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Ima offers to smear strawberry sauce and ice cream on tuna for Takumi Sumino, in the Cafeteria today — he offers pretty enthusiastically, if he’s honest with himself. Part of that is practice, sure… keeping his voice light and shrugging and airy, innocent as an angel’s, barely brushing the grime beneath him as he flutters through. It’s how he’s survived all these years, shielding his Sister Dearest, Kako, holding up a smiling mask between them both and the world. But there’s more to it, with Mr. Sumino.
There’s gratitude, for one. The kind of gratitude that’s difficult for Ima to express without trying to take care of him, somehow. Because Mr. Sumino’s trying to take care of them, too, isn’t he?
Before coming to Last Defense Academy, Ima never cooked for anyone but Kako, his twin, his beloved, his person. If he did anything at all, reaching beyond her, it was for money or shelter or medicine… food or clean water or an extension on a loan. Something like that. He and his Sister Dearest swore to die together, back then, in part because he didn’t want to imagine what it would be like for her to face the dirty situations he knew. He didn’t want her to have to finally see what he’d spent so long coyly hiding her eyes from, and become stained by it all alone.
Kako shouldn’t have to smile if she doesn’t mean it. Kako shouldn’t have to make nice with uncaring strangers, or stare down their weapons pretending she isn’t terrified, or offer kisses like currency. Ima always sort of suspected, back in the Complex, that he would die first, running in the social underworld circles he did. But then what sort of life would he leave Kako, with no worthy allies? And if he didn’t die first, if she did, impossibly, horrifically, then what would be the point of all the rot he’s hiding behind his mask?
It isn’t like that, anymore. Mr. Sumino and the others are here, backing both of them up, refusing to surrender them. They would lift Kako out of the muck, if Ima can’t. Wouldn’t they? They’re starting to see what makes her so wonderful, so precious. It’s hard to believe they don’t care… hard to believe Mr. Sumino doesn’t mean it, when he fights alongside them. When he asks about their histories. When he stands next to Ima in the Courtyard, watching Kako ride that new old-fashioned scooter of hers around and around in dizzy giggling circles.
Mr. Sumino smiled softly, proudly, watching, and then he asked if Ima needed a scooter, too. Why would he ask that? Kako holds herself so much like their father did, learning to ride; her pink hair dances behind her, catching the eerie light of the Undying Flames gathered around their Academy. If anything, Ima wants to climb up on her scooter, behind her, twining his arms around her waist and letting himself be carried. Seeing where she’ll take him. What cases she’ll decide they should solve; what mystery series-es she’ll ask him to read and puzzle over with her; what she’ll grow to love, now that their world is expanding. Now that he’s struggling to loosen his grip.
If he loosens his clutching hands now, maybe they won’t both just fall, break, crumble. Maybe.
Maybe it won’t be so bad, leaving some things in Kako’s hands, from now on. Or trying to, at least. Making a new promise, to live on if the other dies, because it wouldn’t actually be so utterly, desperately alone.
And so Ima’s teaching himself to trust Mr. Sumino, bit by bit. Trying to see him as a friend, reaching out to him without expecting payment or scheming for a leg up in the world. When was the last time Ima had an actual friend, besides Kako? Probably before his parents died, right? Running around decent-neighborhood playgrounds he barely remembers, stretching out his arms like wings. Imagining himself smiting demons instead of becoming one. Like a hero in an anime!
Watch this, Sister Dearest! I’ll blow them all alway! And then he jumps in the sandbox, splattering castles, kicking up sand.
Heh.
Ima prances over to Mr. Sumino, pulls him into a chair by the arm. Presents him with his latest creation: you know, strawberry sauce and tuna, decorated with swirls of soft serve ice cream like roses. It’s so sticky and sweet you almost can’t taste the fish, and the strawberry sauce is bright glossy red like Mr. Sumino’s hair. Of course, Mr. Sumino doesn’t seem to like it, but he forces down a few bites, even so. That probably means something. It means he’s trying to be friends with Ima, too.
“I… know another way of preparing fish,” Mr. Sumino offers. “If I make some for us, will you try it?”
“It’s not sweet?” Ima asks, dubiously. “I dunno.”
“No… not especially sweet… but you can modify it, if you want. With, uh, whipped cream or sprinkles or whatever else. I guess. Or you can give it a taste, and just eat what you already made if you don’t like it. I won’t be mad.”
You know, no one but Kako ever cooked for Ima before they came to the Last Defense Academy, either. Not since their parents. Since playgrounds and matching pajamas and their dad’s detective files locked in a cabinet in the study, by tall, elegant wooden bookshelves Ima still sometimes dreams about.
“Eh. Okay, Mr. Sumino. I’ll trust you.”