Yamato Ishida (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angry_friendship_wolf) wrote2018-01-01 10:05 pm
angry_friendship_wolf) wrote2018-01-01 10:05 pm
[01 OOM] Digitamamon's Diner, Jyou's Side
Jyou hadn’t much liked Yamato, when they’d met.
At the age of twelve, Jyou was the oldest of the group, Yamato’s upperclassman, and -- before they’d all been dragged to this world -- the de jure head of their cabin at summer camp, but Yamato didn’t even offer him the most cursory respect, instead treating him with the same direct, crude, and somehow both overly personal and incredibly distant manner that he treated Koushiro or Mimi.
In truth, they hadn’t had the opportunity to talk much. With the exception of Takeru, Yamato only initiated conversations with the others if he needed to relay information, or if they had to go over a plan. He had as little interest in learning about any of their personal lives as he had in giving any details about his own.
Even with Takeru, Yamato was so awkward in how he spoke to him, and so reluctant to show any affection through his speech, that Jyou sometimes struggled to believe they were brothers.
Still, over the course of their journey, Jyou thought he’d found some sort of closeness with Yamato. The two of them had had to team up more than once to rein Taichi in, and for all his lack of respect for Jyou’s status as an upperclassman, Yamato readily deferred to him and his experience as the son of two doctors (and brother of another) when it came to the team’s medical needs, and had a good understanding of how to use Ikkakumon in battle.
Seeing Yamato at the restaurant had been a surprise, but Jyou had assumed he would leave, go back to his brother, and let Jyou clean up his own mess. Instead, he’d stayed, and Jyou had been so happy that he’d nearly burst into tears right then.
He’d never had a friend who would do something like that for him. Most of his friends had been people at cram school, and when it came right down to it, they were rivals as much as anything, vying for a limited number of places at the top schools.
Jyou quietly vowed to do his best, to get them both out of there and back to Takeru and Tokomon as soon as possible.
Except somehow his best efforts just seemed to make thing worse. It wasn’t just that he kept finding himself nervously taking orders down wrong, or mixing up which dish went to which table: It was that somehow, uncannily, everything he touched seemed to break. If he put a box of dishes on a shelf, it would inevitably come crashing to the ground within minutes; if he was carrying something fragile, he’d also trip over something and go tumbling to the ground; if he went anywhere near the stove, it’d practically explode.
Two days had turned into three days, then four, then an entire week, then eight days. Jyou had expected Yamato to yell at him, or curse, or do anything, but instead he just silently cleaned up the wreckage that Jyou seemed to be leaving behind him wherever he went.
---
“Maybe you should leave,” Jyou says, on the eighth day. “Takeru must be worried.”
Yamato doesn’t say anything, apparently too engrossed in cooking, but Gabumon is quick to respond in his stead.
“It’ll be fine! Takeru has lots of food, and Tokomon,” Gabumon says. “And we’ll have worked off the debt any day now!”
“Right, I’m just … I’m sorry for keeping you here,” Jyou says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Yamato still doesn’t say anything. Jyou tightens his apron, he resolves to make sure nothing else gets broken that day, and starts work.
He nearly makes it to evening before he goes careening into a stack of shelves, and knocks down nearly three day’s pay worth of dishes.
At the age of twelve, Jyou was the oldest of the group, Yamato’s upperclassman, and -- before they’d all been dragged to this world -- the de jure head of their cabin at summer camp, but Yamato didn’t even offer him the most cursory respect, instead treating him with the same direct, crude, and somehow both overly personal and incredibly distant manner that he treated Koushiro or Mimi.
In truth, they hadn’t had the opportunity to talk much. With the exception of Takeru, Yamato only initiated conversations with the others if he needed to relay information, or if they had to go over a plan. He had as little interest in learning about any of their personal lives as he had in giving any details about his own.
Even with Takeru, Yamato was so awkward in how he spoke to him, and so reluctant to show any affection through his speech, that Jyou sometimes struggled to believe they were brothers.
Still, over the course of their journey, Jyou thought he’d found some sort of closeness with Yamato. The two of them had had to team up more than once to rein Taichi in, and for all his lack of respect for Jyou’s status as an upperclassman, Yamato readily deferred to him and his experience as the son of two doctors (and brother of another) when it came to the team’s medical needs, and had a good understanding of how to use Ikkakumon in battle.
Seeing Yamato at the restaurant had been a surprise, but Jyou had assumed he would leave, go back to his brother, and let Jyou clean up his own mess. Instead, he’d stayed, and Jyou had been so happy that he’d nearly burst into tears right then.
He’d never had a friend who would do something like that for him. Most of his friends had been people at cram school, and when it came right down to it, they were rivals as much as anything, vying for a limited number of places at the top schools.
Jyou quietly vowed to do his best, to get them both out of there and back to Takeru and Tokomon as soon as possible.
Except somehow his best efforts just seemed to make thing worse. It wasn’t just that he kept finding himself nervously taking orders down wrong, or mixing up which dish went to which table: It was that somehow, uncannily, everything he touched seemed to break. If he put a box of dishes on a shelf, it would inevitably come crashing to the ground within minutes; if he was carrying something fragile, he’d also trip over something and go tumbling to the ground; if he went anywhere near the stove, it’d practically explode.
Two days had turned into three days, then four, then an entire week, then eight days. Jyou had expected Yamato to yell at him, or curse, or do anything, but instead he just silently cleaned up the wreckage that Jyou seemed to be leaving behind him wherever he went.
“Maybe you should leave,” Jyou says, on the eighth day. “Takeru must be worried.”
Yamato doesn’t say anything, apparently too engrossed in cooking, but Gabumon is quick to respond in his stead.
“It’ll be fine! Takeru has lots of food, and Tokomon,” Gabumon says. “And we’ll have worked off the debt any day now!”
“Right, I’m just … I’m sorry for keeping you here,” Jyou says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Yamato still doesn’t say anything. Jyou tightens his apron, he resolves to make sure nothing else gets broken that day, and starts work.
He nearly makes it to evening before he goes careening into a stack of shelves, and knocks down nearly three day’s pay worth of dishes.