In Between Bites of Ravioli
Title: In Between Bites of Ravioli
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sho/Jun
Word count: 10,445
Summary: AU. Jun is a chef who owns an Italian restaurant. Sho is a businessman. They flirt and beat around the bush and eat a lot of food.
Warnings/Notes: This was only supposed to be a drabble (!) but things just got way out of hand. I just vaguely wanted to write about food, but this turned out to be cheesier than I expected. (See what I did there?) I have no regrets! ♥
He was not the type to fall in love at first sight, nor lose himself in a night of seduction with a stranger, the prospect of which appalled him. Neither did he harbor any romantic delusions: he had never fallen for a person just because he or she had beautiful eyes, or anything of that sort. Sho prided himself on being rational when it came to matters of attraction and dating, but it was also probably the reason why he had been batting below average for years. That is to say, he had not been seeing people much, to put it lightly. In any case, it was not something he thought about on a regular basis. After graduating from a top-tier university, he was immediately recruited for a high paying yet equally taxing, if a bit mundane job in a prestigious multinational company. It was the bonus of graduating with top honors (and at the back of his head, having family connections.) He did not necessarily feel like what he was doing was his life’s passion, because who could honestly say that they dreamed of being a regional corporate manager and marketing consumer products like shampoo and conditioner when they were six? Sho had wanted to be an astronaut, and needless to say, astronauts weren’t in charge of Asia-wide marketing campaigns for consumer products. (Also, his fear of heights kind of made him apprehensive about being strapped into a rocket.) But the thing was, Sho grew up to become a guy who, when given a task, performed it perfectly, even if it did not particularly please him. As long as he had a task in hand, he was happy. He may not have become an astronaut, but he was okay with how his life has turned out.
It did not hurt, of course, that thanks to his exorbitant salary, he drove around the streets of Tokyo in a sleek white sports car, lived on the top floor of a tasteful apartment with a breathtaking view, and got to dine out pleasurably without a thought to how much damage his wallet took-great cuisine being his one pleasure. In fact, he could give up the Audi R8 (he didn’t care much for cars, really, as long as he got to drive, but he had an image to keep among his peers,) the apartment (he could live in a hovel for all the fucks he did not give, as long as it had a bed and a hot shower) but food… Food excited as it relaxed him. Sho considered dining out his one true luxury, something he was won’t to give up. If there was anything that he had wanton feelings about, it’s food.
So when he heard about a cozy, little corner restaurant in Aoyama that apparently served the most delightful truffle ravioli this side of Italy-a glittering endorsement by his subordinate at work, Shige, who was also somewhat of a gourmand-he knew that he had to go and try it. Immediately. One can never have enough truffle even if it was a “trendy ingredient” enterprising restaurants highlighted in their menu to entice newbie foodies (Shige also assured him rather arrogantly that the truffle in the restaurant was the real thing.) Sho practically salivated when Shige boasted about his new epicurean find, because for Sho, pasta had just about the same pull as ramen, which was, to say, a lot. After a particularly taxing day spent on smiling through videoconferences with his dour and demanding clients, truffle ravioli and anything Italian seemed heaven sent.
It was already quite late when he got off his job, he was ready for a great meal. When he entered the restaurant, Sho realized that Shige was not kidding about the “cozy” part: Il Bel Far Niente was pretty small and probably sat fifteen at the very most. The walls were painted white, the far end with a huge backlit bookcase that served as a wine display case, with some vintage books peppered here and there. The table and chairs were made of light wood and were very rudimentary. Unobtrusive lighting gave grace to the simple furnishings, Sho noted. It was not the usual restaurant he favored, but there was something beguiling about the simplicity of everything. He found his way to a nice seat by the window and removed his coat, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread-Sho could feel his heart rejoicing at the thought of freshly baked bread at dinner time-and listening to the light strain of Duke Ellington. He recognized the tune as “Satin Doll”, a song that his mother used to play in the background when she was checking the test papers of her English students while he did his homework beside her. Sho warmed at the memory; he felt the knots from his shoulders already beginning to ease away. A pleasant-looking waitress with short hair approached his table.
“Good evening, sir. Would you like some drinks first?”
Sho found himself returning her smile. “I think I’m in the mood for some white wine. Australian, if you carry some?”
“Surely. Would you like just a glass, or would you like to order a whole bottle?”
Sho was feeling good, and rather ravenous as well. “A whole bottle, please.”
“Great! I’ll be back with your wine and to get your order.”
“Well, a menu would be a great help.”
The waitress smiled magnanimously. “Tell us what you want, and as long as it’s Italian, we probably have it in our kitchen.”
Sho’s eyes grew wide. “You mean, you don’t have a menu?”
“None.” The waitress laughed. “Our chef is quite the miracle worker.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded emphatically. “I’ll be back with your wine, sir.”
He felt like laughing as he pondered the situation. Sho was not a man who liked being surprised, but tonight, he felt different. He was always up for a culinary ride, and so he gave his dinner tonight some extra thought. When the waitress came back, he ordered for some lobster and mascarpone ravioli with truffle butter cream sauce, and a small margherita pizza. The waitress did not even bat a lash and gracefully dashed off to the kitchen. When the food arrived, Sho’s stomach gurgled in hunger. The plates were arranged in a non-pretentious manner, but Sho could already see that the ingredients were fresh, and the pasta was homemade. On the first bite of the ravioli, Sho closed his eyes in pleasure-the flavor of shallots wonderfully melded with the lobster and mascarpone filling. The margherita pizza was spare, yet delicious as well. It was obvious that the food was masterfully made. With the wine and the well-curated jazz music, Sho was practically in heaven. What he also liked about Il Bel Far Niente was that thanks to its size, people did not stare at him in a weird way for dining alone, unlike in the fancier, fine dining haunts he usually preferred. He decided after several more bites of ravioli to be nicer to Shige in the office and stop treating him like a kid. After all, the kid had taste.
“How is your food?” The waitress asked as she refilled his wine goblet for him.
“Amazing. Really, really amazing.”
She smiled as if she knew it all along anyway. “Would you like to meet the chef?”
It wasn’t like he could refuse. And, what the hell. “Oh, is he available? Sure.”
He almost forgot about it. Minutes later, in the middle of a bite of his pizza, a deep, male voice interrupted him, surprising him a little. “Good evening.” When Sho looked up, the sight of a serious-looking man who looked like he was made for wearing a white chef outfit greeted him. He had pale, luminous skin, which was further offset by the pristine chef uniform top, and perfectly coiffed hair that was combed back. He was fairly built, and probably fashionable, if the tailored dark denim jeans and luxurious yet comfortable looking leather driving shoes were anything to go by. There wasn’t anything else to conclude other than the fact that he was gorgeous, that he was extremely talented, and that he had taste. Sho stopped staring and rushed to swallow his food, not wanting to look creepy.
“Oh, hello,” Sho said, as he self-consciously wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“I’m Matsumoto. I trust everything has been satisfactory?”
Sho found himself bowled over by the chef’s smile, which transformed his severe looks. The chef had full, flushed lips and perfect set of teeth, a smile made for commercials, for billboards. Sho wondered how such a good-looking guy preferred to be behind the scenes, but the thought that he was a chef and worked on beautiful gastronomic creations on a delightful, little restaurant furthered Sho’s initial interest. He felt a sudden need to have those lips on his. Shaking his head, he was shocked, and rather appalled, by his own thoughts.
“Yes, the food’s great.”
The chef bowed slightly. “I’m glad to hear that. Is it your first time to dine here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you enjoy the lobster and mascarpone ravioli? It was my first time to cook that combination, I hope it was enjoyable?”
“It was, it was.” Sho hated himself for his perfunctory responses. He found himself entranced by the small constellation of moles around the chef’s mouth.
“That makes me happy. Please enjoy the rest of your dinner,” Matsumoto said politely, as if he sensed he was being dismissed. Sho wanted to dispel that notion, but he couldn’t open his mouth.
When Matsumoto stretched out a hand as he said “please enjoy the rest of your dinner,” Sho could do nothing else but nod and shake it. For some reason, watching the retreating back of Matsumoto was the only regrettable thing about that night. He finished his meal, paid the bill, and walked out of the restaurant, in a daze. After getting into his car, he didn’t know why he could not immediately drive off. The rain started to pour torrentially. He watched the people inside the restaurant across the street, wishing for another sighting of the chef.
It was the first time in his life that he was so besotted by someone, at first sight at that, to the point that it irked him. The taste of the food and the wine was still on his tongue, and he wondered about Matsumoto-things like why he was a chef, where he learned to cook Italian cuisine, what he liked to do in his spare time, what his favorite season was, what kind of apartment he lived in, why he had such a serious expression when he could just smile all the time and get whatever he wanted, what his first name was. Sho remembered the constellation of tiny moles on his lips, and wondered about those too.
*
Jun was not having such a good day. The kitchen was in disarray as the sous chef called in sick, and he did not expect the chaos that would ensue. He was used to having everything organized and hated disorder in his kitchen. He found himself shouting at the chef de partie for burning the Neapolitan ragù he asked him to look over for a mere minute-he usually did not shout and wanted professional harmony in his kitchen, but that day, his nerves were completely frazzled. On most days, Jun reveled in the small but fulfilling tasks of the kitchen: chopping the onions (which wasn’t a head chef’s job, but he liked how it calmed him down), making sure the line cooks don’t overdo the meat, picking the best cheese for a dish, overseeing the baking of his famed margherita pizzas on the brick wood-fired oven, putting the finishing touches on a plate, etc. Jun was a guy who was passionate about what he did for a living, so what he was pleased about he really was pleased about, but the things that annoyed him really annoyed and vexed him. When one of the waiters said that he messed up one of the orders (again) and so it had to be re-cooked, Jun had it. It was the nth hiccup of the day and he could not deal with it, because he hated inefficiency. He did not care that some of the employees saw him as a cool, controlling, and impersonal robot, he just wanted to have everything in top quality. But right then, he couldn’t stomach it all without having a little smoking break to calm down. He coldly asked the saucier to whip up the dish by himself because he was going to have a little break. He sure deserved one.
As he stepped outside to the relative cool of the evening breeze, he breathed deeply. He lit a cigarette, and took a long, satisfying drag. Jun knew that smoking was bad for him, he had been chastised about it repeatedly by his mother and sister, but old habits die hard. It was the one thing that helped him calm his nerves all those years training vigorously and strenuously under strict Italian chefs in five-star restaurants. Most people dined in ignorance of the battle scene that was the kitchen, Jun thought. It wasn’t that he was not thankful for the strict training he got under all those renowned and talented chefs, but he hated the bustle of big kitchens. When he gained fame for being a talented saucier in the culinary circles of Japan, he had turned down numerous offers to become head chef in new restaurants. Jun had a vision for himself, and it involved a small kitchen with a small, reliable staff, in a small quaint restaurant where he could take his time and immerse himself in the process. Jun was all about the details; he did not care for the fame or the notoriety most celebrity chefs got and seemingly expected more of in recent times. He had a vision in his mind, and it took him ten years of solid training to get there. Some say that cooking is an innate thing, but Jun had always believed that hard work counted for more. Setting up Il Bel Far Niente was a gamble, but it was his dream. Sure, there were glitches, and some days were less than perfect (like today, for instance), but Jun was satisfied. He has dreamed of having his own Italian restaurant ever since he was young, after a trip to Italy with his late grandfather. He found himself smitten with the flavors and intoxicated with the cuisine.
Ayaka, the waitress, cheerfully bounded up to him when he entered the kitchen after his break. He was fond of Ayaka, because she did her job well and her cheer was quite infectious. He met her at the last restaurant he worked in, and found himself becoming friends with her. When he said that he was opening up his own place, Ayaka didn’t even hesitate and said that she was “on board.” Jun knew that she would be an asset to his restaurant, and he had always liked her positive attitude; there was no reason not to hire her. Even the strained mood in the kitchen right then didn’t faze her.
“Sir! You should meet one of the customers. He looks just absolutely over the moon about the food.”
“You already told him I’d meet him, didn’t you,” he asked wryly.
Ayaka laughed. “This guy’s different, sir. He looks like a food critic or something.”
“Oh, does he? Which one is he?” Jun asked, as he peeped out of the small door window to the dining area.
“Stuffy tie and shirt. The lobster and mascarpone guy. Mr. Ravioli.”
Jun gave Ayaka a look. “Mr. Ravioli? When did you decide to call him that?”
“Just now.”
“Figures.”
Ayaka grinned. “But don’t you think he has such a discriminating taste for a first time customer?”
“Mmm. I had a little bit of trouble with the butter sauce on his dish.”
“So you’ll meet him?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Ayaka grinned at him again as he straightened out his starched collar. He walked towards the Mr. Ravioli, who was now unabashedly biting into a slice of pizza. Jun took note of his expensive looking shirt and silk tie, and the black suit that had a fancy paisley blue lining, haphazardly strewn on the seat beside him-probably some hotshot businessman who liked food rather than a food critic, he thought. The customer was almost good-looking, if only he parted his hair differently.
“Good evening.”
Jun laughed inwardly at catching himself being nitpicky, and also at the way the man struggled to chew and swallow his food when he heard that he was being talked to. He didn’t know an adult who was so well dressed that took such huge, ungainly bites. It was probably a compliment to Jun’s cooking, but he was still undecided whether he was revolted or amused by it. He resembled an animal, Jun thought, although he couldn’t place what.
“Hello,” the man replied. Jun smiled at seeing a tiny sliver of herb stuck in between his teeth. He could be the good Samaritan and point it out politely, but it wasn’t worth the awkwardness and it would probably be washed away by a sip of wine, he thought. Jun launched into his usual hospitable chef tirade, wondering if Mr. Ravioli was just really shy or hated to be disturbed while dining. He excused himself after politely shaking the man’s hand, still amused by his offbeat manner.
Before midnight, he began his rituals before closing up shop. Jun made sure that the kitchen was spotless, that everything was accounted for, and that the chairs were neatly lined up. He knew he should entrust everything to his operations manager, but he was still a little protective of everything. Or to be more to the point, he was still unbelieving of the fact that he actually now had a restaurant to call his own. It had been two months already, but still. Jun liked to sit there, in the middle of the restaurant, when everybody was gone and he could nurse a glass of wine while silently listening to the jazz music still playing. It reminded him of his grandfather, whose favorites included Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone. Sometimes, Jun also played some music by Happy End, a Japanese folk rock band from the 70s. His favorite song from them was “Hana Ichi Monme”. He tried not to play it too much, because it reminded him of road trips with his father. How great music mixed up with such vehement feelings of anger and abandonment, he did not know. When he checked his phone, it was already past midnight. Time seemed to pass quickly when he was left alone with his thoughts. He turned off the audio unit and locked up the place.
It would be so nice to have someone to talk to, really talk to, he thought. On his way to the train station, he saw a white sports car parked outside. It was odd, at that time of the night, but he paid it no more notice.
*
After two days, Sho couldn’t help it. He wanted to see the chef again. It was just a bonus that the restaurant had great food, but truly, he found himself thinking about the chef again and again. He hated it. So after work that day, he zoomed straight to his apartment and changed into some linen pants and a relaxed polo shirt. He hoped that by wearing a more casual outfit, he would be less conspicuous. Sho didn’t know about other people, but he found it embarrassing to be back in a restaurant not merely a week after dining there, unless it was one of the restaurants that he had patronized for years. It was silly, Sho knew, but his tiny yet burgeoning curiosity for the chef did not help matters. When he stepped inside the restaurant, the chirpy waitress was there to greet him. Sho blushed a deep red.
“Back so soon, sir?”
“Umm…yes,” Sho replied sheepishly.
“The same table again?”
Sho nodded; he was led to the table by the window, where he also sat last time.
“The same wine, sir? Or would you like something else tonight?”
He looked up to see her smiling. “Are you really this cheerful everyday?”
She laughed. “I just like seeing repeat customers. The chef loves hearing about it.”
At hearing that, Sho’s cheeks heat up even more. “I’ll have the same wine. But just a glass this time, thanks.”
The waitress nodded, and was about to head off to get him his drink when Sho stopped her. “Err…Miss?”
She shook her head. “Ayaka is fine, sir.”
“Okay, umm, Ayaka-san. I just wanted to save you the trouble. I’ll have the same food as well.”
“Oh, surely,” Ayaka replied.
When he dug into his food, the same pleasurable feeling wormed its way into his belly. Il Bel Far Niente’s food was truly a balm for the heart, and he almost forgot to be embarrassed by being back so soon. He savored every bite, thinking about the person behind the dish’s creation. True, it was a little creepy, but Sho could not help it. Food, especially good food, had a great effect on him, but exceptional food touched him. He was not an emotional man, but he was comforted by the effortless ease of how the flavors of the lobster mixed with the butter cream sauce that was simmered so delicately with truffles. It took talent and a certain kind of personality to nail down such a dish, and the thought that it was that good-looking chef behind it aroused Sho’s need to see him again. Just as he was about to signal to Ayaka for a refill of his wine, a male voice spoke from his back.
“A refill?”
When Sho turned to acknowledge the speaker, he suddenly felt breathless. It was the chef, Matsumoto, holding out a bottle of wine. It took all of Sho’s efforts to say “sure.”
Matsumoto poured his drink, giving Sho a chance to guiltily perv on his elegant white wrist and long fingers. Trying to shake off his “thoughts”, he thanked the chef.
“How’s the dish this time?”
“Still great.”
“That’s good.”
Sho took the chance to meet Matsumoto’s eyes. “Do you usually pour drinks for customers?”
Matsumoto smiled-Sho tried not to faint, really-and said, “I don’t.”
Sho tried to grasp the meaning behind those two words, but he couldn’t. He watched the man in white walk away, disappearing again behind those kitchen doors. It took him awhile to realize that his heart was beating errantly. He felt like a fucking teenager.
Man oh man was he screwed.
*
Ayaka nudged him in the chest. “Sir, Mr. Ravioli’s definitely not back for the food. You’re good, but you’re not that good.”
Jun put down the wine bottle in the cooler with a tiny smirk. “How dare you have such little faith in my cooking?”
The waitress laughed. “It’s not that I lack faith in your cooking, sir, if anything, it’s that I have too much faith in your good looks.”
At that, Jun had to laugh. “Thanks, I think? I didn’t know you found me so good-looking, Ayaka-san.”
Ayaka loaded her tray with a couple of hot dishes that the saucier handed her. “Oh, if only you liked women, sir,” she whispered jokingly as she picked up the tray.
“More working and less fake flirting, Ayaka-san,” Jun said with a smile, as he opened the door for her.
He could not deny it, he was pleased to see Mr. Ravioli again in his restaurant. When he first peeped into the dining area earlier that evening, he was glad to see him sitting in the same spot. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and a tie this time, and Jun would be lying if he said that he didn’t find him attractive in casual clothes. He took it upon himself to refill his wine, a decision he didn’t regret. Without the sliver of herb in between his teeth this time, the guy was actually pretty cute. It helped that he parted his hair the right way. It looked like as if he randomly tousled it up; perhaps the severe one-sided part was reserved for the workplace. Matsumoto found himself smiling at his customer when he served him his wine. When he was asked if he usually poured wine for his customers, Jun threw the whole no-flirting-with-customers thing he’s always had out the window. He knew the feeling of randomly getting hit on (both by men and women) and he didn’t like it most of the time. But something told him that Mr. Ravioli here wouldn’t mind. Not a single bit. It wasn’t like he was asking his hand in marriage, he was just harmlessly pouring a man his drink.
Jun’s thoughts were affirmed when later he saw him outside, leaning back against a white Audi. It was the same white car he saw a couple of nights ago. He was in the middle of closing up shop, but he decided it could wait. When he stepped out of the restaurant, Mr. Ravioli looked like he was caught red-handed doing something illegal. Jun fished his pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he crossed the road.
“Your ride?” Jun said as he rummaged his pockets for a lighter. Sho procured one from his pocket and lit it up for Jun. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Yes, my ride.”
“Pretty sweet.” It was a nice car, but somehow, Jun thought that it didn’t fit the owner. Strange, but he just found himself thinking so. “Flat tire?”
The guy coughed. “No.”
“Oh. You’ve been out here since you finished your food?”
The other guy ran his fingers through his hair. “Mm, yeah.”
“I see.”
Jun suddenly felt shy. He was about to say something mundane about the weather, but suddenly, Mr. Ravioli spoke up. “I was thinking…perhaps you’d like a ride home?”
He won’t lie, but the way the other man said it made Jun’s pants feel slightly tighter. Perhaps it was the gap between the guy’s uptight appearance and his forward request. Or perhaps it was because they were in closer proximity than usual, and Jun noticed his full, pouting lips. The way the other man stood, casually leaning on his car with his arms crossed, was all so sexy. Very sexy. He took a drag from his cigarette. “But you don’t know me.”
“Well, I know that you’re a chef. I like your cooking. You serve a badass pizza. You poured me a drink when you usually don’t do it for other people.”
The corner of Jun’s mouth hiked up almost indiscernibly. “I don’t know you.” He threw his stub and killed the embers with his shoe.
The other man extended his hand, a sheepish smile on his face. “Sakurai Sho.”
Jun considered the other man for a while, before shaking his hand. “Tell you what, Sakurai Sho. Why don’t you help me close up the store?”
Something about the earnest way Sho nodded and said “sure” made Jun want to smile.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”
“I already did.”
“Matsumoto…san?”
Jun nodded, enjoying the way Sho fumbled.
“I don’t get the pleasure of knowing your first name, huh?”
Slightly tipping his head sideways, Jun said, “It can be earned.” He turned away and started to walk back towards the restaurant. There was no resisting the self-satisfied grin that crawled up to his face when he heard Sakurai Sho’s leathered footsteps behind him.
*
Sho helped Matsumoto with tidying up the chairs and placing them on top of the tables. They didn’t talk while they did it, allowing the jazz music to fill up their silence. He took full notice of how the chef was meticulous with everything, how he carefully arranged everything back into its original place.
“I didn’t know that cleaning up was part of a chef’s job description.”
Matsumoto turned towards him. “I find it rather relaxing.”
“The restaurant’s owner must feel really lucky to have you then,” Sho replied with a small smile. He was happy to hold his own in this conversation with such a beautiful man. At the very least, he was glad that he was holding his stammers at bay. He was very rusty at this whole flirting business. It had been too long, and he was very much out of practice.
“Yes, I’m very lucky to have myself,” Matsumoto said, a twinkle in his eye.
“You mean you own this place?” Sho found himself more amazed.
Matsumoto nodded. “You could say it’s been a lifelong dream.”
“Wow.”
Sho watched Matsumoto as he walked towards the small cabinet tucked behind the counter. He removed his chef top over his head, revealing a black tank top underneath. Sho guiltily took note of the man’s lean yet strong-looking arms. Quickly, Matsumoto also removed the tank top and fished out a fresh shirt from a bag inside the cabinet. Sho suddenly felt very flustered, so he looked away. As he was putting on the shirt, he shouted out to Sho.
“How about a nightcap? A glass of wine for the road?”
“Sounds great.”
They settled in to the bar, their knees almost touching. Matsumoto clinked his glass with Sho’s. “Thanks for helping me.”
“It’s nothing.”
Matsumoto took a long look at him, rendering him self-conscious. He took a sip from his glass, willing the alcohol to course through his veins. It was excruciating yet exciting to be in the same room with this man, this man who thought nothing of staring people in the eye. “So, do you usually dine out alone?”
“Usually.”
“Hmm.” The chef sloshed his wine around his glass. “You’re kind of weird.”
Sho swallowed. “Well, I kind of like eating alone.” With those light brown eyes still staring at him, he found himself launching on to a monologue about how he enjoyed food even without the company, because dining out was his hobby. He talked about how food excited him, how different flavors inspired him. He was so painfully self-conscious that he felt like he could die, especially talking about food with someone who dealt with cuisine on an everyday basis, but strangely enough, it was Matsumoto’s steady gaze that spurred him on. Sho told him about how wonderful his ravioli was, and that the taste alone was company enough for him. He talked and talked and talked. Before he realized it, he had already finished his glass of wine. He was horrified to realize that he had been monopolizing the conversation, if indeed it could be called one, because he was the one doing all the talking.
“I’m sorry,” Sho backtracked. “I’ve talked too much.”
Matsumoto sipped the last drop of his wine. It felt like an eternity before he talked again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Are you hitting on me?”
Sho felt like he was punched.
Before he could speak up, Matsumoto laughed. “I’m just kidding. Shall we call it a night?”
They then placed the glasses on the dishwasher and Matsumuto turned off the lights and locked the doors. Sho kept on sneaking glances at him, and thankfully, Matsumoto seemed oblivious. Sho could not help it, he was so enamored with the chef. He liked Matsumoto’s serious facial expressions, but he also liked his smile. It was unfair, really. Sho thought that Matsumoto had the kind of smile that could literally balance out all the negative stuff he had to go through throughout the day. It was so perfect and…pretty. He was aware that his thoughts veered towards the creepy side, but he could not help it. There was a strange pull that attracted him to the chef. The feeling of desire and potentiality mixed headily in his head-he wanted nothing more than the chance to spend more time with him. When Matsumoto finally finished checking everything, Sho was standing awkwardly towards the side, his hands in his pocket.
“So, about that ride,” Sho started.
“I feel like walking tonight,” Matsumoto replied, his expression unreadable. “Thanks for helping me close up tonight, though.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home? Or at least to the nearest train station? I swear I’m not a serial killer.”
“Don’t worry about me, Sakurai Sho,” he replied, a small smile on his face. “Also, I don’t think it’s very likely that serial killers have a penchant for ravioli drenched in butter cream sauce.”
“No, I guess not.”
Sho was a determined man when he had a goal in mind, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. He also didn’t want to impose anything on Matsumoto. If anything, he was grateful that he was allowed to hang around him even for that short a while. It felt like a privilege he did not deserve. He pressed a button on his car key and stepped inside his car.
Sho rolled down his window. “I guess this is goodnight.”
“Night,” Matsumoto said, as he shrugged into his toggle coat.
“Any chance that I’ve worked hard enough for your name?”
The chef laughed. “Matsumoto. I told you, it’s Matsumoto.”
Sho shrugged and laughed as well. “I can take a hint.” He pressed the window close and waved to him. Sho drove away with his attention undeniably piqued, his heart racing, and his eyes on the rearview mirror as he watched the shadowed shape of Matsumoto growing smaller and smaller.
*
>>Part 2
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sho/Jun
Word count: 10,445
Summary: AU. Jun is a chef who owns an Italian restaurant. Sho is a businessman. They flirt and beat around the bush and eat a lot of food.
Warnings/Notes: This was only supposed to be a drabble (!) but things just got way out of hand. I just vaguely wanted to write about food, but this turned out to be cheesier than I expected. (See what I did there?) I have no regrets! ♥
He was not the type to fall in love at first sight, nor lose himself in a night of seduction with a stranger, the prospect of which appalled him. Neither did he harbor any romantic delusions: he had never fallen for a person just because he or she had beautiful eyes, or anything of that sort. Sho prided himself on being rational when it came to matters of attraction and dating, but it was also probably the reason why he had been batting below average for years. That is to say, he had not been seeing people much, to put it lightly. In any case, it was not something he thought about on a regular basis. After graduating from a top-tier university, he was immediately recruited for a high paying yet equally taxing, if a bit mundane job in a prestigious multinational company. It was the bonus of graduating with top honors (and at the back of his head, having family connections.) He did not necessarily feel like what he was doing was his life’s passion, because who could honestly say that they dreamed of being a regional corporate manager and marketing consumer products like shampoo and conditioner when they were six? Sho had wanted to be an astronaut, and needless to say, astronauts weren’t in charge of Asia-wide marketing campaigns for consumer products. (Also, his fear of heights kind of made him apprehensive about being strapped into a rocket.) But the thing was, Sho grew up to become a guy who, when given a task, performed it perfectly, even if it did not particularly please him. As long as he had a task in hand, he was happy. He may not have become an astronaut, but he was okay with how his life has turned out.
It did not hurt, of course, that thanks to his exorbitant salary, he drove around the streets of Tokyo in a sleek white sports car, lived on the top floor of a tasteful apartment with a breathtaking view, and got to dine out pleasurably without a thought to how much damage his wallet took-great cuisine being his one pleasure. In fact, he could give up the Audi R8 (he didn’t care much for cars, really, as long as he got to drive, but he had an image to keep among his peers,) the apartment (he could live in a hovel for all the fucks he did not give, as long as it had a bed and a hot shower) but food… Food excited as it relaxed him. Sho considered dining out his one true luxury, something he was won’t to give up. If there was anything that he had wanton feelings about, it’s food.
So when he heard about a cozy, little corner restaurant in Aoyama that apparently served the most delightful truffle ravioli this side of Italy-a glittering endorsement by his subordinate at work, Shige, who was also somewhat of a gourmand-he knew that he had to go and try it. Immediately. One can never have enough truffle even if it was a “trendy ingredient” enterprising restaurants highlighted in their menu to entice newbie foodies (Shige also assured him rather arrogantly that the truffle in the restaurant was the real thing.) Sho practically salivated when Shige boasted about his new epicurean find, because for Sho, pasta had just about the same pull as ramen, which was, to say, a lot. After a particularly taxing day spent on smiling through videoconferences with his dour and demanding clients, truffle ravioli and anything Italian seemed heaven sent.
It was already quite late when he got off his job, he was ready for a great meal. When he entered the restaurant, Sho realized that Shige was not kidding about the “cozy” part: Il Bel Far Niente was pretty small and probably sat fifteen at the very most. The walls were painted white, the far end with a huge backlit bookcase that served as a wine display case, with some vintage books peppered here and there. The table and chairs were made of light wood and were very rudimentary. Unobtrusive lighting gave grace to the simple furnishings, Sho noted. It was not the usual restaurant he favored, but there was something beguiling about the simplicity of everything. He found his way to a nice seat by the window and removed his coat, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread-Sho could feel his heart rejoicing at the thought of freshly baked bread at dinner time-and listening to the light strain of Duke Ellington. He recognized the tune as “Satin Doll”, a song that his mother used to play in the background when she was checking the test papers of her English students while he did his homework beside her. Sho warmed at the memory; he felt the knots from his shoulders already beginning to ease away. A pleasant-looking waitress with short hair approached his table.
“Good evening, sir. Would you like some drinks first?”
Sho found himself returning her smile. “I think I’m in the mood for some white wine. Australian, if you carry some?”
“Surely. Would you like just a glass, or would you like to order a whole bottle?”
Sho was feeling good, and rather ravenous as well. “A whole bottle, please.”
“Great! I’ll be back with your wine and to get your order.”
“Well, a menu would be a great help.”
The waitress smiled magnanimously. “Tell us what you want, and as long as it’s Italian, we probably have it in our kitchen.”
Sho’s eyes grew wide. “You mean, you don’t have a menu?”
“None.” The waitress laughed. “Our chef is quite the miracle worker.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded emphatically. “I’ll be back with your wine, sir.”
He felt like laughing as he pondered the situation. Sho was not a man who liked being surprised, but tonight, he felt different. He was always up for a culinary ride, and so he gave his dinner tonight some extra thought. When the waitress came back, he ordered for some lobster and mascarpone ravioli with truffle butter cream sauce, and a small margherita pizza. The waitress did not even bat a lash and gracefully dashed off to the kitchen. When the food arrived, Sho’s stomach gurgled in hunger. The plates were arranged in a non-pretentious manner, but Sho could already see that the ingredients were fresh, and the pasta was homemade. On the first bite of the ravioli, Sho closed his eyes in pleasure-the flavor of shallots wonderfully melded with the lobster and mascarpone filling. The margherita pizza was spare, yet delicious as well. It was obvious that the food was masterfully made. With the wine and the well-curated jazz music, Sho was practically in heaven. What he also liked about Il Bel Far Niente was that thanks to its size, people did not stare at him in a weird way for dining alone, unlike in the fancier, fine dining haunts he usually preferred. He decided after several more bites of ravioli to be nicer to Shige in the office and stop treating him like a kid. After all, the kid had taste.
“How is your food?” The waitress asked as she refilled his wine goblet for him.
“Amazing. Really, really amazing.”
She smiled as if she knew it all along anyway. “Would you like to meet the chef?”
It wasn’t like he could refuse. And, what the hell. “Oh, is he available? Sure.”
He almost forgot about it. Minutes later, in the middle of a bite of his pizza, a deep, male voice interrupted him, surprising him a little. “Good evening.” When Sho looked up, the sight of a serious-looking man who looked like he was made for wearing a white chef outfit greeted him. He had pale, luminous skin, which was further offset by the pristine chef uniform top, and perfectly coiffed hair that was combed back. He was fairly built, and probably fashionable, if the tailored dark denim jeans and luxurious yet comfortable looking leather driving shoes were anything to go by. There wasn’t anything else to conclude other than the fact that he was gorgeous, that he was extremely talented, and that he had taste. Sho stopped staring and rushed to swallow his food, not wanting to look creepy.
“Oh, hello,” Sho said, as he self-consciously wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“I’m Matsumoto. I trust everything has been satisfactory?”
Sho found himself bowled over by the chef’s smile, which transformed his severe looks. The chef had full, flushed lips and perfect set of teeth, a smile made for commercials, for billboards. Sho wondered how such a good-looking guy preferred to be behind the scenes, but the thought that he was a chef and worked on beautiful gastronomic creations on a delightful, little restaurant furthered Sho’s initial interest. He felt a sudden need to have those lips on his. Shaking his head, he was shocked, and rather appalled, by his own thoughts.
“Yes, the food’s great.”
The chef bowed slightly. “I’m glad to hear that. Is it your first time to dine here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you enjoy the lobster and mascarpone ravioli? It was my first time to cook that combination, I hope it was enjoyable?”
“It was, it was.” Sho hated himself for his perfunctory responses. He found himself entranced by the small constellation of moles around the chef’s mouth.
“That makes me happy. Please enjoy the rest of your dinner,” Matsumoto said politely, as if he sensed he was being dismissed. Sho wanted to dispel that notion, but he couldn’t open his mouth.
When Matsumoto stretched out a hand as he said “please enjoy the rest of your dinner,” Sho could do nothing else but nod and shake it. For some reason, watching the retreating back of Matsumoto was the only regrettable thing about that night. He finished his meal, paid the bill, and walked out of the restaurant, in a daze. After getting into his car, he didn’t know why he could not immediately drive off. The rain started to pour torrentially. He watched the people inside the restaurant across the street, wishing for another sighting of the chef.
It was the first time in his life that he was so besotted by someone, at first sight at that, to the point that it irked him. The taste of the food and the wine was still on his tongue, and he wondered about Matsumoto-things like why he was a chef, where he learned to cook Italian cuisine, what he liked to do in his spare time, what his favorite season was, what kind of apartment he lived in, why he had such a serious expression when he could just smile all the time and get whatever he wanted, what his first name was. Sho remembered the constellation of tiny moles on his lips, and wondered about those too.
*
Jun was not having such a good day. The kitchen was in disarray as the sous chef called in sick, and he did not expect the chaos that would ensue. He was used to having everything organized and hated disorder in his kitchen. He found himself shouting at the chef de partie for burning the Neapolitan ragù he asked him to look over for a mere minute-he usually did not shout and wanted professional harmony in his kitchen, but that day, his nerves were completely frazzled. On most days, Jun reveled in the small but fulfilling tasks of the kitchen: chopping the onions (which wasn’t a head chef’s job, but he liked how it calmed him down), making sure the line cooks don’t overdo the meat, picking the best cheese for a dish, overseeing the baking of his famed margherita pizzas on the brick wood-fired oven, putting the finishing touches on a plate, etc. Jun was a guy who was passionate about what he did for a living, so what he was pleased about he really was pleased about, but the things that annoyed him really annoyed and vexed him. When one of the waiters said that he messed up one of the orders (again) and so it had to be re-cooked, Jun had it. It was the nth hiccup of the day and he could not deal with it, because he hated inefficiency. He did not care that some of the employees saw him as a cool, controlling, and impersonal robot, he just wanted to have everything in top quality. But right then, he couldn’t stomach it all without having a little smoking break to calm down. He coldly asked the saucier to whip up the dish by himself because he was going to have a little break. He sure deserved one.
As he stepped outside to the relative cool of the evening breeze, he breathed deeply. He lit a cigarette, and took a long, satisfying drag. Jun knew that smoking was bad for him, he had been chastised about it repeatedly by his mother and sister, but old habits die hard. It was the one thing that helped him calm his nerves all those years training vigorously and strenuously under strict Italian chefs in five-star restaurants. Most people dined in ignorance of the battle scene that was the kitchen, Jun thought. It wasn’t that he was not thankful for the strict training he got under all those renowned and talented chefs, but he hated the bustle of big kitchens. When he gained fame for being a talented saucier in the culinary circles of Japan, he had turned down numerous offers to become head chef in new restaurants. Jun had a vision for himself, and it involved a small kitchen with a small, reliable staff, in a small quaint restaurant where he could take his time and immerse himself in the process. Jun was all about the details; he did not care for the fame or the notoriety most celebrity chefs got and seemingly expected more of in recent times. He had a vision in his mind, and it took him ten years of solid training to get there. Some say that cooking is an innate thing, but Jun had always believed that hard work counted for more. Setting up Il Bel Far Niente was a gamble, but it was his dream. Sure, there were glitches, and some days were less than perfect (like today, for instance), but Jun was satisfied. He has dreamed of having his own Italian restaurant ever since he was young, after a trip to Italy with his late grandfather. He found himself smitten with the flavors and intoxicated with the cuisine.
Ayaka, the waitress, cheerfully bounded up to him when he entered the kitchen after his break. He was fond of Ayaka, because she did her job well and her cheer was quite infectious. He met her at the last restaurant he worked in, and found himself becoming friends with her. When he said that he was opening up his own place, Ayaka didn’t even hesitate and said that she was “on board.” Jun knew that she would be an asset to his restaurant, and he had always liked her positive attitude; there was no reason not to hire her. Even the strained mood in the kitchen right then didn’t faze her.
“Sir! You should meet one of the customers. He looks just absolutely over the moon about the food.”
“You already told him I’d meet him, didn’t you,” he asked wryly.
Ayaka laughed. “This guy’s different, sir. He looks like a food critic or something.”
“Oh, does he? Which one is he?” Jun asked, as he peeped out of the small door window to the dining area.
“Stuffy tie and shirt. The lobster and mascarpone guy. Mr. Ravioli.”
Jun gave Ayaka a look. “Mr. Ravioli? When did you decide to call him that?”
“Just now.”
“Figures.”
Ayaka grinned. “But don’t you think he has such a discriminating taste for a first time customer?”
“Mmm. I had a little bit of trouble with the butter sauce on his dish.”
“So you’ll meet him?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Ayaka grinned at him again as he straightened out his starched collar. He walked towards the Mr. Ravioli, who was now unabashedly biting into a slice of pizza. Jun took note of his expensive looking shirt and silk tie, and the black suit that had a fancy paisley blue lining, haphazardly strewn on the seat beside him-probably some hotshot businessman who liked food rather than a food critic, he thought. The customer was almost good-looking, if only he parted his hair differently.
“Good evening.”
Jun laughed inwardly at catching himself being nitpicky, and also at the way the man struggled to chew and swallow his food when he heard that he was being talked to. He didn’t know an adult who was so well dressed that took such huge, ungainly bites. It was probably a compliment to Jun’s cooking, but he was still undecided whether he was revolted or amused by it. He resembled an animal, Jun thought, although he couldn’t place what.
“Hello,” the man replied. Jun smiled at seeing a tiny sliver of herb stuck in between his teeth. He could be the good Samaritan and point it out politely, but it wasn’t worth the awkwardness and it would probably be washed away by a sip of wine, he thought. Jun launched into his usual hospitable chef tirade, wondering if Mr. Ravioli was just really shy or hated to be disturbed while dining. He excused himself after politely shaking the man’s hand, still amused by his offbeat manner.
Before midnight, he began his rituals before closing up shop. Jun made sure that the kitchen was spotless, that everything was accounted for, and that the chairs were neatly lined up. He knew he should entrust everything to his operations manager, but he was still a little protective of everything. Or to be more to the point, he was still unbelieving of the fact that he actually now had a restaurant to call his own. It had been two months already, but still. Jun liked to sit there, in the middle of the restaurant, when everybody was gone and he could nurse a glass of wine while silently listening to the jazz music still playing. It reminded him of his grandfather, whose favorites included Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone. Sometimes, Jun also played some music by Happy End, a Japanese folk rock band from the 70s. His favorite song from them was “Hana Ichi Monme”. He tried not to play it too much, because it reminded him of road trips with his father. How great music mixed up with such vehement feelings of anger and abandonment, he did not know. When he checked his phone, it was already past midnight. Time seemed to pass quickly when he was left alone with his thoughts. He turned off the audio unit and locked up the place.
It would be so nice to have someone to talk to, really talk to, he thought. On his way to the train station, he saw a white sports car parked outside. It was odd, at that time of the night, but he paid it no more notice.
*
After two days, Sho couldn’t help it. He wanted to see the chef again. It was just a bonus that the restaurant had great food, but truly, he found himself thinking about the chef again and again. He hated it. So after work that day, he zoomed straight to his apartment and changed into some linen pants and a relaxed polo shirt. He hoped that by wearing a more casual outfit, he would be less conspicuous. Sho didn’t know about other people, but he found it embarrassing to be back in a restaurant not merely a week after dining there, unless it was one of the restaurants that he had patronized for years. It was silly, Sho knew, but his tiny yet burgeoning curiosity for the chef did not help matters. When he stepped inside the restaurant, the chirpy waitress was there to greet him. Sho blushed a deep red.
“Back so soon, sir?”
“Umm…yes,” Sho replied sheepishly.
“The same table again?”
Sho nodded; he was led to the table by the window, where he also sat last time.
“The same wine, sir? Or would you like something else tonight?”
He looked up to see her smiling. “Are you really this cheerful everyday?”
She laughed. “I just like seeing repeat customers. The chef loves hearing about it.”
At hearing that, Sho’s cheeks heat up even more. “I’ll have the same wine. But just a glass this time, thanks.”
The waitress nodded, and was about to head off to get him his drink when Sho stopped her. “Err…Miss?”
She shook her head. “Ayaka is fine, sir.”
“Okay, umm, Ayaka-san. I just wanted to save you the trouble. I’ll have the same food as well.”
“Oh, surely,” Ayaka replied.
When he dug into his food, the same pleasurable feeling wormed its way into his belly. Il Bel Far Niente’s food was truly a balm for the heart, and he almost forgot to be embarrassed by being back so soon. He savored every bite, thinking about the person behind the dish’s creation. True, it was a little creepy, but Sho could not help it. Food, especially good food, had a great effect on him, but exceptional food touched him. He was not an emotional man, but he was comforted by the effortless ease of how the flavors of the lobster mixed with the butter cream sauce that was simmered so delicately with truffles. It took talent and a certain kind of personality to nail down such a dish, and the thought that it was that good-looking chef behind it aroused Sho’s need to see him again. Just as he was about to signal to Ayaka for a refill of his wine, a male voice spoke from his back.
“A refill?”
When Sho turned to acknowledge the speaker, he suddenly felt breathless. It was the chef, Matsumoto, holding out a bottle of wine. It took all of Sho’s efforts to say “sure.”
Matsumoto poured his drink, giving Sho a chance to guiltily perv on his elegant white wrist and long fingers. Trying to shake off his “thoughts”, he thanked the chef.
“How’s the dish this time?”
“Still great.”
“That’s good.”
Sho took the chance to meet Matsumoto’s eyes. “Do you usually pour drinks for customers?”
Matsumoto smiled-Sho tried not to faint, really-and said, “I don’t.”
Sho tried to grasp the meaning behind those two words, but he couldn’t. He watched the man in white walk away, disappearing again behind those kitchen doors. It took him awhile to realize that his heart was beating errantly. He felt like a fucking teenager.
Man oh man was he screwed.
*
Ayaka nudged him in the chest. “Sir, Mr. Ravioli’s definitely not back for the food. You’re good, but you’re not that good.”
Jun put down the wine bottle in the cooler with a tiny smirk. “How dare you have such little faith in my cooking?”
The waitress laughed. “It’s not that I lack faith in your cooking, sir, if anything, it’s that I have too much faith in your good looks.”
At that, Jun had to laugh. “Thanks, I think? I didn’t know you found me so good-looking, Ayaka-san.”
Ayaka loaded her tray with a couple of hot dishes that the saucier handed her. “Oh, if only you liked women, sir,” she whispered jokingly as she picked up the tray.
“More working and less fake flirting, Ayaka-san,” Jun said with a smile, as he opened the door for her.
He could not deny it, he was pleased to see Mr. Ravioli again in his restaurant. When he first peeped into the dining area earlier that evening, he was glad to see him sitting in the same spot. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and a tie this time, and Jun would be lying if he said that he didn’t find him attractive in casual clothes. He took it upon himself to refill his wine, a decision he didn’t regret. Without the sliver of herb in between his teeth this time, the guy was actually pretty cute. It helped that he parted his hair the right way. It looked like as if he randomly tousled it up; perhaps the severe one-sided part was reserved for the workplace. Matsumoto found himself smiling at his customer when he served him his wine. When he was asked if he usually poured wine for his customers, Jun threw the whole no-flirting-with-customers thing he’s always had out the window. He knew the feeling of randomly getting hit on (both by men and women) and he didn’t like it most of the time. But something told him that Mr. Ravioli here wouldn’t mind. Not a single bit. It wasn’t like he was asking his hand in marriage, he was just harmlessly pouring a man his drink.
Jun’s thoughts were affirmed when later he saw him outside, leaning back against a white Audi. It was the same white car he saw a couple of nights ago. He was in the middle of closing up shop, but he decided it could wait. When he stepped out of the restaurant, Mr. Ravioli looked like he was caught red-handed doing something illegal. Jun fished his pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he crossed the road.
“Your ride?” Jun said as he rummaged his pockets for a lighter. Sho procured one from his pocket and lit it up for Jun. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Yes, my ride.”
“Pretty sweet.” It was a nice car, but somehow, Jun thought that it didn’t fit the owner. Strange, but he just found himself thinking so. “Flat tire?”
The guy coughed. “No.”
“Oh. You’ve been out here since you finished your food?”
The other guy ran his fingers through his hair. “Mm, yeah.”
“I see.”
Jun suddenly felt shy. He was about to say something mundane about the weather, but suddenly, Mr. Ravioli spoke up. “I was thinking…perhaps you’d like a ride home?”
He won’t lie, but the way the other man said it made Jun’s pants feel slightly tighter. Perhaps it was the gap between the guy’s uptight appearance and his forward request. Or perhaps it was because they were in closer proximity than usual, and Jun noticed his full, pouting lips. The way the other man stood, casually leaning on his car with his arms crossed, was all so sexy. Very sexy. He took a drag from his cigarette. “But you don’t know me.”
“Well, I know that you’re a chef. I like your cooking. You serve a badass pizza. You poured me a drink when you usually don’t do it for other people.”
The corner of Jun’s mouth hiked up almost indiscernibly. “I don’t know you.” He threw his stub and killed the embers with his shoe.
The other man extended his hand, a sheepish smile on his face. “Sakurai Sho.”
Jun considered the other man for a while, before shaking his hand. “Tell you what, Sakurai Sho. Why don’t you help me close up the store?”
Something about the earnest way Sho nodded and said “sure” made Jun want to smile.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”
“I already did.”
“Matsumoto…san?”
Jun nodded, enjoying the way Sho fumbled.
“I don’t get the pleasure of knowing your first name, huh?”
Slightly tipping his head sideways, Jun said, “It can be earned.” He turned away and started to walk back towards the restaurant. There was no resisting the self-satisfied grin that crawled up to his face when he heard Sakurai Sho’s leathered footsteps behind him.
*
Sho helped Matsumoto with tidying up the chairs and placing them on top of the tables. They didn’t talk while they did it, allowing the jazz music to fill up their silence. He took full notice of how the chef was meticulous with everything, how he carefully arranged everything back into its original place.
“I didn’t know that cleaning up was part of a chef’s job description.”
Matsumoto turned towards him. “I find it rather relaxing.”
“The restaurant’s owner must feel really lucky to have you then,” Sho replied with a small smile. He was happy to hold his own in this conversation with such a beautiful man. At the very least, he was glad that he was holding his stammers at bay. He was very rusty at this whole flirting business. It had been too long, and he was very much out of practice.
“Yes, I’m very lucky to have myself,” Matsumoto said, a twinkle in his eye.
“You mean you own this place?” Sho found himself more amazed.
Matsumoto nodded. “You could say it’s been a lifelong dream.”
“Wow.”
Sho watched Matsumoto as he walked towards the small cabinet tucked behind the counter. He removed his chef top over his head, revealing a black tank top underneath. Sho guiltily took note of the man’s lean yet strong-looking arms. Quickly, Matsumoto also removed the tank top and fished out a fresh shirt from a bag inside the cabinet. Sho suddenly felt very flustered, so he looked away. As he was putting on the shirt, he shouted out to Sho.
“How about a nightcap? A glass of wine for the road?”
“Sounds great.”
They settled in to the bar, their knees almost touching. Matsumoto clinked his glass with Sho’s. “Thanks for helping me.”
“It’s nothing.”
Matsumoto took a long look at him, rendering him self-conscious. He took a sip from his glass, willing the alcohol to course through his veins. It was excruciating yet exciting to be in the same room with this man, this man who thought nothing of staring people in the eye. “So, do you usually dine out alone?”
“Usually.”
“Hmm.” The chef sloshed his wine around his glass. “You’re kind of weird.”
Sho swallowed. “Well, I kind of like eating alone.” With those light brown eyes still staring at him, he found himself launching on to a monologue about how he enjoyed food even without the company, because dining out was his hobby. He talked about how food excited him, how different flavors inspired him. He was so painfully self-conscious that he felt like he could die, especially talking about food with someone who dealt with cuisine on an everyday basis, but strangely enough, it was Matsumoto’s steady gaze that spurred him on. Sho told him about how wonderful his ravioli was, and that the taste alone was company enough for him. He talked and talked and talked. Before he realized it, he had already finished his glass of wine. He was horrified to realize that he had been monopolizing the conversation, if indeed it could be called one, because he was the one doing all the talking.
“I’m sorry,” Sho backtracked. “I’ve talked too much.”
Matsumoto sipped the last drop of his wine. It felt like an eternity before he talked again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Are you hitting on me?”
Sho felt like he was punched.
Before he could speak up, Matsumoto laughed. “I’m just kidding. Shall we call it a night?”
They then placed the glasses on the dishwasher and Matsumuto turned off the lights and locked the doors. Sho kept on sneaking glances at him, and thankfully, Matsumoto seemed oblivious. Sho could not help it, he was so enamored with the chef. He liked Matsumoto’s serious facial expressions, but he also liked his smile. It was unfair, really. Sho thought that Matsumoto had the kind of smile that could literally balance out all the negative stuff he had to go through throughout the day. It was so perfect and…pretty. He was aware that his thoughts veered towards the creepy side, but he could not help it. There was a strange pull that attracted him to the chef. The feeling of desire and potentiality mixed headily in his head-he wanted nothing more than the chance to spend more time with him. When Matsumoto finally finished checking everything, Sho was standing awkwardly towards the side, his hands in his pocket.
“So, about that ride,” Sho started.
“I feel like walking tonight,” Matsumoto replied, his expression unreadable. “Thanks for helping me close up tonight, though.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home? Or at least to the nearest train station? I swear I’m not a serial killer.”
“Don’t worry about me, Sakurai Sho,” he replied, a small smile on his face. “Also, I don’t think it’s very likely that serial killers have a penchant for ravioli drenched in butter cream sauce.”
“No, I guess not.”
Sho was a determined man when he had a goal in mind, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. He also didn’t want to impose anything on Matsumoto. If anything, he was grateful that he was allowed to hang around him even for that short a while. It felt like a privilege he did not deserve. He pressed a button on his car key and stepped inside his car.
Sho rolled down his window. “I guess this is goodnight.”
“Night,” Matsumoto said, as he shrugged into his toggle coat.
“Any chance that I’ve worked hard enough for your name?”
The chef laughed. “Matsumoto. I told you, it’s Matsumoto.”
Sho shrugged and laughed as well. “I can take a hint.” He pressed the window close and waved to him. Sho drove away with his attention undeniably piqued, his heart racing, and his eyes on the rearview mirror as he watched the shadowed shape of Matsumoto growing smaller and smaller.
*
>>Part 2