𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 ペイント 𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

chapter five: oh no! he's... a joy to be with.

       You sliced along the base of the mushroom, thinly dividing along the vegetable, as you lifted up the wooden cutting board. You scraped the fungi into the steaming pan, boiling into the mixture of teriyaki sauce and sesame oil. The hiss and pop of the liquid was smothered by the layer of sliced mushrooms, as you grabbed the wooden spoon laid against it and began to stir. Your eyes were bloodshot and aching, bits of red acne dotting along your forehead and temples. Your stomach pressed up against the counter, your legs stiff and uncomfortable by your lack of sleep. A loud yawn erupted from your mouth, as you violently shook your head, trying to force the sleep that had taken ahold of your body to go away.

       It was only eight in the morning, the restaurant opened up at ten, and you still weren't halfway done with the preparations. There were meals to prepare, vegetables to cut up for the day, tables to wipe down, windows to clean, dough to knead, meat to defrost- and here you were making some more soup. You weren't sure why. You had arrived this morning with Yaki, and had found the pots and the bowl that Leonardo had used clean and dried.

       But he was nowhere to be found. A part of you wondered if you could coax him out of his hiding place with this vegetable soup that he seemed to enjoy so much- but you knew it would not work out. He had... Left. You were disappointed at the fact that the last thing that he would probably remember of you was being almost decapitated with a broom and having finger guns pointed in his general direction. You were simply too much of a dork, a spastic spunky eighteen year old with parents that didn't seem to spare you a call or a card that had more than your dog saying hello.

       Then there had been the added stress of the chaos from this morning. With those stick figures. Your anxiety had forced you into the bathroom for ten minutes of nervous puking, before sliding under your bed covers with a small pocket knife from Yaki's stash, and googling how to melt paint. You had only acquired four hours of sleep. You were, to put it delicately, dead inside. Your hands shook violently, not a great skill to have when your job consisted of slicing up vegetables and meats.

        The sound of aggressive Mario Kart music filled the dining room and the small open line kitchen, as Yaki roller skated around the room, a bucket of swishing bleach in one hand, a rag in the other as she quickly gave every table and chair a wipe down. The vending machine in the corner hummed excitedly for the day, it's dim yellow lights flickering, making a strobe light show onto the linoleum floor in front.

        You yawned once more, your eyes watering as you rolled your sore shoulders, unwrapping the plastic off a box of green onions, carrots, and radishes. The smell of fresh vegetables wafted towards you, hungering you even more. You had eaten a few handfuls of chips, and chugged down two bottles of water for your acne, but that had been about half an hour ago.

       You were rudely shaken from your gentle daydreaming by a bucket slamming onto the counter before your, bleach splattering onto the wood as Yaki quickly wiped it down. "I gotta go pick up Isi." Spoke the messy haired woman, her black crop top riding dangerously above her muscled flat stomach. "Want me to pick ya up some coffee?" Hummed Yaki, grinning at you knowingly as she ripped the Velcro off of her roller skates, slapping the pair onto a cushioned bar stool.

       You let out a small sigh as you decapitated the ends of the green onions against the wooden cutting board, glancing up at your friend. "Do I really look like I need it?" You muttered, wiping the side of your mouth with your wrist, wielding the knife easily in your grip.

       Yaki shot you a smile as she grabbed the corners of her jeans, wiggling her hips as she adjusted them higher over her stomach. "Oh yeah. Ya look like death, baba." She gently teased, using your nickname that she had created just for you when you two had first met over on Instagram. You still remembered the moment she had texted you almost eight years ago, praising your horribly made animation of Zuko and a oc of yours who you had long ago realized was the Mary Sue to rule all Mary Sue's. You had been only eleven years old, having begun your adventures in animation ever since you were seven, and finally being allowed to open up an account after months of begging. If your mom hadn't relented, you would've never been able to meet your best friend.