One of my least favourite things about working in the kitchen scene was the rapid turnover of staff.

Somebody got promoted so their place needed to be filled. Somebody got a better offer and quit and their place need to be filled. Somebody sucked and got sacked and so their place needed to be filled. It was all part of it. But it didn't make me hate it any less.

"Kitchen!" Tobirama called us and walked in, his white robe straining pleasantly over his chest, his chef's hat the only one higher than the one I had that I refused to wear anyway. I hated when he called us kitchen, as if we were a collective, as if I was only a part of it and not special to him. Well, I probably wasn't special to him. But why did he have to shove it down my throat like that? I hated it when Tobirama shoved things down my throat. Or wait, scratch that; I would love if Tobirama shoved something down my throat. "New kitchen porter starts. Be kind."

At this, he looked at me. Or, I hadn't looked up so I didn't see him looking at me, but I knew he did. I could feel it.

On Saturdays, we began even earlier than usual as we did lunches then. They were not as popular as the dinners, but since they only occurred once a week they still had to be booked months in advance just like the dinners. The worst part was, Tobirama had put me in charge of the lunches as head chef. He had had to beg me for months before I had accepted only last year. It wasn't that he couldn't or didn't want to do it himself; he just thought it was a waste of my talent. "I know you don't want to be head chef. But please. Just the lunches. Please."

I had accepted to shut him up. Or to make him happy, although I would never admit that. But now, he called for my attention.

"Madara." I looked up. "I'm in charge of lunch today. The kitchen porter arrives at seven. You'll show him around."

I put my knife, that I had been sharpening on wet stone, down with a clang.

"I will do no such thing", I said, playing with my fingers on the steel board of my working desk which I knew made my underarm muscles play intimidatingly, even if I knew Tobirama would not be intimidated. But I could hope.

"You will. I'm in charge."

"What are you going to do, force me?" I asked darkly.

Our bantering always caused the rest of the kitchen to fall in an incredible tension, even if it had been a few years since I started, but we were both fine, really.

"Yes", he said simply, to which I laughed humourlessly, but Tobirama just turned around and started giving orders.

I went back to sharpening my knife.

It slipped, giving me another cut that would, in time, calcify into a scar. 

The kitchen porter was the lowest rank in the kitchen. They usually lacked formal training, and their job was to do simple tasks like peeling potatoes and some cleaning duties. If you were partaking in, or had already had formal training, you would begin as a junior chef and climb your way up. I never gave the junior chefs any attention other than to ask for things. Much less the kitchen porters.

I could hear Tobirama's voice as he showed the new kitchen porter in from the hallway to the kitchen from the back door. I looked up from the sashimi I was slicing into such thin slices you would probably not see them if you looked at them from the side, not able to help my curiosity. When he stepped in, I was taken aback. The figure who came in was... Surprising, to say the least. 

Usually, kitchen porters were boys and girls in their late teens or early twenties (we'd even had a non-binary once; they had been my favourite as they never talked), looking lost in their pursue of the romanticised life of Paris that never lived up to their expectations. Their nerves caused them to stumble, stutter, break things, causing me endless annoyance, both at them directly but also at Tobirama and his endless patience. But this man...

First of all, he was as tall as I was, and he looked fit. Not in a I-go-to-the-gym-every-day-to-validate-my-masculinity way like me and Tobirama, but rather in a I'm-used-to-hard-physical-paid-work way. He wore a dark grey coat, a camel scarf and black trousers with shiny shoes. His hair was absolutely breathtaking, straight and silky and chocolate brown and it reached his waist like mine did, although mine was wilder. He wore a pair of silver-rimmed, square glasses that lifted his pointy face with strong eyebrows to the skies. He looked around, and when his eyes skimmed over mine, I could see a wisdom that was beyond his age of... What, twenty-five? Twenty-six?

You would have loved to get friends with him, Izuna, I couldn't help but think, but forced the thought away almost before it had been allowed to form.

To my great disdain, Tobirama took Hashirama to my station. I would say he lead him there, but he really didn't; Hashirama walked next to Tobirama with the strong and confident gait of someone who knew he belonged. I frowned.

"This is Hashirama, our new kitchen porter. This is Madara", Tobirama said. "My sous chef. The best sashimi chef in the world. Please, be kind to him", he told Hashirama, mocking me. "He's very sensitive. Madara looks tough but he's really a princess."

Oh, fuck you.

"I'm busy with the sashimi. I'm head chef for lunches. You can show him around."

"Perhaps..." Tobirama crossed his arms. "Showing Mr Senju here around can teach you some humbleness. You need to learn that more than Hashirama needs to learn the kitchen. Hashirama would do you a favour."

I was surprised as there was more venom in his words than he usually used, but I didn't let it show.

"Here's the kitchen", I said without any interest, not pointing to anything. "That should be all you need."

Tobirama didn't even bother, but just turned and left.

I kept cutting the sashimi in front of me. Hashirama was standing behind me, not entirely sure what he should do. I felt bad for him. I was not easy. I didn't strive to become easy. I had not reached my position by being easy.

"Nice to meet you." Hashirama's voice was deep but not dark. "I ate your sashimi once. In Cancun." I was surprised; the only people who could afford my sashimi was rich people and culinary students on field trips paid by their outrageously wealthy schools. Maybe, kid was rich, and he only did this for fun? "Perhaps..." Hashirama paused, but not because he was insecure, I thought. He just wanted to use the correct words out of politeness. "Perhaps you can show me where to hang my coat." It wasn't a question but not an order, either, more of a request, a wish. 'It would make me very happy if you showed me where to hang my coat, Madara'.

Tobirama actually hadn't showed him even that? I sighed so Hashirama could definitely hear it, put my knife down dramatically (everything I did with a knife was dramatic) and turned round to give him the tour. I couldn't help but notice how well-dressed Hashirama was, wearing a dark grey sweater that was slightly oversized that looked amazing with his thin, black-clad legs, and he put his hair up in a high ponytail that lifted his face up to space, if the glasses had lifted it to heaven. And he didn't walk behind me but next to me, as he'd done with Tobirama, but it wasn't in an arrogant way; I got the impression he didn't think about it, that there was a friendliness about him that caused him to choose my side over my back. It irritated me, but not as much as it would have had it been anyone else but him.

The tour lasted only fifteen minutes and was half-hearted, but Hashirama didn't seem discouraged at all.

"Thank you, Chef Uchiha", he said. I did not offer him to call me by my first name which, to be fair, he didn't seem to have expected me to offer. "I will begin now. If there is anything you need, please let me know." I turned round and looked at him in shock. "In the kitchen, I mean", he said, looking slightly amused. Oh, good lord, get a grip of yourself, Madara, I chastised myself.

Hashirama put on the white coat Tobirama had given him and got to work. I looked at him for a while, frowning.

You would have loved to get friends with him...

I went back to my sashimi.

During the entire day, I watched him.

As I went about cooking and ordering my colleagues around for lunch, I watched as he did dishes after us, thoroughly but efficiently. As Tobirama came back and we started preparing for dinner, he peeled apples and potatoes. He took some deliveries and cleaned our counters. All in all, he did all that a kitchen boy did.

But there was something about him. Something that I tried putting my finger on but couldn't quite; it kept slipping away. He seemed... Content. That was the best word to describe him. He seemed content, a calm smile always on his lips as he went about in the kitchen, helping us. I had never seen it on a kitchen porter before; usually they had the million lines of broken dreams painted on their faces. But Hashirama seemed to live in the now. He didn't say much, kept mostly to himself, but he didn't at all seem shy. He just seemed to be doing his job.

"How are you doing?" I heard Tobirama ask him after the last lunch guests had left.

"Very good, thank you, Chef", he answered with his deep, clear voice.

I was surprised he did so well despite my very lacking round tour. He seemed to have an intuition about where everything was, and what we needed.

But most of all, there was a strength to him. It was clear he respected me, and Tobirama, and everyone else in a way I didn't, but he also didn't look down on himself for being beneath us in ranking. This was a man who had seen a fair share of his world, and had let it shape him into the best version of himself. It was very interesting to me because, by God, had the world shaped me into the worst version of me.

I envied him.

I took my heavy black coat from my hook in the kitchen hallway of the restaurant, put it on, twirldr my scarf around my neck to protect me against the January cold. I flicked my hair out of it, enjoying the sensation as it tumbled down to my waist over my warm scarf. My hair was always up during work; releasing it every day at night was a dream.

I was tired. I was still going to the gym. When I was tired, nothing refreshed me as much as lifting heavy things from the ground, then putting them back down.

I was just about to leave, when...

"Have a good Sunday, Chef Uchiha."

Hashirama was standing in the doorway, holding the top of it with one hand, the other hand in his pocket. He actually looked slightly nervous to be speaking to me, but not too much.

I hesitated. Normally, I would just have turned and left.

"Goodnight", I said instead.