Right Down The Line 2/9
+part one
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Kame wakes to the insistent alarm from his cellphone going off by head. Groggy, he slaps around for it until he finds it vibrating and beeping under his pillow. Cradles it to his chest, trying to ignore just how shitty he feels.
He'd slept in his clothes, he realizes almost immediately from the belt biting into the scant flesh of his hips. He curses himself for several minutes before he wills himself to roll over and crawl out of bed. Ten minutes later he's slumped over the counter in his sliver of a kitchen, hands curved around a cup of coffee as he waits for slices of frozen homemade bread to heat up in a cast-iron skillet. With his eyes closed, he listens to the hiss from the pan for a few minutes, the gas flame as high as it will go. When he opens them, steam is curling and rising up from around the edges of where each square of bread touches the black of the pan.
By the time he's ready to leave, he's on his third cup of coffee. The slices of crispy toast he'd slathered with fig preserves and shreds of Manchego cheese are long gone; his mostly-empty refrigerator prompts him to call in a grocery delivery. He knuckles his eyes before slipping on his earpiece and he calls Nina on his way out the door to make his ten o'clock meeting.
Two hours later he's finished with the landlord of a small storefront Kayakuya is interested in, spoken with Andrew, and he's dropped in on a wine merchant about a shipment of Vermentino for Sesamo. It's noon and he's surprised to discover that his head actually feels better, well enough that he decides to take a break. A walk, he decides. He could drop in and catch up with friends at their restaurants, talk shop and clear his head.
The sky is forbidding when Kame hits the street and it's just as freezing as Sanjay warned when he left Washington. Several blocks later, his phone vibrates in his coat pocket.
just got in. free for lunch?
Kame thinks about that for a few seconds before he keys in a response. He has a strange feeling that almost prompts him to stick to his original plan, make an excuse, but he is hungry and he has a little time. He waits for Sanjay at a tiny Peruvian place not far from his building and spends the time catching up online, tweeting answers to queries. He manages a big smile when Sanjay drops into a seat opposite him, peeling off layers of outerwear and pushing them over the back of his chair.
"Hey," Sanjay says, slightly breathless.
Kame enjoys watching Sanjay's form appear from under the puffy down jacket, looking casual but well-put together in a dark brown fitted turtle-neck sweater and a pair of blue jeans, all broad-shouldered and slim-hipped. A server appears immediately which doesn't surprise Kame since he knows the couple that runs the place. Kame orders huevos as an appetizer, suggests the homey chicken noodle to Sanjay when he asks about a good soup to warm him up, and Kame orders the crab--stuffed avocado and chicharron with yucca chips. When he sticks with water, Sanjay lifts an eyebrow but follows suit.
"Late night?" he asks when the server's gone.
"Don't ask," Kame groans, settling his elbows on the table and rubbing at his face roughly. When he lowers his hands, Sanjay is leaned back in his chair, one elbow hooked over the back while his other arm is stretched out in front of him, the long slender fingers spread out and relaxed.
"Okay," Sanjay says wryly, and the corners of his mouth quirk up. Kame studies him and realizes that Sanjay's casual pose is masking nervousness. Kame's stomach twists uneasily.
Sanjay shifts, pulling his chair a tiny bit forward and resting both his forearms flat on the table, his hands spread flat on either side of his table setting.
Kame waits, his eyes flickering from Sanjay's hands to his face. He's disconcerted by Sanjay's direct gaze.
"What?" he asks, trying not to sound peevish at the scrutiny.
"I just..." Sanjay huffs out a quick breath and laughs a little. "Look I'm sorry about this. I don't want to. To be a jerk, you know? I don't want to be that guy."
"What guy?" Kame says slowly, his uneasiness increasing.
Sanjay laughs again, quick, with an ever-so-slight edge. "You know, that guy. The one who fucks up a good thing."
"What do you mean?" Kame forces himself to say through stiffened lips.
It takes Sanjay a bit to begin again, time that Kame spends staring at his face, willing him not to have this conversation. Certainly not here and not now. There are a lot of things he likes about Sanjay: his creative, flexible and prodigious talent in the kitchen, his sense of fun, his fierce intelligence. He especially likes how easy things have always been, late at night after a long, long day, how things are when they get going, how easily they fall together - and how they've never needed to talk about anything the next day. It's not that Kame hasn't felt guilty, because he has. But things have never been weird between them. Not until yesterday, anyway.
"I get it," Sanjay says at last. "I do. I know this is kinda messed up-"
And wow, that isn't an understatement, Kame thinks.
"-and that you don't want any complications. It's been fun. I mean, I've had fun. I know we're just." He grinds to a halt. "I know we've just been-" He swallows, any bravado draining away. "-fucking around. It's great. It's been great."
He stops and he's not looking at Kame anymore, he's staring down at the table, somewhere between them. Kame twists the napkin in his lap.
The server comes back with the huevos, a Peruvian snack of hand-cut french fries tossed with coins of chorizo sausage and flecked with shreds of egg white. Kame reaches out and snares a wand of crisp potato, swipes it into one of the sauces, pops it into his mouth. It's hot and perfect, but it doesn't provide any distraction.
"But?" It comes out cracked.
Sanjay looks up at him again, and his eyes are pinched. "But yesterday...First time we ever went back to your place."
Kame's throat tightens. "I know," he says, nodding, trying not to look away.
"Yeah." Sanjay pauses, and his fingers curl into his palms. "First time I woke up and you were still there."
Kame can see how much it costs Sanjay to make that admission, and he wants to tell him it's not like that, it's never been like that, only - he can't. For the last year, that's exactly how it's been. Most of the time they never make it to Sanjay's place at all. It's been all too easy to get off anywhere handy, rough-and-dirty like a pair of teenagers: back alley, restroom, Sanjay's locked office at Sesamo late at night after everyone's gone but the nightporters. Just blowing off steam.
"I'm sorry," Kame says, because he is. He looks at Sanjay helplessly. He doesn't know what else to say.
"I know," Sanjay is nodding, pained. "I know you are. I know-"
"It's not that-" Kame begins before he stops and finishes with "I'm sorry. It's just. I can't-"
"I know," Sanjay interrupts, fixing him with earnest eyes, "I know this is bad. You're my boss. I knew it, and I didn't care. Actually-" he pauses and looks away for a second, "-I still don't care about that, and maybe that's bad, but that's not the reason that I'm. It's not why I'm." He stops.
Kame shakes his head. He knows he should be sorry because he is Sanjay's boss. He's just never been sorry enough. All joking aside, however, Kame's never once thrown his weight around. Guilt has made him extra careful to never take advantage of Sanjay in the professional arena, and he's doesn't think he's ever shown him any favoritism beyond what Haruka enjoys - but he knows that his precious few scruples aren't really worth much. He is still directly responsible for Sanjay's employment. There are so many ways it could have gone wrong. Kame should never have-
Kame rubs a hand across his face.
He glances back at Sanjay, feeling very small. Tries to keep his eyes steady. "Look," he begins, something hard and ashamed in his throat. "I've never bullshitted you, and I don't plan to start." He takes a breath. "I screwed up. This is a problem, and it is in no way because of you."
"We're both adults," Sanjay says, clearly unhappy. "I knew what I was getting into. I'm not blaming you."
"That's not the point. I should never have-" What should he say? I'm sorry if I let you imagine this could ever go anywhere? "I can't - you know."
Sanjay looks at him ruefully. "So this is 'it's not you, it's me'?"
Kame winces. "Something like that."
Sanjay takes a quick breath and his hands tighten. The huevos sit between them, barely touched.
"So-"
"I'm an asshole," Kame says, "you know I am. So what's in it for you anyway?" He huffs an impatient laugh.
Sanjay scoffs. "That's an act." He makes a dismissive gesture. "-and everyone knows that. Now you're bullshitting me."
Kame shrugs, uncomfortable. He has this horrible sense of fucking up, not just their working relationship, which would suck, but their friendship which he values even more. "Look. I haven't-" he says. "I don't-" He grits his teeth. "Not in a long time." He stops, keenly aware of why he never has these conversations. He wants to rewind, five minutes at least. No - make that forty-eight hours, before he ever got drunk and stupid enough to bring Sanjay home. They'd had a good thing going.
Sanjay's mouth thins into a tight line, but something dawns in his eyes. "Oh," he says, and he's quiet for a moment. And then: "Huh," soft, punched out him.
Kame stiffens.
"When?"
"When what?" Impatient. Pretends to misunderstand.
Sanjay waits. Kame's usually better at withstanding this sort of thing, but he feels his resolve inexplicably disintegrate. He shoots Sanjay a frustrated look.
"Long enough." Kame makes a face before he chuckles bitterly. "Before Kitagawa died."
Sanjay stares at him, eyebrows lifted high.
"Don't look at me like that," Kame snaps.
"You know what it sounds like, right?"
Kame shrugs uneasily.
"Okay, you tell me you're an asshole, that's your excuse. There's nothing here for me. That's fine. You'll just find yourself another fuck buddy. Someone else who won't call you on your bullshit."
Kame is stung. "That's what you think?"
Sanjay shrugs. "I don't know, you tell me. It's just. I thought-" He looks down at the table and stares hard at his plate. "It's not like I had any real expectations, ok? But I guess I thought you wanted more. Maybe not from me. But from someone. Don't you? I'm asking as your friend now. This isn't about me."
"Okay, you know what?" Kame says, "let's not talk about this anymore. I'm sorry. It's over. Let's leave it at that."
Sanjay nods, studying Kame thoughtfully. "Sure," he says. "I'm not trying to convince you of anything."
"Then what?"
Sanjay's face twists in frustration. "I want you to be honest."
"I have been honest with you," Kame snaps.
Sanjay nods, watching him. "Maybe you have. I'm not sure you've been honest with yourself."
Kame glances away, out at the street beyond the small windowfront and he thinks about that for a moment, taking advantage of the interruption of their server setting plates of food down in front of them. He hears Sanjay thank the server, and when he looks back, Sanjay is still looking at him.
"What? What do you want me to say?"
"Are you happy?"
Kame's rolls his eyes. "Are you kidding me?"
It's Sanjay's turn to shrug now. "Well, are you?" His eyes glitter expectantly.
Kame grabs his fork and digs into his food, furious that he's let the conversation get so out of hand. He shovels fried pork into his mouth, barely tasting it. He feels slightly regretful that he isn't giving the excellent food more attention.
'Hey." Sanjay reaches across the short distance between them, his fingertips touch briefly touch Kame's wrist. "Hey."
"What," Kame snarls.
"I'm not. I'm not trying to hurt you."
"Hurt me?" Kame scoffs. "What, you think. You think just because - You think that now you know me? You know everything about me?"
"No," Sanjay says gently. "Come on, Kame, you're my friend. I want to understand."
"No, you just want me to. I don't know. Ask you out on a date or something." He's being churlish, but he can't bring himself to care. Sanjay laughs in response, a big open mirthful laugh. Kame shifts sheepishly.
"Well," Sanjay says when he stops chuckling, "that would be awesome. But no, that's not what I want. I want you to act like you want more than fucking around."
Kame looks out the window at the traffic and the people on the sidewalk.
"Am I ever happy?" Kame asks, bypassing the rest and chewing on that question for a moment. "I don't know. You know me. I'm only happy when the house is burning down."
Neither of them speaks for a few moments and Sanjay watches him thoughtfully. Kame picks up his fork again and digs it into his food.
"You should eat," Kame says roughly.
Sanjay looks down in surprise, as though he's forgotten entirely about lunch. After a while, Sanjay catches his eye and asks, "Who was he?"
"What?" Kame looks up, startled. Sanjay doesn't reply, just waits until his question registers.
"No one," Kame says at last, hitching his shoulders uneasily. "A friend."
--
Kame attempts to pay for lunch which goes over as well as he should have expected. Two credit cards end up in the folder, and after they've signed their receipts, Sanjay slides Kame's house keys across the table. It feels significant.
Kame pockets the keys and works up a wan smile. He manages to part more or less amicably from Sanjay, even if they look at each other awkwardly and shuffle their feet on the sidewalk before going in separate directions. When he gets back to his flat, Kame fixes himself a tea with a warming splash of brandy and drinks it standing up in the kitchen, leaned against the stove staring at the photos on the refrigerator. Sanjay smiles out at him from a staff photo taken not long after he took over as executive chef at Sesamo in DC, about a year and two tattoos ago.
It's snowing again by the time Kame heads out, and when he leaves, his flat is perfumed with the mouth-watering scent of red peppers roasted on a gas flame, now marinating in Ligurian olive oil with slices of garlic. Watching the blue-orange flame char the red pepper black only provided minimal relief, so he decides to walk, despite the snow, in an attempt to clear his head and ease the guilt and regret burning in his chest. He doesn't particularly want to be a miserable shit all evening, not when he needs to be charming. These things are never pure social events for Kame, the sort where he can push up his sleeves and kick back. Instead, it's work, even if it's to support friends. Many of the city's restaurateurs will be at the party, not to mention current and future investors, bloggers, journalists, and the fucking New York Post.
It's freezing, but it feels good, somehow, the way it penetrates his heavy long wool coat and sinks into his bones. The cold makes him feel sharper. Snow collects on his shoulders.
Fortunately the snow isn't enough to keep the invitees home from the much-anticipated February opening party. In fact there are lines to get in, even for VIPs. As Kame steps into the VIP line, he eyes the long stretch of people going back down the block, murmuring under umbrellas, hoods and hats; his line is still shorter, so he doesn't need to shiver in the cold for too long before he gets to the door and is waved into the entryway. Kame stamps the snow and slush off his feet and wipes his shoes well on a mat as he hands his outerwear over to the coat-checkers.
Inside it's packed, wall-to-wall bodies through which servers carefully move with trays of hors d'oeurves, champagne or wine. And it's noisy, too, the din of a couple hundred people bouncing off the wood floors he can barely see beneath his feet and the high ceilings and paneled walls. Snagging a glass of red wine and a fried ball of shitake-and-scallion flecked risotto stuffed with a jewel of pitted umeboshi, he's grabbed almost immediately by an acquaintance, the owner of a nearby Midtown three-star restaurant and her wife, a Chelsea boutique hotel director.
An hour and a half and probably three or four glasses of wine later, Kame is flushed and a little wobbly. When he finally runs into Yamapi who's sporting an expensive Italian suit and a new haircut, Yamapi's deep in conversation with a slender man with a shock of fine dark hair, round cheeks and a penetrating gaze. Yamapi spots Kame and reaches out an arm to drag him in.
"Kame," Yamapi is saying in a bright, loud voice, draping himself over Kame's shoulder, "where've you been? Been looking all over for you-"
As if, Kame thinks, but he makes sure to just smile in response.
"-you know Imai, here, right?"
Of course he knows Takki's business partner and co-owner, but Kame restrains himself from rolling his eyes at the dumb question. Instead he shakes Tsubasa's hand in their very close quarters where the three of them are squashed into a miniscule piece of real estate on the corner of the back bar.
"Good to see you," he nods, and he raises his glass to clink Tsubasa's nearly-empty champagne flute. "Terrific party. I hope all this is on the menu because people are definitely going to want to eat what you're serving tonight again."
Tsubasa's eyes crinkle up as his face splits into a grin. "Don't worry," he says, leaning close to speak into Kame's ear. "Most of it will be on the menu. We're getting really good feedback tonight."
"So where the hell is the man of the hour?" Kame asks, swiveling his head. "I've been looking for the two of you since I got here."
"Oh, Takki's around here somewhere," Tsubasa says vaguely, craning his neck.
"He was just here," Yamapi interjects, clutching at Kame's shoulders, "you just missed him. He got dragged away by that lady, um-"
"Nanako-san," Tsubasa says, "she flew here from Japan just for this party." He's shaking his head with another grin. "That guy, he has this crazy fanclub or something."
"Or something," Kame agrees. "I can't believe he actually stayed out of the kitchen tonight."
Yamapi laughs. "Yeah, well, he knew he had to show his face."
"You look good," Kame says to Tsubasa, unable to keep surprise from tinging his admiration. "You're so laid back about all this. I'd be biting my nails back there, totally freaking out. You should've seen me when we opened Sesamo in Washington. I was a basket-case."
"Yes, you were," Yamapi affirms, a little too loudly for Kame's taste.
Tsubasa shakes his head, his expression rueful. "It's called Valium." He chuckles. "Our last permits came through only two days ago," he says, "it was a near thing. Takki's been working up to an ulcer, and I thought we were going to have to delay the opening until next month, but now we're still on schedule. And we're already half-booked for our first month and we haven't even officially opened yet."
"You deserve it," Kame smiles, and he means it. He knows it's been a long road to this point, the opening of Takizawa, Manhattan's much-anticipated new Japanese-fusion restaurant. It's been an especially long road for Takki. He's spent the last seven years clawing his way back from a terrible descent into addiction and ruin, getting his head and his affairs in order.
Clearly the monumental effort has paid off. Kame appreciates the care and effort that have gone into making Takizawa look and taste amazing; having consulted for both Takki and Tsubasa, he's hoping that the city's eaters and reviewers respond as favorably as Takki's superlative cooking deserves.
Kame looks over his shoulder at Yamapi whose face is stretched in a yawn. Jetlag, Kame remembers. Yamapi's been on Dutch time for a week, only just returned. "So how was the conference?"
"Fantastic," Yamapi says, emptying his champagne flute, "too bad you couldn't make it. A lot of good ideas. David Chang gave the keynote and the chef from Prune, I always get her name wrong, Noelle? Giselle?"
While Yamapi's trying to remember, Kame drains another glass of wine and extricates himself from under Yamapi's heavy arm, ignoring Yamapi's attempt to pull him back in.
"Gabrielle Hamilton," Kame supplies.
"Right, her. She gave the best talk of the conference. You should watch it, it should be online. Hey, wait," Yamapi says, "Nina told me you worked Beckett's dinner last night at Sesamo. How's Andrew?"
"He's fine," Kame returns, "they let him go home this morning. He was going to work tonight but I told him to stay home and rest; all the cooks are working tonight, so I think Susanna and Beppe should be able to handle it."
"Thanks for covering. I got a nice email from Beckett today, did you see it? He wants to organize something like it for his wife's fiftieth birthday in September. Something like 'fifty plates for fifty years.'"
Kame knows, he got the same email. He pastes on a smile for his partner. "Sure, sounds good. If he's serious, you and I should hammer out a menu, you know, get it nailed down now." Kame turns to Tsubasa and squeezes Tsubasa's shoulder with a smile. "Great party. It's a great space, I love what you've done with it. And Takki's food is. Well, you don't need me to tell you. Congratulations."
Tsubasa raises his glass toward Kame and nods. "Thanks, Kame. We'll talk soon."
Kame tries to slide away, but Yamapi hauls him back with an iron grip and pushes him mouth against Kame's ear. "Are you okay?" He's smiling widely, but his eyes glitter with warning. "'cause you look-"
"What?" Kame says, feeling a wave of embarrassment and irritation rise up. He thought he was doing well. "I'm fine."
"Go easy on the drinks, Kame," Yamapi says, and his voice is edged now, worried, almost. Kame recoils, angry words bubbling up and choking in his throat. "Yeah," he says a few beats later, and he doesn't bother to hide the sarcasm, "you, too." He lifts his now-empty glass mockingly.
Kame slips out of his grip as Yamapi tries to clutch at him again.
"No, wait-" Kame hears, but that's all because he's swallowed by the close press of bodies. He moves away, feeling restless and reckless, wanting to defy his partner just out of spite. He's not a schoolboy to be lectured about his drinking habits, and he's not behaving badly, he's fine, and Yamapi is just assuming that he'll be a drunken idiot. He deposits his empty glass on a server's tray and keeps moving, trying to breathe through the adrenaline suddenly coursing through him.
It's a while before he sees them, after weaving a painfully slow path through the tightly-packed crowd and getting waylaid more than a few times by people he knows; they're bunched up together in a corner by an enormous potted palm. Haruka, tooth-shatteringly adorable with big eyes, round cheeks and masses of dark hair, spots him first and explodes off the wall, both her arms outstretched.
"Boss!" she cries in Japanese, throwing her arms around his neck and drawing him backwards to their little huddle. The tension in Kame's chest loosens a bit and he can't help but smile widely and relax into her warm welcome; he's particularly fond of his executive chef at Zenzero, their original East Village outpost.
"Hey, Ayase," he says, giving her ribs a gentle squeeze before releasing her. He fluffs her hair affectionately as she beams at him in delight. "Good to see you."
"Kamenashi!" he hears a light voice from his left, and Kame turns to clasp the upright palm of a slender narrow-featured man with brown hair.
"Toma," Kame says wonderingly, taking in Toma's loose-fitting designer jeans topped by an expensive white shirt and a skinny black tie. "Didn't expect to see you here. I thought you were still in Hokkaido."
"Was. Just got back, actually."
"Hey, boss," and Kame looks over at the third member of the trio. It's Sanjay, leaned up against the wall with one shoulder, the palm tree arcing over his head and looking hotter than he has any right to be in a black silk button-down shirt and grey herring-bone vest over a very tailored pair of grey wool slacks. His black hair tumbles loosely to touch his shoulders and he's holding a bottle of beer which he tips up to his mouth for a long draught.
Kame wants to look away, but he can't, and he can't deny the sudden surge of heat that goes through him as he watches Sanjay's lips around the bottle, the line of his throat convulsing with the swallow. Sanjay eyes him warily as he brings the bottle down to cradle against his chest.
Kame goes for the most casual smile he can muster as he greets him, his mouth suddenly dry.
"It figures that Takki would throw a party during a snowstorm," Kame hears Toma say, and he turns his attention back to Toma and Haruka.
"What amazes me," Kame says, "is that no one seems to care. I mean, look at all these people. And it's still snowing out there."
"This must be the worst February I've ever seen in New York. Winters have been so warm these last few years. I've never seen so much snow here," Toma says, shaking his head.
"I think it's romantic, though, don't you? When you walk in the park," Haruka says, "it's so quiet and you can hear the snow fall. I never thought I'd hear snow falling in New York."
"Heh!" Toma says dismissively, "You've only been here a few years, it'll get old after a while," because she came to them from San Francisco by way of Hong Kong and Tokyo. "I got more than enough snow in Hokkaido," he continues, "I am so ready for spring-"
"Runa asked me to say hello," Haruka says to Kame, cutting Toma off. "She wanted to come tonight but-" Haruka shrugs as if to say you know how it is. Generally-speaking the only cooks who could attend an event like this are the fortunate chefs - the bosses, like Sanjay and Haruka - who can arrange their own schedules to have their staff cover for them. Haruka's girlfriend has just been installed as the new executive pastry chef at Michelin-starred Eleven Madison Park. Kame knows that Runa isn't about to prioritize a party over her prestigious new position.
"Give her my love," Kame says, meaning it. "Miriam's covering for you at Zenzero?"
"Yep," Haruka nods. "How's Andrew? I heard about last night."
"Wait," Toma interjects. "What're you talking about? What happened to Andrew?"
Kame explains, but his attention keeps wandering back to Sanjay who's got his head tipped into the wall as he takes periodic drags off his bottle and contributes little as the conversation shifts from Kame's impromptu stint in the Sesamo kitchen to a discussion of how the brutal winter weather has affected commerce in the city.
"Hey, did you see," Haruka says, changing the topic, "that the tenth anniversary edition of Modernist Cuisine is finally out for presale?"
Kame nods happily, "I did. Already placed my order. I love the new black covers."
"The new issue of Lucky Peach just came out, too," Sanjay pipes up. "I think you'll like it."
"What did those circle-jerk hacks come up with now? Oh wait, I don't care," Toma says, rolling his eyes.
"Bite your tongue, you heathen," Sanjay says, laughing. They're all very used to Toma's opinionated pronouncements.
Kame stares at Sanjay's mouth and maybe Yamapi is right that he's had too much to drink because wow, he wants to push Sanjay into the wall and-
"Family meal," Sanjay replies to Haruka's question about the issue's theme. "-and there's this whole feature on El Bulli Foundation which is awesome, I'd give my left nut to spend a year there. Oh, and they revisit sous vide for the home cook." He takes another swig of his beer.
"I think," Toma begins in a purposefully obnoxious tone, "you forget I'm not an uber-food nerd like you losers."
It's a blatant lie, of course. Haruka and Sanjay burst out laughing and Toma dodges away from Haruka's shove.
"Who're you calling a nerd, nerd-boy," she says, poking him in the chest.
"Yeah," Sanjay chimes in, "just because you traded your apron in to be a writer-" Sanjay makes extravagant air-quotes. "-now you've got all these delusions of grandeur."
"Yeah, that's because I'm not a food slave anymore."
"Some of us," Haruka says airily, "still love this job. So speak for yourself, Toma. Just admit it - you couldn't hack it anymore."
"That's right," Sanjay says, "so who's the loser now?"
"What-the-fuck-ever," Toma replies. "Why's Lucky Peach still banging on about sous vide anyway. That's been done to death. And aren't you all tired of hearing about Ferran Adrià by now?"
Haruka's eyes widen in mock-horror; speaking ill of Adrià is as heretical as saying Thomas Keller is a washed-up talentless hack.
Kame listens absently as she and Sanjay begin debating Ferran Adrià's rank in the culinary pantheon with Toma. Kame knows better than to join in. Toma doesn't hold much sacred, and he enjoys pushing all the buttons he can.
Kame only just follows along as the conversation moves on to how the newer chefs like Poppy Patel and Rowan Petersen measure up to the likes of Grant Achatz or Wylie Dufresne and whether or not centrifuges and ten thousand dollar flash-freeze or distillation equipment belong in a restaurant kitchen. Kame doesn't pay close attention because he's heard it all before.
"It's all about inventing techniques," Haruka says. "I think it's fun. There's so much humor and intelligence in what they're doing."
Toma rolls his eyes. "Please. I just want food that tastes good. I don't need my food to be science fiction or some kind of food pun, you know? Anyway, all those guys are into sous vide cooking," Toma says, "I hate it, man. I don't care how good the food tastes or whatever. I want fire on my meat! I'm morally opposed to cooking in fucking plastic. Ugh." He shudders.
Privately Kame agrees with him on the plastic part, but he's also tasted the results. Momofuku's famous deep-fried short ribs begin with a sous vide preparation and they're still legendary.
Sanjay exchanges an amused look with Haruka. They're both making noises to appease Toma's hatred of the plastic ("So don't use plastic - that's what silicon is for," Haruka says) when Kame asks "where did you get that?" while eyeing Sanjay's beer.
"What?" Sanjay glances at Kame distractedly. Kame thinks he sees a flush coming through Sanjay's brown skin.
"That bottle. I haven't had any luck with beer. Where'd you get it?"
"Um-" Sanjay actually looks flustered.
"Hey, guys," Kame says suddenly to Toma and Haruka whose heads are tucked together, giggling over something he didn't hear. "Mind if I borrow Sanjay for a bit? Be right back."
"Riiiight, boss," Haruka says with a wink that should worry Kame.
"Later, man," Toma says, but Kame's already got a hold on Sanjay's wrist and is dragging him away. Sanjay doesn't resist as they push through a set of double-doors, down a steep stairway and far into a cool dim hallway crowded with loaded pallets, piles of boxes and other supplies. Kame feels like they've tunneled deep underground. He pauses near the end of the hall struggling to remember the layout from the last time he was here.
When Sanjay yanks loose of Kame's grip, Kame turns, a protest on his lips.
"Shut up, Kame," Sanjay growls, suddenly looming over him. Kame's teeth click shut, and his head hits the wall jarringly when Sanjay presses hard against him and kisses him. Pain sparks behind his eyes just as the rough grind of Sanjay's hips sends a different set of sparks through him. He grunts into Sanjay's mouth and Sanjay instantly licks into him, wet and filthy and tasting of beer.
"How much've you had to drink?" Kame asks, feeling a pang of conscience.
"Not enough. Come back," Sanjay answers. Seconds later, he has his hands on Kame's face, stroking along his cheekbones, his fingers sliding back into Kame's hair until he wraps his hands around Kame's head, adjusting their angle, and kissing him as though it's the last time.
It is the last time, Kame realizes, and he makes a noise that sounds hurt even to his own ears.
Sanjay pulls back, panting. Kame's braces himself against the wall to compensate for his now-shaky knees. He closes his eyes, feeling Sanjay's breath on his face, and he turns his head slightly so his lips graze Sanjay's cheek. He snakes a hand down between them and cups Sanjay through his trousers, feeling Sanjay's hard cock twitch under his hand, hips stuttering forward. "I want-"
It's Sanjay's turn to make a noise, a groan, and as Kame bears down, he feels an answering shudder everywhere they touch.
"Can I," he murmurs, mouthing along Sanjay's lightly-stubbled jaw.
"Yes," Sanjay chokes out, "whatever you want."
Kame nods blindly, resting his forehead against Sanjay's shoulder. "Okay," he says, "okay."
--
Afterward, Kame makes himself return to the party. He sends Sanjay back first without letting him reciprocate which, initially, Sanjay doesn't understand. He looks at Kame, hands beginning to curl into fists, almost angry, but more hurt and confused.
Kame gets to his feet in the dim hallway, meets his eyes.
"It's all right," Kame tells him as kindly as he can, "It's fine. Really." He feels abominably tired. He rubs his forehead with the back of one hand, and when he looks up again, he sees understanding, at last, mingled with regret. Sanjay nods once, and when he turns to go, Kame nearly sags with relief.
It's not supposed to be easy, Kame thinks after Sanjay is gone. It should be sad. It's better this way.
He pulls himself together. Adjusts his tie. Once he works his way back into the party, he finds a drink so he can rinse the taste of Sanjay from his mouth. A fresh start, he thinks. Feeling more relaxed than he has all evening, Kame goes back to work.
Past midnight the crowd is beginning to thin when Kame pushes off the wall where's he's been chatting with Takki and Kame's other partner, Meisa Kuroki. Yamapi's disappeared, and Kame's only caught glimpses of Tsubasa mingling with his guests over the last couple hours. He never managed to find Toma and Haruka again.
"Leaving?" Meisa says. She twitches a swath of long black hair back over her shoulder and fixes him with her dark, steady gaze.
"Long day," Kame says, shrugging ruefully. "Sorry, Takki, I think I need to get going."
Takki smiles at him, a quiet, mellow smile that Kame knows he'd never be capable of if it was his pre-opening party. Even after a long day and no doubt a crazy amount of stress, Takki looks crisp and elegant in his pristine white chef's coat, silken strands of honey-colored hair falling over his forehead. The years have taken their toll, however. He's no longer the fresh-faced and carefree young chef Kame met years ago, the Kitagawa Restaurant Group's golden boy. Now, there are lines around his eyes and less arrogance. But he also exudes quiet confidence, and a glow of pride that Kame thinks is wholly deserved. He survived years of terrible mistakes and found his way back, bit by bit, until he could achieve something truly special.
"I'm so glad you could make it," Takki says, and Kame knows he's saying more than a simple hospitable thank you. Takki lost a lot of friends during the rough years; Kame's one of those who stuck around. He leans toward him and wraps his arms around Takki's shoulders; Takki is only a little taller than he is. When he draws back, Kame pats him on the cheek the way the cooks in Spain used to pat Kame's cheek when he was a kid and still learning.
"You-a keep-a up the good-a work," Kame teases in a hugely fake Italian accent and chucks him under the chin for good measure. Takki grins and twists his arm around Kame's neck to keep him in a loose headlock.
"You, Kame-kun," Takki laughs, "should respect your elders."
Kame pretends to claw at his throat. "I have respect, Takki-sempai, I do, I do," he squawks until Takki lets him go.
"Hey, Kame," Meisa says, looking away thoughtfully, "your boy, Sanjay-"
"What?" he says, jolted out of his mirth, "he's not my boy."
"Oh, calm down," she says, "it's not like I don't know." She pauses. "It's so cute that you think you can keep secrets from me."
Kame's mouth drops open and he gapes at her. "I don't know what you're talking about." He ignores the heat rising up to his hairline.
She makes a dismissive gesture. "Kame, darling, I know everything there is to know about everything that has to do with our business. Just like you," she says witheringly, "so don't play dumb. It's not a good look on you."
Kame darts a quick look at Takki who's watching them with an amused smile.
"What about him?" he asks warily.
"He's a very pretty man. I'd snap him up if I weren't taken."
"Okay," Kame says slowly.
"So I'm not the only one," she points out.
"And?"
"And maybe you should go see what that's all about," Meisa says, her head tipping toward the bar. "He's been at it for a while."
Kame follows her gaze and sees Sanjay at the bar, leaning in toward someone screened behind his lean form. The sloppy angle of Sanjay's body, the eager tilt of his hips, they speak volumes.
Kame stares for a few seconds as he watches Sanjay ripple with laughter. Kame turns back to meet Meisa's eyes. Her expression is inquiring, one eyebrow lifted.
"What," Kame says, bristling, "I'm not his keeper. He can talk to whoever he wants." He wants to sound more casual, but instead it comes out defensive.
She lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "If you say so." She leans forward and puts her arms around Kame's neck, kissing him on the cheek. "Get home safe," she says, "and for heaven's sake, get some sleep."
"I will," Kame says.
"Good. See you Thursday."
Kame returns her gaze blankly.
"Lunch? At Zenzero?" she prompts.
"Right, lunch. Honestly, I can't remember for shit, but Nina's probably calendared it." He kisses her cheek and steps back. Her eyes twinkle as she watches him steal another glance back at the bar. She gives him a little nudge.
"You're hopeless," she chuckles. "Go on, get out of here."
Kame keeps his head down and walks past the bar, still debating with himself whether or not he should stop and say anything to Sanjay. While he's still deciding, a hand snags on Kame's sleeve. Kame begins to shrug him off before he thinks better of it. Time to be a grownup. No avoiding allowed.
He leans a hip against the bar stool beside Sanjay and Sanjay bumps his shoulder in greeting. He's smiling, wide and loose, and, Kame decides, he's very drunk. He's also alone, which lets Kame relax a tiny bit.
"You aren't leaving, are you?" Sanjay's hand tightens on his arm.
Kame frowns for a second but then he remembers to be grateful that Sanjay is a remarkably good-natured drunk. This could be so much worse. Kame would be so much worse if he were in Sanjay's shoes - and he'd be an asshole. He has been, before.
Kame stifles that thought and flashes as genuine a smile as he can manage. "I turn into a pumpkin soon," he says, trying to sound regretful, "it's late."
"No, no, no, it's early, Kame, it's early, it's not even two. Just stay and hang out, okay? We're heading to Doc Hollidays. You should come."
Kame studies Sanjay's face, his resolve withering, but then he remembers what he's just seen: Sanjay leaned flirtatiously into someone else, the eagerness in his posture so bloody familiar, and Kame know he has to be better than he has been. He needs to give Sanjay his space and let this go. He's been selfish for too long.
Kame bites down on the inside of his mouth and clasps a hand to Sanjay's shoulder, squeezing.
"Have fun. Have one for me," he adds, and he gently disentangles himself from Sanjay's loosely grasping hands. He forces himself to look away from Sanjay's disappointed eyes. "I'll call you later."
He pushes himself away with an effort, makes his way toward the coat check. Kame fumbles for his ticket as he comes up behind a pair of broad shoulders receiving an armload of coats. Numbly he watches the coatcheck girl accept her tip and he steps forward into the space vacated by broad shoulders, barely hears the murmured "good evening, sir," as he places his ticket into the girl's outstretched palm. The racks in the back are nearly empty.
As if from far away, Kame hears his name, and he shivers unaccountably. Frowns. Accepts his coat. Turns, slow.
"Kame?" he hears again. Looks up from where he's pulling his coat on, and he freezes. For several seconds, Kame loses all sensation and everything falls silent around him.
The world returns in a rush of motion and sound, and his heart pounds in his chest. Transfixed, Kame tries to swallow.
"There you are," he hears, a new voice, and a heavy arm claps around his shoulders.
"Yamapi said you were here," someone says distantly, "but I didn't believe him." There's a half-huffed laugh and a desperate veneer of attempted humor overlaying nervousness.
Kame spares a livid glance for Yamapi beside him, and tries to shrug out from under Yamapi's arm. Yamapi tightens his grip.
"Really?" Kame forces through numb lips. "I think he forgot to mention you at all." His tone is light, he knows it is, he's a fucking master at this by now, but Jin's flinch is unmistakable.
Jin, who he hasn't seen in ten years. Hasn't heard from in ten motherfucking years.
Jin, who's standing in front of him in black glasses with thick rims, a plum-colored button-down shirt, silky black tie, indecently tailored dark trousers. His sleeves are unbuttoned and folded to just below his elbows, and he has a pile of coats over one arm. Kame gulps it all in and fixates on the tattoo emerging from Jin's collar along the left side of Jin's neck. He doesn't remember it from before.
Yamapi's fingers squeeze hard, strike bone, and Kame has to suppress a sound.
"We were just leaving," Yamapi says, his voice dropping down low, tinged with warning. Jin's eyes flicker from Kame to Yamapi, and something shifts in his wary expression. He nods, worrying at his lower lip.
"Sure," Jin says, "of course." Kame stiffly glances over at Yamapi again and realizes Yamapi's already in his coat and scarf. Kame pulls away from him and, without meeting anyone's eyes, finishes buttoning up his coat. He's tugging his gloves on when he finally looks up, cheeks flooded with furious heat. He blinks to clear the red haze hanging in front of him, and clears his throat, but Jin beats him to it.
"It's - its good to see you, Kame."
Kame meets Jin's eyes and tilts his head slightly at Jin's odd tone.
"Right" he replies, and stops, not looking away. "How the fuck are you, Akanishi?" His voice sounds strange and breathless in his ears.
There's a short pause. A flash of something like pain crosses Jin's face. "I'm good," he answers.
Kame finds himself nodding, his lips clamped together. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Sanjay approaching, but he doesn't look away from Jin.
"Come on, Kame," Yamapi says with a nudge. To Jin: "I'll catch up with you later." Yamapi sounds heavy, portentous.
Kame feels his face twist into a something ugly. "Guess I'll see you in another decade." That last comes out bitter, a bit of sand flicked into Jin's eyes. He doesn't wait for a reply as he strides away, through the doors, out into the icy breath of the wintry night.
--
"You just had to say it," Yamapi grumbles when they're past the front doors and out on the narrow sidewalk, waiting for Yamapi's car from the service to arrive. Kame stays silent, holds himself still, his chest aching and his gloved fists furled tight in his pockets. He resists the urge to pace in the snow along the curb, certain that he'd probably slip and make an ass of himself. Tiny flakes of snow alight on his eyelashes.
When the dark town car draws up, Yamapi doesn't wait for the driver, but yanks the door open and thrusts Kame unceremoniously inside. He piles in after Kame and gives the driver Kame's address.
"I don't need a baby sitter," Kame mutters to the window.
"I know," Yamapi replies without inflection. Kame looks over his shoulder at Yamapi only once, but Yamapi's head is tilted against his window, eyes half-lidded in the flicker of lights from the street. When they arrive in front of Kame's building, Yamapi follows him out after a brief discussion with the driver.
"What are you doing?" Kame asks, frowning.
"I'm coming up with you. You're gonna make tea and we're gonna have a chat,and then I'm going home. You-" Yamapi's gaze flickers critically. "You don't look so good. You should get some sleep."
"Is that so?" Kame asks softly, feeling impotent fury swell in his chest.
"Yep," Yamapi says, almost cheerful.
Just like that, Kame's fury evaporates and weariness drags at his eyes. He turns on his heel, shoes crunching through snow and salt.
Inside his flat, Kame finds his way to the kitchen in the dark and turns the bright blue gas flame on under the kettle. He looks up as Yamapi pads in on stocking feet. Unerringly Yamapi finds Kame's tea stash and sets up their mugs on the counter.
"You knew," Kame says, not accusing, but flat.
"Not for sure," Yamapi says, after several seconds. He leans his hip into the counter and faces Kame. "I didn't even know he was in town. I got to the party and someone mentioned his name."
"He didn't come with you?" Kame frowns in surprise.
Yamapi shakes his head.
"So then-"
"He came with Rowan. I ran into them after I saw you."
"Huh." Now that's a surprise; Kame turns it over for a moment. Rowan Petersen is one of the new guys, twenty-seven years old with a dyed-black punk hair cut and two full sleeves hidden under his chef's coat like he's ready for his fucking Food Network close-up. At first glance, the kid looks exactly like the hordes of camera-ready celebrity-wannabe assholes coming out of the CIA these days. And yet, Rowan's the real deal, an unpretentious creative prodigy with an insane work ethic, a keen head for the business, and good fortune in his partners. Makes it hard for anyone to hate him too much - not even after all the media attention still dogging him two years after opening one of the most-discussed new restaurants in Manhattan - not to mention the resulting three star New York Times review and a James Beard award for Rising Star Chef of the Year. Kame's only met him a few times but he's read a lot of Rowan's press and his rare interviews. Thing is, Rowan's never had a big mouth like some of the hotshot chefs in town, and Kame secretly admires him for that. The guy cooks. When he does speak, it's all about the food and what excites him. He never lets himself get trapped into trash-talking his competition, which, Kame thinks, is often par for the course these days.
Kame cuts a sharp glance toward Yamapi. "Wait - is something going on there?"
Yamapi shrugs. Then he sighs. "I don't know. Maybe. I mean, Jin usually lets me know when he's going to be in town."
"How does he even know Rowan?"
Yamapi shakes his head and rubs at his mouth with one hand. "No idea."
"So where's Jin been?" Kame interrupts.
Yamapi stares back at him. The kettle begins to buzz angrily as the water nears a boil.
"Just tell me."
For a few seconds, Yamapi looks like he might, but then his mouth thins into a flat line. "No," he says. "If you wanted to know, you would've asked me before. You can ask Jin yourself. I'm not getting in the middle again."
The kettle whistles, building to a shriek. Yamapi switches the gas off, fills their mugs, and sets a timer on his watch. Kame hefts the mugs and heads toward the dining table.
"What makes you think I'll see him again?" Kame asks as Yamapi sprawls into place opposite him.
Again with the shrug. "I have a feeling." Yamapi's eyes flicker up to Kame's and back down. "Listen, Kame-"
"Spare me the lecture," Kame groans, leaning forward onto his elbows, and clutching at his hair.
"I know you're angry. But. Do you have to do this? It's such a fucking cliche."
"I always knew I could count on you," Kame bites out, feeling his mouth twist.
"You can, actually."
Yamapi lets the words hang, his face turned away. Kame shifts then, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Why can't I be angry?" he begins. " I am angry. I've been angry for-"
"-ten years, I know. I know. You're a fucking broken record." Yamapi voice is pinched.
"Hey!" Kame protests.
"Fine, only when you're drunk and feeling sorry for yourself."
"I'm not drunk and feeling sorry for myself."
Yamapi give him a look. Kame squirms. "Okay, fine. I'm a little drunk. And I'm feeling a little sorry for myself. It's been a shit day! It was a shit day before fucking Akanishi. He's just the-"
"-Last straw." Yamapi sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly with one hand. "I'm sorry, but seriously, Kame. Let it go. People change. They grow up. They move the fuck on."
"Right," Kame blurts, "just like you have."
Yamapi's expression curdles. "We're not talking about me."
Kame grunts before taking a big gulp of his tea, burning his mouth.
"He didn't leave you high and dry," Kame says after a moment.
Yamapi slams his mug down on the table. Kame starts.
"No," Yamapi says, "he didn't. Maybe if he had, I'd still be pissed, too. But you know what? Life's too short. And people make mistakes. That's life." Yamapi pauses and when he begins again, his voice has a hard edge. "Look, I don't care what you do. Go ahead, be an asshole if that's what you want. But don't do it around me. Don't involve me. And don't-" He stabs an emphatic finger in Kame's direction and his voice deepens further. "Do not make anything about this public. Whatever you have to say, or do, or whatever, keep it private. We don't need any gossip floating around."
Kame grudgingly nods. "Fine."
"You're clear on that? I do not wanting to be fielding calls from Eater or goddamned Grub Street-"
"I said fine."
"Good. Well." Yamapi trails off uncertainly. "Will you be all right?" He bites his lip.
Kame can't help a startled laugh. "Now you ask. Little late, don't you think?"
"Probably," Yamapi says, standing. Kame follows him to the door where Yamapi plucks his coat off the rack and jams his feet into hard-soled dress shoes. He faces Kame. "Whatever you think, I am sorry things turned out this way. And I can understand why you're-" He makes a vague gesture. "You know." He pauses and Kame waits.
"You're both my friends." Yamapi doesn't meet his eyes. "I hope-"
"You're just tired of having this conversation," Kame says, one corner of his mouth quirking up.
Yamapi almost smiles at that and rolls his eyes. "I really am," he allows. "Go to bed, Kame."
It's been an abominably long day and considering he hasn't slept much in days, Kame really just wants to fall into bed and stay there until next month. He doesn't want to think about Sanjay or Jin, or even puzzle over Rowan. He's sure he'll be out the instant his head hits the pillow. Maybe he's asleep already.
"Sure thing," Kame says and he means it. A yellow wedge pushes its way into the flat from the light from the landing, nudges at Kame's socked feet. The light gleams on Yamapi's polished shoes.
The door closes on Yamapi. Kame sags against it and slowly pivots, cursing softly in at least four languages. Maybe five. He tugs at his tie with one hand, sawing it back and forth until the loose knot is somewhere well below the shelf of his collarbone. Kame pushes off the door and weaves forward; his fingertips gingerly touch the walls in the pitching dark.
+part three
::::
::::
Kame wakes to the insistent alarm from his cellphone going off by head. Groggy, he slaps around for it until he finds it vibrating and beeping under his pillow. Cradles it to his chest, trying to ignore just how shitty he feels.
He'd slept in his clothes, he realizes almost immediately from the belt biting into the scant flesh of his hips. He curses himself for several minutes before he wills himself to roll over and crawl out of bed. Ten minutes later he's slumped over the counter in his sliver of a kitchen, hands curved around a cup of coffee as he waits for slices of frozen homemade bread to heat up in a cast-iron skillet. With his eyes closed, he listens to the hiss from the pan for a few minutes, the gas flame as high as it will go. When he opens them, steam is curling and rising up from around the edges of where each square of bread touches the black of the pan.
By the time he's ready to leave, he's on his third cup of coffee. The slices of crispy toast he'd slathered with fig preserves and shreds of Manchego cheese are long gone; his mostly-empty refrigerator prompts him to call in a grocery delivery. He knuckles his eyes before slipping on his earpiece and he calls Nina on his way out the door to make his ten o'clock meeting.
Two hours later he's finished with the landlord of a small storefront Kayakuya is interested in, spoken with Andrew, and he's dropped in on a wine merchant about a shipment of Vermentino for Sesamo. It's noon and he's surprised to discover that his head actually feels better, well enough that he decides to take a break. A walk, he decides. He could drop in and catch up with friends at their restaurants, talk shop and clear his head.
The sky is forbidding when Kame hits the street and it's just as freezing as Sanjay warned when he left Washington. Several blocks later, his phone vibrates in his coat pocket.
just got in. free for lunch?
Kame thinks about that for a few seconds before he keys in a response. He has a strange feeling that almost prompts him to stick to his original plan, make an excuse, but he is hungry and he has a little time. He waits for Sanjay at a tiny Peruvian place not far from his building and spends the time catching up online, tweeting answers to queries. He manages a big smile when Sanjay drops into a seat opposite him, peeling off layers of outerwear and pushing them over the back of his chair.
"Hey," Sanjay says, slightly breathless.
Kame enjoys watching Sanjay's form appear from under the puffy down jacket, looking casual but well-put together in a dark brown fitted turtle-neck sweater and a pair of blue jeans, all broad-shouldered and slim-hipped. A server appears immediately which doesn't surprise Kame since he knows the couple that runs the place. Kame orders huevos as an appetizer, suggests the homey chicken noodle to Sanjay when he asks about a good soup to warm him up, and Kame orders the crab--stuffed avocado and chicharron with yucca chips. When he sticks with water, Sanjay lifts an eyebrow but follows suit.
"Late night?" he asks when the server's gone.
"Don't ask," Kame groans, settling his elbows on the table and rubbing at his face roughly. When he lowers his hands, Sanjay is leaned back in his chair, one elbow hooked over the back while his other arm is stretched out in front of him, the long slender fingers spread out and relaxed.
"Okay," Sanjay says wryly, and the corners of his mouth quirk up. Kame studies him and realizes that Sanjay's casual pose is masking nervousness. Kame's stomach twists uneasily.
Sanjay shifts, pulling his chair a tiny bit forward and resting both his forearms flat on the table, his hands spread flat on either side of his table setting.
Kame waits, his eyes flickering from Sanjay's hands to his face. He's disconcerted by Sanjay's direct gaze.
"What?" he asks, trying not to sound peevish at the scrutiny.
"I just..." Sanjay huffs out a quick breath and laughs a little. "Look I'm sorry about this. I don't want to. To be a jerk, you know? I don't want to be that guy."
"What guy?" Kame says slowly, his uneasiness increasing.
Sanjay laughs again, quick, with an ever-so-slight edge. "You know, that guy. The one who fucks up a good thing."
"What do you mean?" Kame forces himself to say through stiffened lips.
It takes Sanjay a bit to begin again, time that Kame spends staring at his face, willing him not to have this conversation. Certainly not here and not now. There are a lot of things he likes about Sanjay: his creative, flexible and prodigious talent in the kitchen, his sense of fun, his fierce intelligence. He especially likes how easy things have always been, late at night after a long, long day, how things are when they get going, how easily they fall together - and how they've never needed to talk about anything the next day. It's not that Kame hasn't felt guilty, because he has. But things have never been weird between them. Not until yesterday, anyway.
"I get it," Sanjay says at last. "I do. I know this is kinda messed up-"
And wow, that isn't an understatement, Kame thinks.
"-and that you don't want any complications. It's been fun. I mean, I've had fun. I know we're just." He grinds to a halt. "I know we've just been-" He swallows, any bravado draining away. "-fucking around. It's great. It's been great."
He stops and he's not looking at Kame anymore, he's staring down at the table, somewhere between them. Kame twists the napkin in his lap.
The server comes back with the huevos, a Peruvian snack of hand-cut french fries tossed with coins of chorizo sausage and flecked with shreds of egg white. Kame reaches out and snares a wand of crisp potato, swipes it into one of the sauces, pops it into his mouth. It's hot and perfect, but it doesn't provide any distraction.
"But?" It comes out cracked.
Sanjay looks up at him again, and his eyes are pinched. "But yesterday...First time we ever went back to your place."
Kame's throat tightens. "I know," he says, nodding, trying not to look away.
"Yeah." Sanjay pauses, and his fingers curl into his palms. "First time I woke up and you were still there."
Kame can see how much it costs Sanjay to make that admission, and he wants to tell him it's not like that, it's never been like that, only - he can't. For the last year, that's exactly how it's been. Most of the time they never make it to Sanjay's place at all. It's been all too easy to get off anywhere handy, rough-and-dirty like a pair of teenagers: back alley, restroom, Sanjay's locked office at Sesamo late at night after everyone's gone but the nightporters. Just blowing off steam.
"I'm sorry," Kame says, because he is. He looks at Sanjay helplessly. He doesn't know what else to say.
"I know," Sanjay is nodding, pained. "I know you are. I know-"
"It's not that-" Kame begins before he stops and finishes with "I'm sorry. It's just. I can't-"
"I know," Sanjay interrupts, fixing him with earnest eyes, "I know this is bad. You're my boss. I knew it, and I didn't care. Actually-" he pauses and looks away for a second, "-I still don't care about that, and maybe that's bad, but that's not the reason that I'm. It's not why I'm." He stops.
Kame shakes his head. He knows he should be sorry because he is Sanjay's boss. He's just never been sorry enough. All joking aside, however, Kame's never once thrown his weight around. Guilt has made him extra careful to never take advantage of Sanjay in the professional arena, and he's doesn't think he's ever shown him any favoritism beyond what Haruka enjoys - but he knows that his precious few scruples aren't really worth much. He is still directly responsible for Sanjay's employment. There are so many ways it could have gone wrong. Kame should never have-
Kame rubs a hand across his face.
He glances back at Sanjay, feeling very small. Tries to keep his eyes steady. "Look," he begins, something hard and ashamed in his throat. "I've never bullshitted you, and I don't plan to start." He takes a breath. "I screwed up. This is a problem, and it is in no way because of you."
"We're both adults," Sanjay says, clearly unhappy. "I knew what I was getting into. I'm not blaming you."
"That's not the point. I should never have-" What should he say? I'm sorry if I let you imagine this could ever go anywhere? "I can't - you know."
Sanjay looks at him ruefully. "So this is 'it's not you, it's me'?"
Kame winces. "Something like that."
Sanjay takes a quick breath and his hands tighten. The huevos sit between them, barely touched.
"So-"
"I'm an asshole," Kame says, "you know I am. So what's in it for you anyway?" He huffs an impatient laugh.
Sanjay scoffs. "That's an act." He makes a dismissive gesture. "-and everyone knows that. Now you're bullshitting me."
Kame shrugs, uncomfortable. He has this horrible sense of fucking up, not just their working relationship, which would suck, but their friendship which he values even more. "Look. I haven't-" he says. "I don't-" He grits his teeth. "Not in a long time." He stops, keenly aware of why he never has these conversations. He wants to rewind, five minutes at least. No - make that forty-eight hours, before he ever got drunk and stupid enough to bring Sanjay home. They'd had a good thing going.
Sanjay's mouth thins into a tight line, but something dawns in his eyes. "Oh," he says, and he's quiet for a moment. And then: "Huh," soft, punched out him.
Kame stiffens.
"When?"
"When what?" Impatient. Pretends to misunderstand.
Sanjay waits. Kame's usually better at withstanding this sort of thing, but he feels his resolve inexplicably disintegrate. He shoots Sanjay a frustrated look.
"Long enough." Kame makes a face before he chuckles bitterly. "Before Kitagawa died."
Sanjay stares at him, eyebrows lifted high.
"Don't look at me like that," Kame snaps.
"You know what it sounds like, right?"
Kame shrugs uneasily.
"Okay, you tell me you're an asshole, that's your excuse. There's nothing here for me. That's fine. You'll just find yourself another fuck buddy. Someone else who won't call you on your bullshit."
Kame is stung. "That's what you think?"
Sanjay shrugs. "I don't know, you tell me. It's just. I thought-" He looks down at the table and stares hard at his plate. "It's not like I had any real expectations, ok? But I guess I thought you wanted more. Maybe not from me. But from someone. Don't you? I'm asking as your friend now. This isn't about me."
"Okay, you know what?" Kame says, "let's not talk about this anymore. I'm sorry. It's over. Let's leave it at that."
Sanjay nods, studying Kame thoughtfully. "Sure," he says. "I'm not trying to convince you of anything."
"Then what?"
Sanjay's face twists in frustration. "I want you to be honest."
"I have been honest with you," Kame snaps.
Sanjay nods, watching him. "Maybe you have. I'm not sure you've been honest with yourself."
Kame glances away, out at the street beyond the small windowfront and he thinks about that for a moment, taking advantage of the interruption of their server setting plates of food down in front of them. He hears Sanjay thank the server, and when he looks back, Sanjay is still looking at him.
"What? What do you want me to say?"
"Are you happy?"
Kame's rolls his eyes. "Are you kidding me?"
It's Sanjay's turn to shrug now. "Well, are you?" His eyes glitter expectantly.
Kame grabs his fork and digs into his food, furious that he's let the conversation get so out of hand. He shovels fried pork into his mouth, barely tasting it. He feels slightly regretful that he isn't giving the excellent food more attention.
'Hey." Sanjay reaches across the short distance between them, his fingertips touch briefly touch Kame's wrist. "Hey."
"What," Kame snarls.
"I'm not. I'm not trying to hurt you."
"Hurt me?" Kame scoffs. "What, you think. You think just because - You think that now you know me? You know everything about me?"
"No," Sanjay says gently. "Come on, Kame, you're my friend. I want to understand."
"No, you just want me to. I don't know. Ask you out on a date or something." He's being churlish, but he can't bring himself to care. Sanjay laughs in response, a big open mirthful laugh. Kame shifts sheepishly.
"Well," Sanjay says when he stops chuckling, "that would be awesome. But no, that's not what I want. I want you to act like you want more than fucking around."
Kame looks out the window at the traffic and the people on the sidewalk.
"Am I ever happy?" Kame asks, bypassing the rest and chewing on that question for a moment. "I don't know. You know me. I'm only happy when the house is burning down."
Neither of them speaks for a few moments and Sanjay watches him thoughtfully. Kame picks up his fork again and digs it into his food.
"You should eat," Kame says roughly.
Sanjay looks down in surprise, as though he's forgotten entirely about lunch. After a while, Sanjay catches his eye and asks, "Who was he?"
"What?" Kame looks up, startled. Sanjay doesn't reply, just waits until his question registers.
"No one," Kame says at last, hitching his shoulders uneasily. "A friend."
--
Kame attempts to pay for lunch which goes over as well as he should have expected. Two credit cards end up in the folder, and after they've signed their receipts, Sanjay slides Kame's house keys across the table. It feels significant.
Kame pockets the keys and works up a wan smile. He manages to part more or less amicably from Sanjay, even if they look at each other awkwardly and shuffle their feet on the sidewalk before going in separate directions. When he gets back to his flat, Kame fixes himself a tea with a warming splash of brandy and drinks it standing up in the kitchen, leaned against the stove staring at the photos on the refrigerator. Sanjay smiles out at him from a staff photo taken not long after he took over as executive chef at Sesamo in DC, about a year and two tattoos ago.
It's snowing again by the time Kame heads out, and when he leaves, his flat is perfumed with the mouth-watering scent of red peppers roasted on a gas flame, now marinating in Ligurian olive oil with slices of garlic. Watching the blue-orange flame char the red pepper black only provided minimal relief, so he decides to walk, despite the snow, in an attempt to clear his head and ease the guilt and regret burning in his chest. He doesn't particularly want to be a miserable shit all evening, not when he needs to be charming. These things are never pure social events for Kame, the sort where he can push up his sleeves and kick back. Instead, it's work, even if it's to support friends. Many of the city's restaurateurs will be at the party, not to mention current and future investors, bloggers, journalists, and the fucking New York Post.
It's freezing, but it feels good, somehow, the way it penetrates his heavy long wool coat and sinks into his bones. The cold makes him feel sharper. Snow collects on his shoulders.
Fortunately the snow isn't enough to keep the invitees home from the much-anticipated February opening party. In fact there are lines to get in, even for VIPs. As Kame steps into the VIP line, he eyes the long stretch of people going back down the block, murmuring under umbrellas, hoods and hats; his line is still shorter, so he doesn't need to shiver in the cold for too long before he gets to the door and is waved into the entryway. Kame stamps the snow and slush off his feet and wipes his shoes well on a mat as he hands his outerwear over to the coat-checkers.
Inside it's packed, wall-to-wall bodies through which servers carefully move with trays of hors d'oeurves, champagne or wine. And it's noisy, too, the din of a couple hundred people bouncing off the wood floors he can barely see beneath his feet and the high ceilings and paneled walls. Snagging a glass of red wine and a fried ball of shitake-and-scallion flecked risotto stuffed with a jewel of pitted umeboshi, he's grabbed almost immediately by an acquaintance, the owner of a nearby Midtown three-star restaurant and her wife, a Chelsea boutique hotel director.
An hour and a half and probably three or four glasses of wine later, Kame is flushed and a little wobbly. When he finally runs into Yamapi who's sporting an expensive Italian suit and a new haircut, Yamapi's deep in conversation with a slender man with a shock of fine dark hair, round cheeks and a penetrating gaze. Yamapi spots Kame and reaches out an arm to drag him in.
"Kame," Yamapi is saying in a bright, loud voice, draping himself over Kame's shoulder, "where've you been? Been looking all over for you-"
As if, Kame thinks, but he makes sure to just smile in response.
"-you know Imai, here, right?"
Of course he knows Takki's business partner and co-owner, but Kame restrains himself from rolling his eyes at the dumb question. Instead he shakes Tsubasa's hand in their very close quarters where the three of them are squashed into a miniscule piece of real estate on the corner of the back bar.
"Good to see you," he nods, and he raises his glass to clink Tsubasa's nearly-empty champagne flute. "Terrific party. I hope all this is on the menu because people are definitely going to want to eat what you're serving tonight again."
Tsubasa's eyes crinkle up as his face splits into a grin. "Don't worry," he says, leaning close to speak into Kame's ear. "Most of it will be on the menu. We're getting really good feedback tonight."
"So where the hell is the man of the hour?" Kame asks, swiveling his head. "I've been looking for the two of you since I got here."
"Oh, Takki's around here somewhere," Tsubasa says vaguely, craning his neck.
"He was just here," Yamapi interjects, clutching at Kame's shoulders, "you just missed him. He got dragged away by that lady, um-"
"Nanako-san," Tsubasa says, "she flew here from Japan just for this party." He's shaking his head with another grin. "That guy, he has this crazy fanclub or something."
"Or something," Kame agrees. "I can't believe he actually stayed out of the kitchen tonight."
Yamapi laughs. "Yeah, well, he knew he had to show his face."
"You look good," Kame says to Tsubasa, unable to keep surprise from tinging his admiration. "You're so laid back about all this. I'd be biting my nails back there, totally freaking out. You should've seen me when we opened Sesamo in Washington. I was a basket-case."
"Yes, you were," Yamapi affirms, a little too loudly for Kame's taste.
Tsubasa shakes his head, his expression rueful. "It's called Valium." He chuckles. "Our last permits came through only two days ago," he says, "it was a near thing. Takki's been working up to an ulcer, and I thought we were going to have to delay the opening until next month, but now we're still on schedule. And we're already half-booked for our first month and we haven't even officially opened yet."
"You deserve it," Kame smiles, and he means it. He knows it's been a long road to this point, the opening of Takizawa, Manhattan's much-anticipated new Japanese-fusion restaurant. It's been an especially long road for Takki. He's spent the last seven years clawing his way back from a terrible descent into addiction and ruin, getting his head and his affairs in order.
Clearly the monumental effort has paid off. Kame appreciates the care and effort that have gone into making Takizawa look and taste amazing; having consulted for both Takki and Tsubasa, he's hoping that the city's eaters and reviewers respond as favorably as Takki's superlative cooking deserves.
Kame looks over his shoulder at Yamapi whose face is stretched in a yawn. Jetlag, Kame remembers. Yamapi's been on Dutch time for a week, only just returned. "So how was the conference?"
"Fantastic," Yamapi says, emptying his champagne flute, "too bad you couldn't make it. A lot of good ideas. David Chang gave the keynote and the chef from Prune, I always get her name wrong, Noelle? Giselle?"
While Yamapi's trying to remember, Kame drains another glass of wine and extricates himself from under Yamapi's heavy arm, ignoring Yamapi's attempt to pull him back in.
"Gabrielle Hamilton," Kame supplies.
"Right, her. She gave the best talk of the conference. You should watch it, it should be online. Hey, wait," Yamapi says, "Nina told me you worked Beckett's dinner last night at Sesamo. How's Andrew?"
"He's fine," Kame returns, "they let him go home this morning. He was going to work tonight but I told him to stay home and rest; all the cooks are working tonight, so I think Susanna and Beppe should be able to handle it."
"Thanks for covering. I got a nice email from Beckett today, did you see it? He wants to organize something like it for his wife's fiftieth birthday in September. Something like 'fifty plates for fifty years.'"
Kame knows, he got the same email. He pastes on a smile for his partner. "Sure, sounds good. If he's serious, you and I should hammer out a menu, you know, get it nailed down now." Kame turns to Tsubasa and squeezes Tsubasa's shoulder with a smile. "Great party. It's a great space, I love what you've done with it. And Takki's food is. Well, you don't need me to tell you. Congratulations."
Tsubasa raises his glass toward Kame and nods. "Thanks, Kame. We'll talk soon."
Kame tries to slide away, but Yamapi hauls him back with an iron grip and pushes him mouth against Kame's ear. "Are you okay?" He's smiling widely, but his eyes glitter with warning. "'cause you look-"
"What?" Kame says, feeling a wave of embarrassment and irritation rise up. He thought he was doing well. "I'm fine."
"Go easy on the drinks, Kame," Yamapi says, and his voice is edged now, worried, almost. Kame recoils, angry words bubbling up and choking in his throat. "Yeah," he says a few beats later, and he doesn't bother to hide the sarcasm, "you, too." He lifts his now-empty glass mockingly.
Kame slips out of his grip as Yamapi tries to clutch at him again.
"No, wait-" Kame hears, but that's all because he's swallowed by the close press of bodies. He moves away, feeling restless and reckless, wanting to defy his partner just out of spite. He's not a schoolboy to be lectured about his drinking habits, and he's not behaving badly, he's fine, and Yamapi is just assuming that he'll be a drunken idiot. He deposits his empty glass on a server's tray and keeps moving, trying to breathe through the adrenaline suddenly coursing through him.
It's a while before he sees them, after weaving a painfully slow path through the tightly-packed crowd and getting waylaid more than a few times by people he knows; they're bunched up together in a corner by an enormous potted palm. Haruka, tooth-shatteringly adorable with big eyes, round cheeks and masses of dark hair, spots him first and explodes off the wall, both her arms outstretched.
"Boss!" she cries in Japanese, throwing her arms around his neck and drawing him backwards to their little huddle. The tension in Kame's chest loosens a bit and he can't help but smile widely and relax into her warm welcome; he's particularly fond of his executive chef at Zenzero, their original East Village outpost.
"Hey, Ayase," he says, giving her ribs a gentle squeeze before releasing her. He fluffs her hair affectionately as she beams at him in delight. "Good to see you."
"Kamenashi!" he hears a light voice from his left, and Kame turns to clasp the upright palm of a slender narrow-featured man with brown hair.
"Toma," Kame says wonderingly, taking in Toma's loose-fitting designer jeans topped by an expensive white shirt and a skinny black tie. "Didn't expect to see you here. I thought you were still in Hokkaido."
"Was. Just got back, actually."
"Hey, boss," and Kame looks over at the third member of the trio. It's Sanjay, leaned up against the wall with one shoulder, the palm tree arcing over his head and looking hotter than he has any right to be in a black silk button-down shirt and grey herring-bone vest over a very tailored pair of grey wool slacks. His black hair tumbles loosely to touch his shoulders and he's holding a bottle of beer which he tips up to his mouth for a long draught.
Kame wants to look away, but he can't, and he can't deny the sudden surge of heat that goes through him as he watches Sanjay's lips around the bottle, the line of his throat convulsing with the swallow. Sanjay eyes him warily as he brings the bottle down to cradle against his chest.
Kame goes for the most casual smile he can muster as he greets him, his mouth suddenly dry.
"It figures that Takki would throw a party during a snowstorm," Kame hears Toma say, and he turns his attention back to Toma and Haruka.
"What amazes me," Kame says, "is that no one seems to care. I mean, look at all these people. And it's still snowing out there."
"This must be the worst February I've ever seen in New York. Winters have been so warm these last few years. I've never seen so much snow here," Toma says, shaking his head.
"I think it's romantic, though, don't you? When you walk in the park," Haruka says, "it's so quiet and you can hear the snow fall. I never thought I'd hear snow falling in New York."
"Heh!" Toma says dismissively, "You've only been here a few years, it'll get old after a while," because she came to them from San Francisco by way of Hong Kong and Tokyo. "I got more than enough snow in Hokkaido," he continues, "I am so ready for spring-"
"Runa asked me to say hello," Haruka says to Kame, cutting Toma off. "She wanted to come tonight but-" Haruka shrugs as if to say you know how it is. Generally-speaking the only cooks who could attend an event like this are the fortunate chefs - the bosses, like Sanjay and Haruka - who can arrange their own schedules to have their staff cover for them. Haruka's girlfriend has just been installed as the new executive pastry chef at Michelin-starred Eleven Madison Park. Kame knows that Runa isn't about to prioritize a party over her prestigious new position.
"Give her my love," Kame says, meaning it. "Miriam's covering for you at Zenzero?"
"Yep," Haruka nods. "How's Andrew? I heard about last night."
"Wait," Toma interjects. "What're you talking about? What happened to Andrew?"
Kame explains, but his attention keeps wandering back to Sanjay who's got his head tipped into the wall as he takes periodic drags off his bottle and contributes little as the conversation shifts from Kame's impromptu stint in the Sesamo kitchen to a discussion of how the brutal winter weather has affected commerce in the city.
"Hey, did you see," Haruka says, changing the topic, "that the tenth anniversary edition of Modernist Cuisine is finally out for presale?"
Kame nods happily, "I did. Already placed my order. I love the new black covers."
"The new issue of Lucky Peach just came out, too," Sanjay pipes up. "I think you'll like it."
"What did those circle-jerk hacks come up with now? Oh wait, I don't care," Toma says, rolling his eyes.
"Bite your tongue, you heathen," Sanjay says, laughing. They're all very used to Toma's opinionated pronouncements.
Kame stares at Sanjay's mouth and maybe Yamapi is right that he's had too much to drink because wow, he wants to push Sanjay into the wall and-
"Family meal," Sanjay replies to Haruka's question about the issue's theme. "-and there's this whole feature on El Bulli Foundation which is awesome, I'd give my left nut to spend a year there. Oh, and they revisit sous vide for the home cook." He takes another swig of his beer.
"I think," Toma begins in a purposefully obnoxious tone, "you forget I'm not an uber-food nerd like you losers."
It's a blatant lie, of course. Haruka and Sanjay burst out laughing and Toma dodges away from Haruka's shove.
"Who're you calling a nerd, nerd-boy," she says, poking him in the chest.
"Yeah," Sanjay chimes in, "just because you traded your apron in to be a writer-" Sanjay makes extravagant air-quotes. "-now you've got all these delusions of grandeur."
"Yeah, that's because I'm not a food slave anymore."
"Some of us," Haruka says airily, "still love this job. So speak for yourself, Toma. Just admit it - you couldn't hack it anymore."
"That's right," Sanjay says, "so who's the loser now?"
"What-the-fuck-ever," Toma replies. "Why's Lucky Peach still banging on about sous vide anyway. That's been done to death. And aren't you all tired of hearing about Ferran Adrià by now?"
Haruka's eyes widen in mock-horror; speaking ill of Adrià is as heretical as saying Thomas Keller is a washed-up talentless hack.
Kame listens absently as she and Sanjay begin debating Ferran Adrià's rank in the culinary pantheon with Toma. Kame knows better than to join in. Toma doesn't hold much sacred, and he enjoys pushing all the buttons he can.
Kame only just follows along as the conversation moves on to how the newer chefs like Poppy Patel and Rowan Petersen measure up to the likes of Grant Achatz or Wylie Dufresne and whether or not centrifuges and ten thousand dollar flash-freeze or distillation equipment belong in a restaurant kitchen. Kame doesn't pay close attention because he's heard it all before.
"It's all about inventing techniques," Haruka says. "I think it's fun. There's so much humor and intelligence in what they're doing."
Toma rolls his eyes. "Please. I just want food that tastes good. I don't need my food to be science fiction or some kind of food pun, you know? Anyway, all those guys are into sous vide cooking," Toma says, "I hate it, man. I don't care how good the food tastes or whatever. I want fire on my meat! I'm morally opposed to cooking in fucking plastic. Ugh." He shudders.
Privately Kame agrees with him on the plastic part, but he's also tasted the results. Momofuku's famous deep-fried short ribs begin with a sous vide preparation and they're still legendary.
Sanjay exchanges an amused look with Haruka. They're both making noises to appease Toma's hatred of the plastic ("So don't use plastic - that's what silicon is for," Haruka says) when Kame asks "where did you get that?" while eyeing Sanjay's beer.
"What?" Sanjay glances at Kame distractedly. Kame thinks he sees a flush coming through Sanjay's brown skin.
"That bottle. I haven't had any luck with beer. Where'd you get it?"
"Um-" Sanjay actually looks flustered.
"Hey, guys," Kame says suddenly to Toma and Haruka whose heads are tucked together, giggling over something he didn't hear. "Mind if I borrow Sanjay for a bit? Be right back."
"Riiiight, boss," Haruka says with a wink that should worry Kame.
"Later, man," Toma says, but Kame's already got a hold on Sanjay's wrist and is dragging him away. Sanjay doesn't resist as they push through a set of double-doors, down a steep stairway and far into a cool dim hallway crowded with loaded pallets, piles of boxes and other supplies. Kame feels like they've tunneled deep underground. He pauses near the end of the hall struggling to remember the layout from the last time he was here.
When Sanjay yanks loose of Kame's grip, Kame turns, a protest on his lips.
"Shut up, Kame," Sanjay growls, suddenly looming over him. Kame's teeth click shut, and his head hits the wall jarringly when Sanjay presses hard against him and kisses him. Pain sparks behind his eyes just as the rough grind of Sanjay's hips sends a different set of sparks through him. He grunts into Sanjay's mouth and Sanjay instantly licks into him, wet and filthy and tasting of beer.
"How much've you had to drink?" Kame asks, feeling a pang of conscience.
"Not enough. Come back," Sanjay answers. Seconds later, he has his hands on Kame's face, stroking along his cheekbones, his fingers sliding back into Kame's hair until he wraps his hands around Kame's head, adjusting their angle, and kissing him as though it's the last time.
It is the last time, Kame realizes, and he makes a noise that sounds hurt even to his own ears.
Sanjay pulls back, panting. Kame's braces himself against the wall to compensate for his now-shaky knees. He closes his eyes, feeling Sanjay's breath on his face, and he turns his head slightly so his lips graze Sanjay's cheek. He snakes a hand down between them and cups Sanjay through his trousers, feeling Sanjay's hard cock twitch under his hand, hips stuttering forward. "I want-"
It's Sanjay's turn to make a noise, a groan, and as Kame bears down, he feels an answering shudder everywhere they touch.
"Can I," he murmurs, mouthing along Sanjay's lightly-stubbled jaw.
"Yes," Sanjay chokes out, "whatever you want."
Kame nods blindly, resting his forehead against Sanjay's shoulder. "Okay," he says, "okay."
--
Afterward, Kame makes himself return to the party. He sends Sanjay back first without letting him reciprocate which, initially, Sanjay doesn't understand. He looks at Kame, hands beginning to curl into fists, almost angry, but more hurt and confused.
Kame gets to his feet in the dim hallway, meets his eyes.
"It's all right," Kame tells him as kindly as he can, "It's fine. Really." He feels abominably tired. He rubs his forehead with the back of one hand, and when he looks up again, he sees understanding, at last, mingled with regret. Sanjay nods once, and when he turns to go, Kame nearly sags with relief.
It's not supposed to be easy, Kame thinks after Sanjay is gone. It should be sad. It's better this way.
He pulls himself together. Adjusts his tie. Once he works his way back into the party, he finds a drink so he can rinse the taste of Sanjay from his mouth. A fresh start, he thinks. Feeling more relaxed than he has all evening, Kame goes back to work.
Past midnight the crowd is beginning to thin when Kame pushes off the wall where's he's been chatting with Takki and Kame's other partner, Meisa Kuroki. Yamapi's disappeared, and Kame's only caught glimpses of Tsubasa mingling with his guests over the last couple hours. He never managed to find Toma and Haruka again.
"Leaving?" Meisa says. She twitches a swath of long black hair back over her shoulder and fixes him with her dark, steady gaze.
"Long day," Kame says, shrugging ruefully. "Sorry, Takki, I think I need to get going."
Takki smiles at him, a quiet, mellow smile that Kame knows he'd never be capable of if it was his pre-opening party. Even after a long day and no doubt a crazy amount of stress, Takki looks crisp and elegant in his pristine white chef's coat, silken strands of honey-colored hair falling over his forehead. The years have taken their toll, however. He's no longer the fresh-faced and carefree young chef Kame met years ago, the Kitagawa Restaurant Group's golden boy. Now, there are lines around his eyes and less arrogance. But he also exudes quiet confidence, and a glow of pride that Kame thinks is wholly deserved. He survived years of terrible mistakes and found his way back, bit by bit, until he could achieve something truly special.
"I'm so glad you could make it," Takki says, and Kame knows he's saying more than a simple hospitable thank you. Takki lost a lot of friends during the rough years; Kame's one of those who stuck around. He leans toward him and wraps his arms around Takki's shoulders; Takki is only a little taller than he is. When he draws back, Kame pats him on the cheek the way the cooks in Spain used to pat Kame's cheek when he was a kid and still learning.
"You-a keep-a up the good-a work," Kame teases in a hugely fake Italian accent and chucks him under the chin for good measure. Takki grins and twists his arm around Kame's neck to keep him in a loose headlock.
"You, Kame-kun," Takki laughs, "should respect your elders."
Kame pretends to claw at his throat. "I have respect, Takki-sempai, I do, I do," he squawks until Takki lets him go.
"Hey, Kame," Meisa says, looking away thoughtfully, "your boy, Sanjay-"
"What?" he says, jolted out of his mirth, "he's not my boy."
"Oh, calm down," she says, "it's not like I don't know." She pauses. "It's so cute that you think you can keep secrets from me."
Kame's mouth drops open and he gapes at her. "I don't know what you're talking about." He ignores the heat rising up to his hairline.
She makes a dismissive gesture. "Kame, darling, I know everything there is to know about everything that has to do with our business. Just like you," she says witheringly, "so don't play dumb. It's not a good look on you."
Kame darts a quick look at Takki who's watching them with an amused smile.
"What about him?" he asks warily.
"He's a very pretty man. I'd snap him up if I weren't taken."
"Okay," Kame says slowly.
"So I'm not the only one," she points out.
"And?"
"And maybe you should go see what that's all about," Meisa says, her head tipping toward the bar. "He's been at it for a while."
Kame follows her gaze and sees Sanjay at the bar, leaning in toward someone screened behind his lean form. The sloppy angle of Sanjay's body, the eager tilt of his hips, they speak volumes.
Kame stares for a few seconds as he watches Sanjay ripple with laughter. Kame turns back to meet Meisa's eyes. Her expression is inquiring, one eyebrow lifted.
"What," Kame says, bristling, "I'm not his keeper. He can talk to whoever he wants." He wants to sound more casual, but instead it comes out defensive.
She lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "If you say so." She leans forward and puts her arms around Kame's neck, kissing him on the cheek. "Get home safe," she says, "and for heaven's sake, get some sleep."
"I will," Kame says.
"Good. See you Thursday."
Kame returns her gaze blankly.
"Lunch? At Zenzero?" she prompts.
"Right, lunch. Honestly, I can't remember for shit, but Nina's probably calendared it." He kisses her cheek and steps back. Her eyes twinkle as she watches him steal another glance back at the bar. She gives him a little nudge.
"You're hopeless," she chuckles. "Go on, get out of here."
Kame keeps his head down and walks past the bar, still debating with himself whether or not he should stop and say anything to Sanjay. While he's still deciding, a hand snags on Kame's sleeve. Kame begins to shrug him off before he thinks better of it. Time to be a grownup. No avoiding allowed.
He leans a hip against the bar stool beside Sanjay and Sanjay bumps his shoulder in greeting. He's smiling, wide and loose, and, Kame decides, he's very drunk. He's also alone, which lets Kame relax a tiny bit.
"You aren't leaving, are you?" Sanjay's hand tightens on his arm.
Kame frowns for a second but then he remembers to be grateful that Sanjay is a remarkably good-natured drunk. This could be so much worse. Kame would be so much worse if he were in Sanjay's shoes - and he'd be an asshole. He has been, before.
Kame stifles that thought and flashes as genuine a smile as he can manage. "I turn into a pumpkin soon," he says, trying to sound regretful, "it's late."
"No, no, no, it's early, Kame, it's early, it's not even two. Just stay and hang out, okay? We're heading to Doc Hollidays. You should come."
Kame studies Sanjay's face, his resolve withering, but then he remembers what he's just seen: Sanjay leaned flirtatiously into someone else, the eagerness in his posture so bloody familiar, and Kame know he has to be better than he has been. He needs to give Sanjay his space and let this go. He's been selfish for too long.
Kame bites down on the inside of his mouth and clasps a hand to Sanjay's shoulder, squeezing.
"Have fun. Have one for me," he adds, and he gently disentangles himself from Sanjay's loosely grasping hands. He forces himself to look away from Sanjay's disappointed eyes. "I'll call you later."
He pushes himself away with an effort, makes his way toward the coat check. Kame fumbles for his ticket as he comes up behind a pair of broad shoulders receiving an armload of coats. Numbly he watches the coatcheck girl accept her tip and he steps forward into the space vacated by broad shoulders, barely hears the murmured "good evening, sir," as he places his ticket into the girl's outstretched palm. The racks in the back are nearly empty.
As if from far away, Kame hears his name, and he shivers unaccountably. Frowns. Accepts his coat. Turns, slow.
"Kame?" he hears again. Looks up from where he's pulling his coat on, and he freezes. For several seconds, Kame loses all sensation and everything falls silent around him.
The world returns in a rush of motion and sound, and his heart pounds in his chest. Transfixed, Kame tries to swallow.
"There you are," he hears, a new voice, and a heavy arm claps around his shoulders.
"Yamapi said you were here," someone says distantly, "but I didn't believe him." There's a half-huffed laugh and a desperate veneer of attempted humor overlaying nervousness.
Kame spares a livid glance for Yamapi beside him, and tries to shrug out from under Yamapi's arm. Yamapi tightens his grip.
"Really?" Kame forces through numb lips. "I think he forgot to mention you at all." His tone is light, he knows it is, he's a fucking master at this by now, but Jin's flinch is unmistakable.
Jin, who he hasn't seen in ten years. Hasn't heard from in ten motherfucking years.
Jin, who's standing in front of him in black glasses with thick rims, a plum-colored button-down shirt, silky black tie, indecently tailored dark trousers. His sleeves are unbuttoned and folded to just below his elbows, and he has a pile of coats over one arm. Kame gulps it all in and fixates on the tattoo emerging from Jin's collar along the left side of Jin's neck. He doesn't remember it from before.
Yamapi's fingers squeeze hard, strike bone, and Kame has to suppress a sound.
"We were just leaving," Yamapi says, his voice dropping down low, tinged with warning. Jin's eyes flicker from Kame to Yamapi, and something shifts in his wary expression. He nods, worrying at his lower lip.
"Sure," Jin says, "of course." Kame stiffly glances over at Yamapi again and realizes Yamapi's already in his coat and scarf. Kame pulls away from him and, without meeting anyone's eyes, finishes buttoning up his coat. He's tugging his gloves on when he finally looks up, cheeks flooded with furious heat. He blinks to clear the red haze hanging in front of him, and clears his throat, but Jin beats him to it.
"It's - its good to see you, Kame."
Kame meets Jin's eyes and tilts his head slightly at Jin's odd tone.
"Right" he replies, and stops, not looking away. "How the fuck are you, Akanishi?" His voice sounds strange and breathless in his ears.
There's a short pause. A flash of something like pain crosses Jin's face. "I'm good," he answers.
Kame finds himself nodding, his lips clamped together. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Sanjay approaching, but he doesn't look away from Jin.
"Come on, Kame," Yamapi says with a nudge. To Jin: "I'll catch up with you later." Yamapi sounds heavy, portentous.
Kame feels his face twist into a something ugly. "Guess I'll see you in another decade." That last comes out bitter, a bit of sand flicked into Jin's eyes. He doesn't wait for a reply as he strides away, through the doors, out into the icy breath of the wintry night.
--
"You just had to say it," Yamapi grumbles when they're past the front doors and out on the narrow sidewalk, waiting for Yamapi's car from the service to arrive. Kame stays silent, holds himself still, his chest aching and his gloved fists furled tight in his pockets. He resists the urge to pace in the snow along the curb, certain that he'd probably slip and make an ass of himself. Tiny flakes of snow alight on his eyelashes.
When the dark town car draws up, Yamapi doesn't wait for the driver, but yanks the door open and thrusts Kame unceremoniously inside. He piles in after Kame and gives the driver Kame's address.
"I don't need a baby sitter," Kame mutters to the window.
"I know," Yamapi replies without inflection. Kame looks over his shoulder at Yamapi only once, but Yamapi's head is tilted against his window, eyes half-lidded in the flicker of lights from the street. When they arrive in front of Kame's building, Yamapi follows him out after a brief discussion with the driver.
"What are you doing?" Kame asks, frowning.
"I'm coming up with you. You're gonna make tea and we're gonna have a chat,and then I'm going home. You-" Yamapi's gaze flickers critically. "You don't look so good. You should get some sleep."
"Is that so?" Kame asks softly, feeling impotent fury swell in his chest.
"Yep," Yamapi says, almost cheerful.
Just like that, Kame's fury evaporates and weariness drags at his eyes. He turns on his heel, shoes crunching through snow and salt.
Inside his flat, Kame finds his way to the kitchen in the dark and turns the bright blue gas flame on under the kettle. He looks up as Yamapi pads in on stocking feet. Unerringly Yamapi finds Kame's tea stash and sets up their mugs on the counter.
"You knew," Kame says, not accusing, but flat.
"Not for sure," Yamapi says, after several seconds. He leans his hip into the counter and faces Kame. "I didn't even know he was in town. I got to the party and someone mentioned his name."
"He didn't come with you?" Kame frowns in surprise.
Yamapi shakes his head.
"So then-"
"He came with Rowan. I ran into them after I saw you."
"Huh." Now that's a surprise; Kame turns it over for a moment. Rowan Petersen is one of the new guys, twenty-seven years old with a dyed-black punk hair cut and two full sleeves hidden under his chef's coat like he's ready for his fucking Food Network close-up. At first glance, the kid looks exactly like the hordes of camera-ready celebrity-wannabe assholes coming out of the CIA these days. And yet, Rowan's the real deal, an unpretentious creative prodigy with an insane work ethic, a keen head for the business, and good fortune in his partners. Makes it hard for anyone to hate him too much - not even after all the media attention still dogging him two years after opening one of the most-discussed new restaurants in Manhattan - not to mention the resulting three star New York Times review and a James Beard award for Rising Star Chef of the Year. Kame's only met him a few times but he's read a lot of Rowan's press and his rare interviews. Thing is, Rowan's never had a big mouth like some of the hotshot chefs in town, and Kame secretly admires him for that. The guy cooks. When he does speak, it's all about the food and what excites him. He never lets himself get trapped into trash-talking his competition, which, Kame thinks, is often par for the course these days.
Kame cuts a sharp glance toward Yamapi. "Wait - is something going on there?"
Yamapi shrugs. Then he sighs. "I don't know. Maybe. I mean, Jin usually lets me know when he's going to be in town."
"How does he even know Rowan?"
Yamapi shakes his head and rubs at his mouth with one hand. "No idea."
"So where's Jin been?" Kame interrupts.
Yamapi stares back at him. The kettle begins to buzz angrily as the water nears a boil.
"Just tell me."
For a few seconds, Yamapi looks like he might, but then his mouth thins into a flat line. "No," he says. "If you wanted to know, you would've asked me before. You can ask Jin yourself. I'm not getting in the middle again."
The kettle whistles, building to a shriek. Yamapi switches the gas off, fills their mugs, and sets a timer on his watch. Kame hefts the mugs and heads toward the dining table.
"What makes you think I'll see him again?" Kame asks as Yamapi sprawls into place opposite him.
Again with the shrug. "I have a feeling." Yamapi's eyes flicker up to Kame's and back down. "Listen, Kame-"
"Spare me the lecture," Kame groans, leaning forward onto his elbows, and clutching at his hair.
"I know you're angry. But. Do you have to do this? It's such a fucking cliche."
"I always knew I could count on you," Kame bites out, feeling his mouth twist.
"You can, actually."
Yamapi lets the words hang, his face turned away. Kame shifts then, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Why can't I be angry?" he begins. " I am angry. I've been angry for-"
"-ten years, I know. I know. You're a fucking broken record." Yamapi voice is pinched.
"Hey!" Kame protests.
"Fine, only when you're drunk and feeling sorry for yourself."
"I'm not drunk and feeling sorry for myself."
Yamapi give him a look. Kame squirms. "Okay, fine. I'm a little drunk. And I'm feeling a little sorry for myself. It's been a shit day! It was a shit day before fucking Akanishi. He's just the-"
"-Last straw." Yamapi sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly with one hand. "I'm sorry, but seriously, Kame. Let it go. People change. They grow up. They move the fuck on."
"Right," Kame blurts, "just like you have."
Yamapi's expression curdles. "We're not talking about me."
Kame grunts before taking a big gulp of his tea, burning his mouth.
"He didn't leave you high and dry," Kame says after a moment.
Yamapi slams his mug down on the table. Kame starts.
"No," Yamapi says, "he didn't. Maybe if he had, I'd still be pissed, too. But you know what? Life's too short. And people make mistakes. That's life." Yamapi pauses and when he begins again, his voice has a hard edge. "Look, I don't care what you do. Go ahead, be an asshole if that's what you want. But don't do it around me. Don't involve me. And don't-" He stabs an emphatic finger in Kame's direction and his voice deepens further. "Do not make anything about this public. Whatever you have to say, or do, or whatever, keep it private. We don't need any gossip floating around."
Kame grudgingly nods. "Fine."
"You're clear on that? I do not wanting to be fielding calls from Eater or goddamned Grub Street-"
"I said fine."
"Good. Well." Yamapi trails off uncertainly. "Will you be all right?" He bites his lip.
Kame can't help a startled laugh. "Now you ask. Little late, don't you think?"
"Probably," Yamapi says, standing. Kame follows him to the door where Yamapi plucks his coat off the rack and jams his feet into hard-soled dress shoes. He faces Kame. "Whatever you think, I am sorry things turned out this way. And I can understand why you're-" He makes a vague gesture. "You know." He pauses and Kame waits.
"You're both my friends." Yamapi doesn't meet his eyes. "I hope-"
"You're just tired of having this conversation," Kame says, one corner of his mouth quirking up.
Yamapi almost smiles at that and rolls his eyes. "I really am," he allows. "Go to bed, Kame."
It's been an abominably long day and considering he hasn't slept much in days, Kame really just wants to fall into bed and stay there until next month. He doesn't want to think about Sanjay or Jin, or even puzzle over Rowan. He's sure he'll be out the instant his head hits the pillow. Maybe he's asleep already.
"Sure thing," Kame says and he means it. A yellow wedge pushes its way into the flat from the light from the landing, nudges at Kame's socked feet. The light gleams on Yamapi's polished shoes.
The door closes on Yamapi. Kame sags against it and slowly pivots, cursing softly in at least four languages. Maybe five. He tugs at his tie with one hand, sawing it back and forth until the loose knot is somewhere well below the shelf of his collarbone. Kame pushes off the door and weaves forward; his fingertips gingerly touch the walls in the pitching dark.
+part three