oneshot; yesung/ryeowook; l'amoure
L'Amoure
Yesung/Ryeowook; PG
Yesung's been homesick for Italy since he left it all those years ago. He's finally found what he's been searching for and more, at a pasta shop.
✓1,655 words
note: written for thundersquall and for how short and fail it is, it certainly did take me long enough. I finally wrote it because I'm jet lagged to high heaven. :| hope you like it! ;~;
Across the road from Yesung's apartment there is a pasta shop that claims to have the most "authentic" pasta in the city. Yesung knows for a fact that every single pasta shop claims the same thing, so he didn't pay it much mind the first time he entered the restaurant. He is greeted by a ding of the chime above the door and the poignant smell of bread and garlic and tomato sauce.
He blames his international studies trip to Italy when he was in college for his love of Italian food, but really, he's never found good Italian food, so he supposes it doesn't matter, not really. It's his love for the old houses and the air and the language and of course, the food, that brings him to every pasta shop he can get his hands on in Seoul, that he can afford, anyway.
He takes a seat at the bar-stool and orders a glass of red wine. Behind the counter and the (probably) fake display of breads, he can see inside the kitchen, witness the busy stove with every burner occupied and the swamped, lonely chef who's taking out a hot pan of garlic bread and switching it with a tray full of breadstick dough prepped for baking. When he turns, Yesung's eyes are full of sharp cheeks and long elegant lashes, and he's watching the sweat dripping down the side of the chef's neck.
Yesung's palms are suddenly sweaty and he asks for water with a voice that sounds like he's being strangled. The water feels cold on his desert of a throat and he downs half of the glass before ordering the standard spaghetti with meatballs dish.
It's watching the way the chef's eyes flick from what he's making to the board the waiter is pasting his order on that makes Yesung shudder, because there is something about those eyes, so gentle and yet so engrossed in his job, that Yesung let's himself get lost in them. It isn't before the eyes are flickering from the order and gazing into his eyes that Yesung realizes that his heart is stopping in his chest from the shock that he receives.
The chef smiles at him before he turns around, back to his job, and Yesung tries to stop sweating so much because he's going to look like a creeper or something, but he just can't help but stare at the chef as he stirs and stirs and dumps noodles and rolls meatballs, it's like some sort of dream, watching him. The chef tastes the pot of sauce, then he frowns and adds in some garlic, then some sliced onions, then a dash of pepper. It's like a dream as the man adjusts pieces of lettuce on a tray for decoration, adds some sliced tomato, and then ladles noodles and sauce and three meatballs.
Yesung's breath is long, long gone, and the waiter is throwing him glances that are either suspicious or concerned, but he can't bring himself to care because the chef is smiling at him again and making his stomach float with glee, and then he chimes a bell and the waiter gets up from where he's cleaning bar glasses and hands Yesung a plate of glorious food--no art because it's made by some sort of Roman God.
He rolls noodles around his fork and dips them into his mouth, and there's something there, some blossoming of glorious wonder and flashbacks. He's wondering how he never found this place before because it's right across the street after all, and he could cry, because this is the sort of food that's even better than the spaghetti in Italy.
He looks up to the chef glancing at him from the kitchen again, so Yesung smiles oh so blissfully and nearly chokes on noodles. After he's done downing more water he finishes his meal, he feels an odd sense of sadness, because now he has to leave and he finds he's quite comfortable here, far too comfortable to go to his job at the newspaper office. So he sips the red wine that he forgot about and pretends to be staring at the decor, when really he's watching the cook bustling about.
He leaves with a heavy heart and he can almost swear the waiter just sent him a smirk, and then he's standing in front of the window, wondering if he should take a picture to make this scene last longer or if that would just make it seem too weird. He decides against it in the end and gives one last, longing look through the window, through the Italian words printed on the glass and the red and green and blue colors decorating the door frame with a fake realness that only comes from the Italian.
At work his thoughts are so full of the cook that he accidentally copies his tie, and then later he dumps coffee on a pile of papers and briefs. His boss is screaming at him and he's sighing to himself, as he forgot to pick up some more advil on his way in to work. He opts to do his best to ignore Heechul, and though that's never a very good combination, he manages to get his report about fire hydrants being vandalized and one unfortunate case where one sprayed a toy poodle.
The entire time he can't help but wonder about the chef; where he comes from, how he learned to cook so well, what his name is, how old he is, is he really a magical being sent from Heaven to save him from all this hell and this retched life that he's been stuck in because he misses Italy and he would give anything to go back to it and its cobblestone middle aged houses by the Mediterranean Sea right now, please.
After work he trudges home to the sun hiding behind rain heavy clouds and his boss's voice still ringing in his ears. He unlocks the door to thoughts of whether or not Heechul ever hit puberty, because, really, no males voice should be that screechy. He drops his suitcase in the empty chair at his table and strips off his office clothes, donning his running sweats and hooded sweatshirt. He runs around the area and down the park and back and by the time he's done, he's listened to the same Italian song thirty times and he feels like he's going to starve if he doesn't get food, quick.
He stops by the Italian shop that's quickly become his lifeline. The smell of bread is comforting to his senses, and there's a new waiter there that's younger and doesn't smirk quite so much. He takes a seat at the same place along the bar, and the restaurant is rather empty. He wonders why when his eyes catch that closing is in fifteen minutes and he bites his lip, trying to make a decision whether to stay or go.
And then the same chef from the morning leans out past the fake bread display and motions for Yesung to take a seat with a smile. The waiter opens his mouth to complain, but the chef is nearly glowing with happiness. "Henry, you can go if you want, I can serve him." The waiter snaps his mouth shut and mumbles something about still having fifteen minutes, but the chef glares at him so he leaves for the back room. Yesung fails to notice his distress, because his breath leaves his lungs at his voice, because it's so musical--so magical.
The chef pours Yesung a glass of whine and brings it to him; Yesung's eyes don't leave the way his hips seem to glide with the slightly stained flower patterned apron. "Hi," the man smiles, and his smile makes Yesung's heart burt in all the right ways, because he just can't take this. Their fingers touch as he takes the wine glass from the chef's hand, and the contact is so warm, so, so soft, that Yesung just wants to let the glass drop so he can hold his hand forever.
"My name is Ryeowook," the chef says, a name like music to Yesung's ears. "I studied in Italy for ten years to learn to cook, and I'm glad I finally found someone who seems to appreciate it."
Yesung's stomach rumbles then, much to his embarrassment, and his cheeks turn red to the tips of his ears. Then he laughs, "my name is Yesung, and I've been looking for someone who cooks like you since I left Italy, years ago."
Ryeowook laughs. "You must be hungry, I'll get you some pasta."
He heats it up to Yesung watching him the whole time. He places it in front of Yesung and tasting it is just like the first time, only better, because somehow knowing that it's Ryeowook's cooking now, not just any chef makes the taste all the richer. They stay up late in the shop, remnisicing about Italy and how they'd both give anything to go back. They don't notice when the clock strikes nine and the shop is supposed to be long closed.
Yesung doesn't notice much of anything, only that Ryeowook has the nicest laugh and the nicest skin and the best hair and then, he's leaning across the counter because he just can't control himself. He's kissing Ryeowook, kissing him with fingers drifting through soft locks and tasting sea air on his lips. Then Ryeowook's kissing back, and murmuring Italian at him in words that he can understand to a person that can understand, and there are tears in his eyes because he just found something of a home he's been missing, all this time.
When their lips drift apart their fingers are joined and even though they just met, Yesung feels like it's so right that they've known each other an entire lifetime.
fin.
Yesung/Ryeowook; PG
Yesung's been homesick for Italy since he left it all those years ago. He's finally found what he's been searching for and more, at a pasta shop.
✓1,655 words
note: written for thundersquall and for how short and fail it is, it certainly did take me long enough. I finally wrote it because I'm jet lagged to high heaven. :| hope you like it! ;~;
Across the road from Yesung's apartment there is a pasta shop that claims to have the most "authentic" pasta in the city. Yesung knows for a fact that every single pasta shop claims the same thing, so he didn't pay it much mind the first time he entered the restaurant. He is greeted by a ding of the chime above the door and the poignant smell of bread and garlic and tomato sauce.
He blames his international studies trip to Italy when he was in college for his love of Italian food, but really, he's never found good Italian food, so he supposes it doesn't matter, not really. It's his love for the old houses and the air and the language and of course, the food, that brings him to every pasta shop he can get his hands on in Seoul, that he can afford, anyway.
He takes a seat at the bar-stool and orders a glass of red wine. Behind the counter and the (probably) fake display of breads, he can see inside the kitchen, witness the busy stove with every burner occupied and the swamped, lonely chef who's taking out a hot pan of garlic bread and switching it with a tray full of breadstick dough prepped for baking. When he turns, Yesung's eyes are full of sharp cheeks and long elegant lashes, and he's watching the sweat dripping down the side of the chef's neck.
Yesung's palms are suddenly sweaty and he asks for water with a voice that sounds like he's being strangled. The water feels cold on his desert of a throat and he downs half of the glass before ordering the standard spaghetti with meatballs dish.
It's watching the way the chef's eyes flick from what he's making to the board the waiter is pasting his order on that makes Yesung shudder, because there is something about those eyes, so gentle and yet so engrossed in his job, that Yesung let's himself get lost in them. It isn't before the eyes are flickering from the order and gazing into his eyes that Yesung realizes that his heart is stopping in his chest from the shock that he receives.
The chef smiles at him before he turns around, back to his job, and Yesung tries to stop sweating so much because he's going to look like a creeper or something, but he just can't help but stare at the chef as he stirs and stirs and dumps noodles and rolls meatballs, it's like some sort of dream, watching him. The chef tastes the pot of sauce, then he frowns and adds in some garlic, then some sliced onions, then a dash of pepper. It's like a dream as the man adjusts pieces of lettuce on a tray for decoration, adds some sliced tomato, and then ladles noodles and sauce and three meatballs.
Yesung's breath is long, long gone, and the waiter is throwing him glances that are either suspicious or concerned, but he can't bring himself to care because the chef is smiling at him again and making his stomach float with glee, and then he chimes a bell and the waiter gets up from where he's cleaning bar glasses and hands Yesung a plate of glorious food--no art because it's made by some sort of Roman God.
He rolls noodles around his fork and dips them into his mouth, and there's something there, some blossoming of glorious wonder and flashbacks. He's wondering how he never found this place before because it's right across the street after all, and he could cry, because this is the sort of food that's even better than the spaghetti in Italy.
He looks up to the chef glancing at him from the kitchen again, so Yesung smiles oh so blissfully and nearly chokes on noodles. After he's done downing more water he finishes his meal, he feels an odd sense of sadness, because now he has to leave and he finds he's quite comfortable here, far too comfortable to go to his job at the newspaper office. So he sips the red wine that he forgot about and pretends to be staring at the decor, when really he's watching the cook bustling about.
He leaves with a heavy heart and he can almost swear the waiter just sent him a smirk, and then he's standing in front of the window, wondering if he should take a picture to make this scene last longer or if that would just make it seem too weird. He decides against it in the end and gives one last, longing look through the window, through the Italian words printed on the glass and the red and green and blue colors decorating the door frame with a fake realness that only comes from the Italian.
At work his thoughts are so full of the cook that he accidentally copies his tie, and then later he dumps coffee on a pile of papers and briefs. His boss is screaming at him and he's sighing to himself, as he forgot to pick up some more advil on his way in to work. He opts to do his best to ignore Heechul, and though that's never a very good combination, he manages to get his report about fire hydrants being vandalized and one unfortunate case where one sprayed a toy poodle.
The entire time he can't help but wonder about the chef; where he comes from, how he learned to cook so well, what his name is, how old he is, is he really a magical being sent from Heaven to save him from all this hell and this retched life that he's been stuck in because he misses Italy and he would give anything to go back to it and its cobblestone middle aged houses by the Mediterranean Sea right now, please.
After work he trudges home to the sun hiding behind rain heavy clouds and his boss's voice still ringing in his ears. He unlocks the door to thoughts of whether or not Heechul ever hit puberty, because, really, no males voice should be that screechy. He drops his suitcase in the empty chair at his table and strips off his office clothes, donning his running sweats and hooded sweatshirt. He runs around the area and down the park and back and by the time he's done, he's listened to the same Italian song thirty times and he feels like he's going to starve if he doesn't get food, quick.
He stops by the Italian shop that's quickly become his lifeline. The smell of bread is comforting to his senses, and there's a new waiter there that's younger and doesn't smirk quite so much. He takes a seat at the same place along the bar, and the restaurant is rather empty. He wonders why when his eyes catch that closing is in fifteen minutes and he bites his lip, trying to make a decision whether to stay or go.
And then the same chef from the morning leans out past the fake bread display and motions for Yesung to take a seat with a smile. The waiter opens his mouth to complain, but the chef is nearly glowing with happiness. "Henry, you can go if you want, I can serve him." The waiter snaps his mouth shut and mumbles something about still having fifteen minutes, but the chef glares at him so he leaves for the back room. Yesung fails to notice his distress, because his breath leaves his lungs at his voice, because it's so musical--so magical.
The chef pours Yesung a glass of whine and brings it to him; Yesung's eyes don't leave the way his hips seem to glide with the slightly stained flower patterned apron. "Hi," the man smiles, and his smile makes Yesung's heart burt in all the right ways, because he just can't take this. Their fingers touch as he takes the wine glass from the chef's hand, and the contact is so warm, so, so soft, that Yesung just wants to let the glass drop so he can hold his hand forever.
"My name is Ryeowook," the chef says, a name like music to Yesung's ears. "I studied in Italy for ten years to learn to cook, and I'm glad I finally found someone who seems to appreciate it."
Yesung's stomach rumbles then, much to his embarrassment, and his cheeks turn red to the tips of his ears. Then he laughs, "my name is Yesung, and I've been looking for someone who cooks like you since I left Italy, years ago."
Ryeowook laughs. "You must be hungry, I'll get you some pasta."
He heats it up to Yesung watching him the whole time. He places it in front of Yesung and tasting it is just like the first time, only better, because somehow knowing that it's Ryeowook's cooking now, not just any chef makes the taste all the richer. They stay up late in the shop, remnisicing about Italy and how they'd both give anything to go back. They don't notice when the clock strikes nine and the shop is supposed to be long closed.
Yesung doesn't notice much of anything, only that Ryeowook has the nicest laugh and the nicest skin and the best hair and then, he's leaning across the counter because he just can't control himself. He's kissing Ryeowook, kissing him with fingers drifting through soft locks and tasting sea air on his lips. Then Ryeowook's kissing back, and murmuring Italian at him in words that he can understand to a person that can understand, and there are tears in his eyes because he just found something of a home he's been missing, all this time.
When their lips drift apart their fingers are joined and even though they just met, Yesung feels like it's so right that they've known each other an entire lifetime.
fin.