—Sound of faint morning rain. The kind that patters like fingertips on glass, soft and rhythmic. A piano melody begins, slow and reflective.
[Morning Rain & Reluctant Teachers]
Akio Hukitaske sat by the classroom window, chin resting on his hand. Raindrops traced crooked lines down the glass, warping the view of the courtyard below.
He wasn't unhappy. Just… quietly hesitant.
Yesterday's "lesson" had turned into a culinary apocalypse. He'd sworn it would be the last. But now, as Hikata hummed beside him, scribbling furiously in a sketchbook labeled "Cooking Master Plan: Phase 2," Akio felt a sinking feeling in his heart.
It's happening again. "Alright!" Hikata slapped the notebook closed, grinning. "Today's lesson: knife skills."
Akio didn't move. "No." "Yes," Hikata said, stretching dramatically. "It's time I learned how to chop like those cool anime chefs who slice thirty onions in one second!"
"You'll slice thirty fingers instead." "Have some faith, sensei!" Hikata said with mock reverence, bowing deeply. "I, your humble apprentice, will master the blade under your divine supervision."
Akio sighed. "You're going to master the hospital bill."
[After School – Home Ec Room Returns]
The sky had cleared, sunlight spilling through the tall windows. The smell of lemon cleaner still lingered from yesterday's chaos, but the counters were spotless — a fragile peace.
Akio laid out the tools like a soldier prepping for battle. Cutting boards. Aprons. Knives gleaming under the light.
Hikata whistled. "So shiny. It's like an Excalibur!" "It's a kitchen knife." "Same thing!" Akio gave him the "I'm already regretting this" look. He's too enthusiastic. That's how disasters start.
Hikata tied his apron — backward, somehow — and grabbed the knife with a flourish. "Alright, sensei! What do I do first?"
"Grip," Akio said, demonstrating. "Firm, but not stiff. Control comes from balance." "Got it." Hikata mimicked him. The knife wobbled dangerously. Akio stepped back. "Looser. You're gripping it like it owes you money."
"Like this?" "Better. Now, onion. Cut the ends first."
Hikata nodded, concentrating. His tongue stuck slightly out — that same expression people have when coloring inside the lines. He brought the knife down… and missed. Completely.
"Uh," Hikata muttered. "Trial run."
"Sure," Akio said dryly. He tried again — this time, hitting the board so hard the onion bounced off and rolled under the counter. Hikata froze. "Physics betrayed me."
Akio covered his face with his hand. "This isn't physics, it's incompetence."
[The First Cut (and Almost Last)]
"Okay," Akio said, voice calm but edged with despair. "We'll go slower. Just slice it vertically, evenly—"
Thwack! The knife missed again, skidding across the board and narrowly grazing Hikata's thumb. "AH! IT'S ALIVE!" Hikata yelped, flinging the knife away like it had bit him. It clattered across the floor, spinning to a stop by Akio's shoe.
Akio stared at him, deadpan. "You're banned from sharp objects." Hikata looked genuinely offended. "You can't just ban me from knives! That's like banning a painter from brushes!"
"You're painting with blood at this rate." Hikata gasped dramatically. "Such cold words from my mentor! You wound me!"
Akio crossed his arms. "Not yet, but keep trying."
[The Onion Wars]
By some miracle, Akio convinced Hikata to try again — this time, with plastic practice knives. The onion sat like a tiny foe awaiting its doom. "Remember," Akio instructed, "curl your fingers inward. Protect your fingertips."
"Got it," Hikata said confidently. "Like this?"
"Exactly." "Cool."Thud."OW!"
Akio winced. "What did I just say!?" Hikata shook his hand. "Reflexes failed me!" "Your reflexes are suicidal!"
The door opened slightly, and Rumane peeked in. "Are you two seriously doing this again?" Akio didn't even turn. "Help." Rumane smirked. "Nope. This is entertainment." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Hikata fumble onions like juggling grenades.
"Maybe start with something soft?" she suggested. "Like what?" Akio grumbled. "Bread." Rumane said.
Hikata perked up. "Yeah! Bread can't fight back." Ten minutes later, there were breadcrumbs everywhere. The table, the floor, the air — it looked like it had snowed gluten.
Akio stood amid the wreckage, motionless.
I think my soul just left my body.
Rumane giggled. "Wow, sensei, you've really got your work cut out for you." "Literally," Akio muttered, staring at the knife marks etched into the board like battle scars.
[Quiet Between the Chaos]
After sweeping the battlefield clean, Hikata flopped down on a chair, breathless. "I didn't think chopping onions was this hard," he said, voice tired but smiling. "Cooking's, like… meditation that punishes you."
Akio sat beside him, leaning against the counter. "It's patience. That's all it is. The knife doesn't obey you. It listens if you're calm enough."
Hikata tilted his head. "Like… a conversation?" "Exactly." There was a pause — the faint ticking of the classroom clock filled the silence.
"You're good at explaining stuff, you know," Hikata said softly. "You talk like you've been doing this forever." Akio's gaze drifted to the window, where the sunlight was fading into amber. "Maybe I have. Maybe it's not just cooking."
Hikata blinked. "Huh?" Akio smirked faintly. "Forget it. You wouldn't understand." "Try me." "Let's just say," Akio said, "in another life, I wasn't exactly a 'hands-on' person. I learned too late that patience makes things beautiful."
Hikata looked down at his own hands — scraped slightly from the cutting board, but trembling with restless energy. Patience, huh? He smiled. "Then I'll get it right next time."
Akio chuckled. "We'll need more onions."
[The Second Attempt – Redemption?]
Montage sequence — gentle piano music plays.
Hikata slicing slowly, tongue poking out in concentration. Akio adjusting his hand position. A faint smile when the knife finally cuts cleanly.
Steam from the boiling pot rising like morning mist. Hikata whooped. "I DID IT! LOOK! IT'S EVEN!" Akio inspected the slices. "They're… not bad." "'Not bad' means great coming from you."
"Don't push it."
Hikata beamed, wiping sweat from his brow. "Cooking's awesome. It's like—like turning chaos into flavor." Akio grinned. "Then you'll fit right in."
[The Accident (and the Lesson)]
Confidence — that dangerous, deceptive moment right before catastrophe.
As Hikata reached for the next onion, he tripped over the stool leg. The board flipped. The knife flew.
Time slowed — the shimmer of the blade catching the golden hour light —
Akio lunged, catching Hikata by the arm and dragging him down as the knife clattered harmlessly onto the counter.
They both hit the floor, breathless.
Hikata blinked. "...You saved me." Akio groaned. "I saved my sanity."
Then, both of them started laughing — that helpless, absurd laughter that comes only when you realize how close you were to disaster. Akio lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling. "You're going to kill me one day."
Hikata grinned, still laughing. "Hey, at least you'll die full!"
[Evening Reflections]
The rain had returned, tapping gently against the windows. The world outside was drenched in twilight — blues, violets, and a faint orange glow fading over the rooftops.
They sat by the counter, sharing the fruits of their labor — a half-decent stir-fry that somehow didn't taste terrible. Hikata ate slowly, glancing at Akio. "You know, when I cook… it feels like I'm creating something that disappears. Like fireworks. You work hard, then poof, gone."
Akio nodded. "Yeah. But it stays in memory. And maybe that's enough." Hikata smiled. "Then I'll make something worth remembering." Akio looked out at the rain. He means it. That's the scary part.
[The Promise]
As they packed up, Hikata turned to him. "Sensei," he said, mock-serious. "Promise me something."
Akio arched a brow. "What?" "When I finally cook something that doesn't explode, you'll be the first to taste it." Akio smirked. "That's not a promise. That's a threat." Hikata laughed. "C'mon, you'll thank me when I'm famous."
"I'll thank you when you stop turning onions into shrapnel." They both laughed — the kind of laughter that feels lighter than words. Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle.
And in that quiet, shimmering moment, their reflections in the window looked almost like two different worlds touching — one calm, one chaotic — but both alive.
Maybe this is youth, Akio thought. Not the years, but the noise. The mess. The laughter that refuses to fade.
TO BE CONTINUED...