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Saito sat in front of the kitchen table, staring at the recipe he’d scrounged from the cabinets. He’d been eating out every day, which was fine, but… he’d have to stop soon, it wasn’t in Shoko’s habits to eat out all the time.
She had enough money to hire a cook, easily. But she hadn’t done that. Instead, she’d cooked for her husband and daughter, from time to time. She wasn’t a housewife, not nearly, but she thought it was important to fill that role, to be a good wife. That’s why she’d tried to make it work, even when it was clearly hopeless.
The point being, he needed to fit in. Even if she was semi-recently divorced, it wouldn’t do for Saito to act so suddenly different. So, he had to cook.
The recipe he’d grabbed out of the book looked easy enough, but he still sat and stared. He hadn’t ever cooked, So always had someone who made their meals for them. He watched, once or twice, out of sheer boredom, and plenty of boring shows had those sorts of scenes, but he’d never done it himself.
He had no real desire to do this. His hand remained still by his side, an uncanny feeling he’d grown used to, living in the body of Rohan Kumakura. This was the first time he was really able to choose his actions, no longer under the watch of caretakers, or his own father. And yet, the inscrutable, unknowable eyes of some person noticing he was no longer acting like Shoko Nadami was an everpresent threat.
He needed to do this. He had no interest in doing this.
Well, he had a strategy for that sort of thing. It had always been… difficult to want to do things everyone else seemed to. He was good at school, he had to be, but it was an exercise of pure exhaustion.
So, of course, he got up and walked over to inspect Shoko’s knife block. It was good, expensive, but of course not the same as the old ones. He mourned the knife he’d hidden in his room nearly a decade ago. It was his favorite, sharp, reliable, it cut easily.
He found a similar knife out of Shoko’s selection. It was a little smaller, but it was well maintained, which was the point. Shoko’s hands were unmarked - not that his hands had been heavily scarred, he’d been careful to not let the cuts scar, most of the time - but it was a little uncanny.
He just needed a little rush, something to get him moving. It was a reliable strategy, too. It had gotten him through school, through work, through endless mindless days where he waited for people to trust him enough to make the wrong move, or later for Rohan to come visit with another target in mind.
His left hand closed around the blade of the knife, and it cut carefully into his palm.
He - Shoko - felt sick. The blade clattered to the floor, just the smallest amount of blood on the edge. Shoko hated the sight of blood dripping down her delicate, carefully manicured fingernails. She didn’t feel the rush, only sheer nausea and disgust - how could she do this to herself? It wasn’t right, it wasn’t right, something that brute of a d-
Saito jerked away, rushing to the closet where she’d been forced to stock bandages after Mizuki kept getting hurt or breaking things. It was a lucky thing, the shallow injury easily made to stop bleeding by a simple motion that Saito could have done in his sleep. In two days, it’d be like it never happened. By the time morning came, he wouldn't even have to keep it bandaged. Nobody would see.
… He had to clean the floor. Hopefully the knife hadn’t chipped. Shoko still felt nauseous. He hadn’t made dinner.
It hadn’t worked.
It hadn’t.
He’d never tried in Rohan’s body. He couldn’t have, barely conscious and then always watched. What… why didn’t it?
He’d known his habits weren’t usual, but… he couldn’t get what he wanted like this. No rush, only disgust. Only fear, and repulsion.
Automatically, he walked back and picked up the knife. It hadn’t chipped, which was convenient. It would’ve been unfortunate to have to replace it. He cleaned the blade, and placed it back. Maybe he’d need it.
There was only a small amount of blood on the floor. He’d barely nicked himself, and yet Shoko’s body felt like it was the worst thing to ever happen. Maybe it was, to her. Quietly, he grinned to himself. Not quite the worst thing, how could it have been? She’d fallen all the way down…
The room was clean. Shoko Nadami didn’t hurt herself, and it didn’t give her even a little bit of pleasure. The recipe still sat on the table.
Maybe he’d just order food from somewhere.