Chapter Text
Denji doesn’t eat meat anymore. Which is fine. There’s plenty more in the world than just meat. Although he will admit, it’s pretty hard to find a take-out restaurant with a decent vegetarian menu. So he’s a home-cooker now. And Nayuta doesn’t seem to mind. Or at least, she says nothing about their diet of bread morning, noon, and night. So he isn’t the most creative in the kitchen, but sandwiches, grilled cheese, simple spreads on toast? They’re easy to make, and pretty good, he must say. A recipe? Not for him, for a lot of reasons. And he’s not sure if he can call it cooking when the appliance he uses the most is a toaster, but whatever. Cooking.
He’s not picky and it’s left his palate as some may call ‘unrefined’. Nayuta still eats most of what he makes with no fuss. But by a week in, Denji is repeating meals, or else he’s making something Nayuta refuses to eat. When they had first moved in together, he imagined limitless possibilities, but learned pretty quickly that some things just taste better than others, at least to other people. Something like ‘everything toast’ was not enjoyed by most ‘regular folk,’ and there’s only so much he can spread on bread before Nayuta won’t eat it.
Maybe he’s getting tired of bread too. He stares down at the toaster, almost loathing the moment their breakfast will pop. The eggs are cooling already on their plates.
He’s gotten to try so many new things over the last few months. Fried chicken, sushi, cola-flavored sweets. Going back to bread is–
Shit. It totally tastes like shit. Nayuta doesn’t say anything. And the taste hasn’t necessarily changed. It’s the same as it’s always been. But his stomach churns as he slowly bites into his meal. He gives a quick glance to the kitchen, hoping against hope that maybe he did buy something nice and tasty and not bread.
And for a brief moment, there is something in the kitchen. It’s not food, or a meal, or even something he could eat. But for a split second, there is something more.
It’s Makima.
She’s not at the stove, cooking up something for them to enjoy together, though sometimes he swears, and other times he wishes.
She’s evenly chopped up, split into little containers, cooling in the fridge.
The sight ripples nausea through his gut. It fills his mouth with spit and the uncomfortable feeling that he’s come to associate with puking his guts out. And yet— after everything, he misses her.
His eyes are pulled back to the plate. He’s not hungry anymore, and yet– this has to be the most appetizing piece of toast Denji’s ever seen.