with another bento—so he wouldn’t need to eat yours—would that be okay?”

Hakka pauses for just long enough that Shinri knows he understands the sentiment there, and nods. “‘Kay,” he says, “you have to pack him a dessert, too.”

“I know,” Shinri says, with a faint smile, “I will.”