Megumi is not good at cooking. Not the way that Tsumiki is. He remembers how she used to stretch their meager meals. To this day, he cannot perfectly recreate the warm kakitamajiru she'd made, powdered ginger, thin sliced scallion, white pepper. But she always could. She tells him there's no secret ingredient, but there has to be, if only that it's his sister's hands which made it.
That is not to say he cannot cook. He's good at following recipes. Gojo's more than once ruffled his hair in the morning, thanking him for the leftovers in the fridge (and despite his denial Gojo-san is picky). But it's never the same.
At first, you'd thought it was some weird, chauvinistic holdover and had been fully prepared to absolutely tear into Gojo about it. Megumi's a bit embarrassed about that (one of the few almost-fights he'd witnessed between the two of you), but he exhales softly as you wrap an arm around his shoulders, patting his hair as he leans against you in the kitchen.
You now think that it's funny, but it's also cute because when Megumi really wants to eat something that tastes better than mine, he'll do literally everything up to and including prep, and also dishes after.
He's young with time to learn, but it's considerate while also being sad. You do appreciate it, but before you all moved to campus, Megumi kept his own room tidy, made plenty of his own meals, avoided asking to do any kind of extracurricular which could cost you and Gojo either time or money. It was difficult to teach him to be a child and you'd never quite managed it with either Megumi or Tsumiki - both of them resistant to being taken care of, both of them too early acquainted with the reality that some people read care and saw burden.
Megumi leans against your shoulder as you stroke his hair, fluffy soft, a smile on your lips as you wait for a couple tomatoes to blanch.
You don't tell him he didn't have. You grin, remembering the adorable little growl he'd made last time. It's good to see him being a bit of a brat, comfortable with it.
"Thanks," you say instead, and he leans heavier for a second before standing straight, freeing your arm to dish out the tomatoes into a bowl. He even takes them to the sink, peeling the loosened skin, the mealy inner portion getting under his nails.
You are so grateful that Megumi has already sliced up the onions and put them in water just how you like them.
You're slicing the tomatoes into wedges, Megumi standing back at your shoulder like him watching you do this for the seventh time will finally give him the answer, when you start talking.
"You know, my mom used to make this for me. They've got a garden." Lots of people in the countryside have gardens. "And we got tons of tomatoes every year. And it doesn't matter how many times I make it. I think hers will always be better."
Megumi looks from your hands to your face and then slowly back again as you scrape the cut half up onto the flat of the knife and into a bowl and then start on a new one.
"She says the same thing about her parents' food," you smile. "Her dad's gyoza. She's very sure that filling is better than anything she ever made for us growing up."
The look on your face is so soft it makes Megumi's face warm and something comfortable-uncomfortable wanted-unwanted twist in his stomach.
You nudge him. "Save about a few slices for the salad?"
He nods and gets you another bowl to set the sliced tomato aside.
You set about putting together the rest of the meal while he trails behind. Blanching thinly sliced beef, pointing out what needed to be mixed for a gingery vinaigrette, stir frying tomatoes, eggs, onions, chicken, lotus roots, napa, noodles...
He mumbles an apology when his stomach growls as he's setting out two places. It's an awful lot of food for a night when Gojo-san isn't coming around, maybe he just had big eyes when he was pulling everything out.
You just laugh. "It's almost done. You can start, don't wait."
But he does, carrying plates from the counter to the table for you and giving you such a puppyish stare when you don't sit down fast enough it makes you abandon wiping down a spot of flour to pull off your apron an sit across from him.
"itadakimasu," he murmurs, politely pressing his palms together as you do the same.
He closes his eyes a little longer than necessary to savor.
"Yours still tastes better."
If you could reach him, you're pretty sure you'd be happily making his hair even more of a mess than it already is right now. There's a secret, complicated look on your face, although he's sure it's mostly happy. And in the end you just say,
"Thanks, Megumi."
"Mm," he replies, holding out his bowl as you offer him another spoonful of noodles.
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