Work Text:
He'd expected Composerhood to be difficult to adjust to initially—having your code changed to that of an entirely different being and having full reign over a city would probably be at least mildly off-putting for the average person.
What he did not expect was that it'd be incredibly underwhelming. Physically, yes, having the entirety of Shibuya flow through his very being and feel every single person and their collective thoughts is... perhaps difficult to adjust to. But, other than that, he didn't feel any different. He was essentially a God now—a divine being capable of erasing someone with a mere thought and yet, he doesn't feel any better or even worse than before.
As a normal, average human, he'd considered daily life to be… lackluster. Boring. A waste of his time. There was nothing worthwhile to do and even if he did find something that interested him, it's not like he would've been able to enjoy it. That feeling of wasting your time with something unproductive and useless kept nagging at him every time he tried to enjoy himself. His parents wanted him to be successful—to get a well-paying, stable job, probably at an office or something, and work there for the rest of his life. Admittedly, the plan does have its merits, as it was the one least likely to give them any grief. Except, he’d always been a difficult child and that’s never changed.
His parents had always been more invested in his life than he ever was. They’d planned for him to go to a good university, and he appreciates their efforts in spite of what they were working against—his complete and utter lack of motivation.
Sometimes, he thinks, maybe he would’ve been motivated if it had been something he was actually interested in. He liked literature and history, and occasionally even dabbled in writing, but they weren’t “profitable” hobbies, so his parents had dismissed them entirely. “Not worth pursuing”, as they had put it. None of his interests were, in fact. Regardless, that hadn’t stopped him from indulging in them on occasion. Life is all about enjoying yourself, after all.
However, life was, overall, an incredibly exhausting ordeal. You couldn't do anything without having to worry about something else in the back of your mind. Reading a book for your own enjoyment? You could’ve spent that time studying. Grabbing your favourite ramen after class? You and what company? It's just a reminder that you’re alone again. Want to buy that cute dress you saw at a store the other day? Are you actually going to wear it in public? You don’t want to know what your parents would do if they found out.
It was draining. And yet, it's almost asinine to think about now.
One of the many reasons he’d wanted to become Composer was that he’d be free from all that. An eternity of enjoyment. What time is there to waste when you live forever? There are no expectations, no arbitrary rules to follow, no one to tell him what to do. It’s He who makes the rules now, and He has to answer to nobody.
So, of course, immediately after becoming Composer, he threw himself into rewriting the UG’s rules. He’s had ample opportunity to observe the Underground while he was alive, so he already had some ideas that he wanted to implement as soon as possible. His sense of time had been a little warped due to the transition, though, so by the time he was finished, he didn’t realize just how much time had passed. It had taken him nearly a week to completely rewrite the UG, and then promptly passed out. It was not his finest moment, and when Sanae found him unceremoniously lying on the floor in the Room of Reckoning, he had regretted it only a little bit. If only to spare him the embarrassment.
To be fair, he had been really in the zone.
Sanae didn’t like that excuse though, and went on to drag him to Wildkat and take a nap in a proper bed. That’s what he gets for not taking a break for a whole week. So what if he overdid it a little bit, he’s a God now, isn’t he? Why should he have to worry about his limits?
The nap really did make him feel better though, but he’d rather die again before admitting that.
<><><>
When Sanae had suggested taking regular meals and sleeping at reasonable times, he had scoffed a little. There he was—a recently transformed divine being and ruler over Shibuya—and he's told to go take a nap. At first, he thought that his friend must have been joking, but by the stern look on his face, he was dead serious.
So, here he is, eating breakfast at Wildkat. Sanae sat a donut and some freshly brewed coffee in front of him and continued preparing the café for opening. Joshua’s been poking at the pastry in front of him in the meantime, since he had left his phone in the Room of Reckoning. He didn’t have any opportunity to go back yet, and he’s itching to have it in his hand again. Now his only solace from boredom is this donut of all things. A rather plain pastry, probably left over from yesterday. Well, it’s not technically a pastry, but he doesn’t respect the fried dough enough to be accurate in its description. The coffee is decent enough though, he admits, so he sips away at it occasionally. The aroma is rather nice.
“Josh, stop playing with your food.”
Nevermind, he takes back everything nice he said about the coffee. “This isn't food, dear, this is an insult.”
Sanae looked like he was about to say something again, but instead he composes himself and just rubs at his temples. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink, Sanae. Or eat, in this case.
There's a muffin in front of him now. Chocolate chip, from the looks of it.
“And what is this?” he asks the café owner, squinting slightly at the baked goods in front of him. He feels like a stray animal who’s being offered various foods so as to gain his favour.
Then, a plain, vanilla muffin is slowly placed next to it.
He stares at Sanae with a sour look on his face. First, he puts a bread-holed atrocity in front of him and now he's being attacked with an unpalatable duo? His friend has no mercy on him today it seems.
“Are you gonna eat it?” his dear, benevolent, well-meaning friend asks.
Shooting him a self-satisfied grin, he pushes back his plate. “No,” he says pointedly, not breaking eye contact.
“For fuck’s sake, Josh.”
His chair creaks a bit as he leans back, visibly pleased with himself. “Your selection isn’t exactly up to my standards, Mr. H,” he hums playfully.
“Look, you need to eat something or you’re missing the point,” he pushes the plate back to him. “I can make ya some pancakes? Pumpkin soup, if ya don't like the sweet stuff?”
He almost—almost—appreciates the extent to which his friend will go for him. But, unfortunately for him, Joshua is high-maintenance and won't lower himself to the likes of wannabe breakfast food. Also, he just doesn’t feel like eating. He hadn’t felt the need to since he became Composer—and why would he? Immortal beings don’t need sustenance, or sleep, or need to fulfill any other basic needs in general. They won't die from a lack of it, unlike humans. So, he doesn’t really see the point.
Sanae is still looking at him expectantly, and the expression on his face implies that he won’t back down on this one. Well, alright, two can play at this game. “Your menu has never appealed to me, Mr. H,” he says, hoping to get him off his back. He only really likes the coffee, if he’s being honest.
“I got some instant noodles in the back cupboards, if you want those.”
“Disclosing your secret menu? Taking out all the stops, I see.”
Sighing, the barista goes on to grab the kettle, filling it with water. “I’ll be taking that as a yes.”
It wasn’t, but it’s better than what he’s been offered so far. There’s a certain je ne sais quoi in the simplicity of instant noodles that reminds him of the few times he’s had to cook for himself. A nostalgic call-back to the time he was but a humble, ordinary mortal. That was roughly two weeks ago but he’s never been one for semantics. Nevertheless, as a God he shouldn’t have to eat anymore. If anything, he feels a little patronized by the implication that he needs to be “eased into” Godhood. He handled the transition just fine, Sanae. There’s no need to waste any energy on this.
His dear friend is unfortunately unable to read his mind, so he sits the bowl of instant ramen in front of Joshua and goes on to brew some more coffee. He doesn’t remember the details of what a Producer is supposed to do—probably produce things—but he had hoped that mind-reading was in the job description. Finding the words to express your thoughts takes so much effort. Effort he’s not willing to go through.
The ramen is nothing special, but he’s always enjoyed its simple, familiar taste.
<><><>
Composerhood was, for the most part, rather uneventful. The Reaper’s Game only takes place once a month at best, and the preparations for it were mostly left to the Conductor. His designs were already in place, and he’s already received all the necessary materials from Sanae, so all that’s left for him to do is… nothing. The handling of the entry fees is also left to the Conductor and his officers, and Joshua’s presence is usually only needed at the end of a Game. Occasionally Megumi will come in and ask him to look over some files for approval but other than that...
He really hadn’t expected to have so much free time.
The Dead God’s Pad tends to be his usual place of respite. It has a pleasant atmosphere, a first-rate aesthetic, and it’s funny to see the fish swim away whenever he walks around. He really outdid himself with the interior design—except that he forgot to install a television. Sure, he has a foosball table and a dartboard for entertainment, but he didn’t actually intend for them to be used. They add to the ambiance—and besides, he dislikes sports.
Most of the time he’s playing around on his phone, checking various news sites and reading blog posts to see what’s popular in Shibuya this week. The Prince F’d another restaurant recently, causing it to be flooded with new customers. A new TV series called ‘Slammurai’ is rumored to be in production, which is apparently based on a game that’s been popular amongst kids recently. Nothing particularly exciting, if he’s being honest. He might ask Megumi to check out that restaurant, though. Sanae did want him to at least try to eat sometimes, and he’s curious about whether it really is as good as the Prince made it out to be.
Adjusting his head on the sofa, he puts his phone down on the table next to him and looks up at the ceiling. Maybe he should install an aquarium up there as well. He’d have to figure out where to install the TV first, however, considering how the majority of his walls are covered by wall-hanging fountains. It’s funny to fling water at people and dare them to react to it when you’re God, but it’s also a bit of a dangerous environment for electronic appliances, maybe. It’s probably unlikely that it would kill anyone, but he’s not going to chance it. Also, having to regularly replace it because of malfunctions would end up being more trouble than it's worth. He’d install it somewhere in the Room of Reckoning—considering that’s where he spends most of his time—but that would ruin the atmosphere. A giant, spacious room with three spires and a throne in the middle? Impeccable. With a television on one of the spires? Less so.
Regardless, he’s bored, which means he ought to pay someone a visit and see what they’re up to. He doesn’t actually have that many options—Megumi’s probably busy due to preparations for the next Game, and Sanae is… well, who knows what he’s up to nowadays. He's been opening his café sporadically over the past four weeks and getting hold of him is a lot more difficult than it should be.
Still, he’ll try to pay his friend a visit. Or rather, stop by the café to see if he’s there, because Sanae has recently developed the habit of turning off his phone since “the constant messages make it difficult to focus on his art” apparently.
<><><>
The café is empty, as expected. Time went by a lot quicker than he thought, so it was already 2am and there isn’t a single soul out on the streets. It's dark inside the café, except for the dim light coming from the extractor hood. There’s a faint sizzling sound, and a scent that he can’t quite place is apparent in the entire room. He’s the only one here at the moment; Sanae’s probably in the back room somewhere since he doubts that he’d let his café burn down due to an unattended stove.
Sitting himself at the far end of the counter, he props his chin up wearily with one hand. It’s been years since he first began frequenting the café, and it hasn’t changed a bit. The floorboards near the door still creak, and the wooden tables still have words etched into them from years ago. The most comfortable and cozy place in Shibuya, he might say. He still remembers being fourteen and being given hot chocolate because he hadn’t developed a taste for coffee back then. At the time, the barista was the first one to hear him out, and the only one who ever believed him. Seeing the Underground while you’re alive is incredibly rare, and is, at best, considered a powerful ability to have. At worst, the people around you write you off as nothing but a lunatic.
He’d learned to keep quiet about it, if only to stop people from asking whether he was sound of mind. Making friends ended up being difficult without being able to disclose something so vital to your life, but he knows that if he did, they wouldn’t have remained friends either way. As it is, Sanae Hanekoma was the first, and only friend he ever made, and he owed a lot to him. But, of course, being the way he is, he would never say this out loud.
The sound of the back door opening snaps him out of his reverie, and a familiar voice rings out. “Didn’t expect to see you here today, J.”
“It’s been approximately two days since you last saw me, I couldn’t possibly deprive you of my company any longer.”
“How considerate of you,” he chuckled, shifting his attention back to the pot on the stove. “Isn’t it about time for you to head to bed?”
Dropping his arms on the counter, he frowns. Of course he’d bring it up. “It seems you’ve forgotten that I no longer need to sleep.”
His friend stops stirring for a moment, and starts adding cut vegetables to the pot. “Keeping up a routine helps keep your head on your shoulders, Josh.”
“Assuming I’d lose it in the first place.” These ‘what-if’ scenarios his friend keeps throwing at him are becoming increasingly more annoying. Does he think he’s going to go down the deep end any minute now? He’s been God for just about two weeks, he highly doubts that he’s running the risk of ‘losing it’ any time soon, if ever.
“The point is that being immortal screws with you a little, regardless of how well put together you are,” the barista continues. “Jus’ remember to take a break every now and then, s’all I ask.”
He’s about to object again, but finds that he doesn’t have the energy. It's not the first time he's being treated like he's made of glass, and while he resents it, he sort of gets the point. Doesn't mean that he has to like it or that he's going to follow a perfect sleeping schedule now, but if he were to ever find himself in a bad mood, then…
Well, he'll try to take a nap or whatever.
While Joshua was absorbed in his thoughts, Sanae placed a steaming green bowl in front of him. "Care to taste-test the newest thing on my menu?"
Menu? Is that what he's been cooking back there? His friend is grinning at him, and he's not sure what to make of that. "Depends. Planning to kill me so soon?"
"And dirty my own hands? Never."
Sanae had the grace to turn on the lights so that he'd actually be able to see what he's eating. It seems to be some sort of seafood stew from the looks of it.
He slowly takes a sip of the broth, and is actually surprised at the deeply enriching flavour. "Sanae, are you really planning to sell Bouillabaisse at a café?"
"It's a little unusual, I admit," his friend chuckles. "I had to spice up my menu somehow."
There's plenty of dishes that could 'spice up' his menu, so he's not sure why Sanae thought that a dish like Bouillabaisse of all things would be suitable for the task. Not that he's complaining, he actually really likes it.
By the way the barista keeps grinning at him, he's beginning to suspect that the stew was poisoned after all. A very clever execution, he has to admit. Luring him in with the promise of free food only to reveal that it'd been spiked all along—a genius move. He can’t even be mad that he fell for it.
Actually, does poison even affect him anymore?
"Judging by your response—or lack thereof—I take that ya like it?"
It's not perfect, but he does enjoy it. The saffron is quite dominant, but not overpowering, so it brings out the flavour of the seafood poached in the rich, bold broth even more. Traditionally, something else is served alongside this dish, however...
"Oh, no rouille?” he teases slightly.
His friend sighs, “This isn't a five-star restaurant, J. Cut me some slack.”