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Kento isn’t sure when it began, the way people started to gravitate towards him like he was the sun, pulling others into his orbit. At first he had expected Itadori and his peers to go running for the hills when met with Kento’s brusque and honest attitude. To his surprise, the bluntness only encouraged the kids to seek him out time and time again. Kento could hardly blame them— the only other mentor in their lives acted more like a hyperactive teen on a constant sugar rush than a responsible adult of twenty-eight.
This is how Kento finds himself in the kitchen with Itadori, helping him to cook a Sunday roast while Fushiguro and Kugisaki sit quietly in the lounge watching a variety of films from Kento's vast collection of DVDs.
The soft light from the television casts a glow into the kitchen, and despite the early hour— it’s just after 4pm— the sun has already begun to set, deep oranges and red and purples shifting to an even deeper blue of the night sky.
Over by the sink, Itadori peels sweet potatoes with just as much effort as he does fighting cursed spirits, fast and effective. Kento can’t help the small smile that ticks up at the corner of his mouth, fondness for the boy he’s come to care for growing like ivy and pushing through the cracks of the wall around his heart.
Itadori spins on the heel of his foot and bounces over to the worktop next to Kento, letting the potatoes tumble onto the chopping board.
“Do we really need this many sweet potatoes, Nanamin? Seems like an awful lot.”
Kento raises an eyebrow, looks at Itadori’s confused face and says, “you seem to have forgotten that I’ve seen how much you eat.”
Itadori blushes at that, turning back to the chopping board and begins to dice the potatoes.
“Not to mention, you are a growing child, and a sorcerer at that. It is important to eat well and look after your body.”
“I know that, Nanamin. You keep telling me.”
“And I'll keep repeating that fact until you start eating properly. Before you say it, no, what Gojou feeds you does not qualify as a proper diet.”
As if summoned by his name, the apartment door opens, followed by a bitterly cold gust of wind and the jingle of keys being dropped into a glass bowl.
The door then slams shut, and with it comes the migraine-made-flesh, Gojou Satoru, calling out, “honey I’m home!”
Kento doesn’t react, instead seasoning the beef with black pepper and placing it in a roasting pan along with the diced sweet potato and other root vegetables.
“What’cha cooking today, Nanami?” Gojou asks, body pressing close and chin resting on Kento’s shoulder.
“One pan roast beef with root vegetables.”
“And yorkshire pudding?” The excitement in Gojou’s voice is almost palpable.
“Yes, and yorkshire pudding. When have I ever forgotten?”
Someone softly clears their throat, and it’s then that Kento remembers they have an audience. Itadori fidgets on the spot, wringing his hands together before blurting out, “I didn’t know you were dating.”
Gojou laughs, moving away to fix himself up some sweet monstrosity of a drink. “Oh Yuuji, you’re too cute!” He calls through to the lounge, asking Fushiguro and Kugisaki if they want a drink, to which he receives dual grunts, presumably a yes. He disappears from the kitchen, a glass in each hand, leaving Kento with a very confused looking Itadori.
How very like Gojou to suddenly find something else to occupy himself with, leaving Kento to explain their relationship. Kento slots the pepper mill back in the herb rack, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “We are not dating.”
Itadori frowns, cocking his head to the side like a curious owl. “But you live together?”
“Yes, we live together. Though, that does not mean we are dating. Our relationship is purely platonic.”
“What he said,” Gojou says, finally reappearing in the kitchen with a glass of whisky in hand. “You need to refill the drinks cabinet, Nanami! You’re almost out of your favourite whisky.”
Kento takes the proffered drink and takes a large gulp, enjoying the way the whisky burns down his throat at first, before settling into a pleasant warmth that spreads through his limbs.
“What about dating other people? Isn’t that weird living—”
This time Gojou cuts Itadori off, laughing and gesturing wildly with his hands. “We’re both way too aro-ace for any funny business like that!”
“Aro… ace?” Itadori slowly turns the words over in his mouth, looking more confused than ever.
“Aromantic and asexual!” Kugisaki yells from the lounge. “Geez, get with the times you country bumpkin.”
Finally, it sinks in, Itadori’s eyes lighting up as everything clicks into place. “Oh! I get it now. But, that doesn’t explain why you live together.” Itadori pauses for a moment, hand coming up to his chin and lips pursed in thought. “Does work as a sorcerer pay that badly?”
Kento almost chokes on his whisky, and Gojou bursts into laughter, clapping Kento hard on the back. “Nanami here just couldn’t do without my glorious company.”
Glorious company my ass, Kento thinks.
“He burnt down his kitchen trying to cook.” Kento gulps down the rest of his drink, and continues, “so he moved in here temporarily, then never left.”
“Aww Nanami, you make it sound much worse than it was. There was only a little bit of smoke damage.”
“You almost set fire to the entire apartment complex,” Nanami says, deadpan.
Gojou waves him off, “details, details.”
Kento still remembers the day that Gojou wound up on his doorstep, pale skin and ice-white hair having turned grey from smoke and soot. With a sheepish grin on his face, Gojou had asked to stay for a few weeks while his kitchen was repaired. Those weeks turned into months, and months turned into years, Gojou slotting into Kento’s life in an easy companionship, as though he’d always been there.
“Nanamin, the light’s gone out on the oven,” Itadori says, already passing Kento the oven gloves.
Sprinkling some cracked salt over the joint of beef and ensuring it’s seasoned properly, Kento slides the pan into the pre-heated oven.
“Tch, such a waste of good meat.”
Kento and Gojou whip their heads around to the source of the voice, just as Itadori slaps his cheek. “Ah, sorry about that. Sukuna likes to give unwanted commentary whenever I cook.”
A mouth and single eye appear on Itadori’s other cheek. “That’s because you spoil it with all your cooking nonsense. Meat should be enjoyed fresh and raw and tender."
Itadori goes to slap himself again, but Gojou snags his hand, holding it away. “No one asked you Sukuna. Goodnight~!” With a simple tap against Itadori’s cheek, Kento watches as Gojou forces the curse back into wherever it is that Sukuna resides inside Itadori’s body. “If he keeps bothering you, let sensei know, yeah?”
“Thanks, Gojou-sensei.”
Gojou smiles softly, ruffles Itadori’s hair. “You’re most welcome.”
It feels as though his heart may just burst, so Kento looks away, tucking another new fond memory behind his ribcage for safekeeping.
“Can we go watch the rest of The Two Towers with Kugisaki and Fushiguro?” Itadori asks, practically bouncing on the spot. “I set the timer already!”
“Yeah, c’mon Nanami,” Gojou whines, linking their arms together to drag him into the lounge. “I’ve had a hard day and I need to put my feet up.”
~~~~
Kento wakes with a jolt to the sound of the kitchen timer beeping. He rubs his eyes, registers the time on the wall clock, cursing under his breath, “shit, the yorkshire puddings—”
“Are already in the oven.” Gojou hovers over him, hand outstretched and tugs Kento up off the sofa. “Yuuji poured your mixture into the tins and put them in for the last 25 minutes.”
“Thank you.” Kento goes with the movement, stretching his hands above his head, relishing in the way his joints all pop and crack with the movement. “Where are the kids?”
“Grabbing all the plates and cutlery for the table. I told them that if they expected you to feed them, then the least they could do was lay the table. And, before you say anything, I did not have a hand in any of the cooking, so you don’t need to worry your pretty little head.” Gojou pokes his tongue out, then wanders off to help the kids set the table properly.
The kitchen is still in one piece, not a single scorch mark anywhere, and Kento lets go of the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. When Gojou had first moved in, he’d tried to be “helpful” with cooking, his efforts resulting in several small stovetop fires. Somehow the man had even managed to set fire to a pan of boiling water, and it was at that point Kento set down the one and only rule for living together— Gojou was never to cook, nor help with cooking, ever.
Turning the temperature dial to zero, Kento opens the oven door, carefully slides the pan of roast beef and vegetables onto the worktop, then grabs the yorkshire puddings. With practiced movements, he stacks the yorkshire puddings onto a large plate, only for Fushiguro to suddenly appear— seemingly out of the shadows— mumble out a thanks, and vanish with the plate.
In the other room Kento can hear Kugisaki squawking at Itadori and Gojou for scoffing down the yorkshires. “It’s rude to start eating before everyone else, y’know? Ugh, you’re both such uncivilized slobs.”
Kento snorts, then works efficiently using his ratio technique to create a weak spot at 7:3, over and over, cutting the beef into neat, equal slices. The technique comes to him as easily as breathing, an action born of hard work, honing his cursed energy to a fine blade sharp enough to cut through anything.
The childish bickering in the background is all too familiar, and Kento’s mind wanders, delving into old memories much like one would looking through a dusty old box of childhood mementos. Using his cursed technique hadn’t always been so simple; back when Kento had been barely 15, all long limbs and no finesse, he’d struggled to get a grip on his technique. Under Yaga’s advice, Kento had tried various suggestions, from chopping wood with an axe, through to throwing knives (which resulted in Haibara losing chunks of his hair and getting an impromptu haircut from Gojou).
But the thing that had worked best was chopping vegetables, a simple yet effective way to visualise his technique, and from that sparked a newfound love for cooking that followed Kento into adulthood.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he slides the oven gloves back on and carries the one-pan dish to the dining table.
Kento isn’t sure when it began, the way people had started to gravitate towards him, but looking at his odd ragtag family sitting around the dining table, he wouldn’t have it any other way.