Sakura and Illya

Part 1: Ishikari Nabe

It was below freezing, mist solidified on the window panes, and Sakura Matou couldn't see anything past her room. January latched itself onto the town and destroyed any feelings of life. If anyone had the courage to venture outside, they would notice spiderwebs of dead trees and outlines of houses, but everything else was cloaked in thick snow, as if forgotten.

The bedroom was warm. She could feel the faded velvet carpeting through her toes. She held out her right arm and felt around at a sizable bruise she received yesterday, when her mind suddenly went hazy and she lurched down the stairs. Her fingers glided along her skin and pain poked up like little needles through the flesh. She inhaled sharply through her teeth and realized curiosity left her with no solution at the moment.

She stood still in the silent room. The atmosphere was as if a vacuum had suddenly absorbed all the energy in a great gasp. She was trapped in unwanted time, alone. Her bed covers stretched out like white foam along the shore. Little picture frames gently rested on the bookshelf, last touched around the time they were introduced. To her, a disgusting parasitic memory she was too afraid to take down. Her dead brother, that pitiable ghost, still stuck to her inside the tiny images.

Shinji Matou disappeared last year during the Holy Grail War, disappeared, as a red-haired boy might remember, into a bloody pulp seeping through the steps of that certain skyscraper. Only two people know the truth, and while Sakura isn't one of them, she could make assumptions. And even with a societal siblings-death's expectations she felt nothing for him. She had been longing for that emptiness, and it presented itself in a mystery that she didn't care to solve.

And so, the emptiness continued, floating through the sterile room, until the ringing of a doorbell. The noise cut across her heart and she jolted out of hollow rumination.

Sakura couldn't believe he'd come today, in this harsh arctic, but he was always a determined soul even for the littlest things in life. She hopped out the room and shuffled down the steps to the front door. Ice had congealed on the hinges, and it took a couple of tugs before the door unexpectedly flung open. She wobbled and caught her balance. Standing in the snow was Shirou Emiya, holding some grocery bags of ingredients he must have carefully planned out. With a smile, he commented, "Um, having a bit of trouble with the door?"

"Ah Senpai!" Sakura announced, flustered, "I didn't expect you to be visiting. C-come in." The winter breeze sneaked into the house. Shirou, hugging his bags, stepped in.

"I'd feel bad if I abandoned our cooking lessons." He said, though these cooking lessons were often drenched in competition. Shirou knocked the snow off his boots and Sakura slid behind him to shut the front door. It was a certain merriment, as if Christmas day had once again materialized, and any gaps between the two disappeared as they huddled in the kitchen. Shirou shuffled through the paper bags as Sakura stood by the refrigerator, studying how he placed salmon, sauces, vegetables, and other foodstuffs onto the counter.

"So what's on today's menu from the Emiya family, Senpai?" Sakura pondered, putting a finger to her chin, "Fish and... those are some enoki mushrooms?"

"Ishikari Nabe." Shirou replied. He thinks to himself, a common occurrence, that 'this warm soup born from the northernmost island of Japan, Hokkaido, is perfect for this weather', though, who's listening?

The countertop became a cluttered mess of ingredients due to Shirou's constant tangential thinking. He surprised himself for a moment with how unorganized it all had become. Quickly, he separated the ingredients into categories, one for broth, one for meats, and one for vegetables.

"Sakura, can you get out the donabe?" Shirou asked.

"Ah-" Sakura acting surprised, "Yes senpai, s-sorry." And she crouched down and got the antique pot out from the lower cabinets.

Soon, they became perfectly in line with each other's movements. Shirou created the miso broth as Sakura cut up and boiled the potatoes, sliced cabbage, trimmed the ends of the mushrooms and diced the salmon. After prep, it became an oscillation of action and inaction, of pouring in the broth then waiting, adding the vegetables then waiting, and finally the salmon. Eventually, It was all arranged into a toasty fusion, marinating on the stovetop.

Sakura reached for some bowls for the both of them as Shirou finished up the Ishikari Nabe with a slice or two of butter. Soon, Sakura partitioned the soup between the two of them, and they got some rest sitting together with their bowls in the dining room.

It was a simple-looking, cream colored soup, but as Sakura gulped it down, the simplicity was a warm, nostalgic memory. The earthiness of the mushrooms and fat of the salmon twisting through the miso broth made the two apprentices of cooking put their guards down and admit defeat. The joy of the meal set them free.