by Beth Bolden
The days slipped by, eventful in the way that each one seemed very uneventful. Each and every one of them was long. The hours were brutal, but somehow living together helped. Even though Bastian had looked once over the reading glasses that had made their way into more than one of Kian’s nightly fantasies, and suggested it was a terrible idea to live with people you worked with, it had been the right choice.
The days didn’t seem quite so long when he could come home, flip on the TV, listen to Xander and Wyatt bitch about what shitty thing Chef had said to them tonight, and watch as Miles smiled slow and wide, distributing the pastries he’d snitched from the extras.
It was a good life, and Kian liked it. He might have loved it, if only those Moments could stop happening. They made him yearn for disasters.
Disasters like kissing in the fridges, blowjobs in Bastian’s office, Bastian pushing him against one of the stainless steel prep counters late at night and fucking him mercilessly.
Considering that he already knew they’d be disasters, it was surprising that he couldn’t push them out of his mind.
His friends teased him mercilessly, because of course they’d picked up on his crush. They didn’t call it that, of course, because Kian knew they were secretly horrified since Bastian was their living nightmare. And it wasn’t like he didn’t say shitty things to Kian sometimes. It wasn’t like he didn’t make him come to Terroir earlier and stay later than anyone else. It wasn’t that he hadn’t ever thrown a pot or a dish at some mistake Kian had made. Those incidents happened often enough they weren’t even out of the ordinary.
But he also got to see Bastian in a light they didn’t.
On the last Sunday of every month, Bastian tested recipes, and from the very first time Kian joined him, it was something special they did together.
This wasn’t the first time, but somehow, the miracle of creation never failed to excite him. And sometimes, if Kian was very lucky, Bastian would let down his guard a little, and Kian would catch him staring at him, as he went about his tasks. Something that Bastian would never do when others were around, because Kian knew he was terrified of anyone finding out that the Bastard had feelings, even if they were primarily sexual feelings.
“What about the butter?” Kian asked, holding the buttery, lemon-dill reduction out towards where Chef was bent over a plate, tweezers out as he settled the garnishes onto the plate.
They were trying out a new langoustine recipe, and Chef had asked Kian to put together a butter sauce for drizzling. Except that instead of drizzling it, Bastian had moved right onto the garnishes.
“Oh, shit, yeah,” Bastian said, glancing up. “Maybe around the edge of the plate?”
When they’d first started working together on Sundays, Bastian definitely hadn’t asked Kian’s opinion. But slowly, as their time together progressed, he’d begun to ask a question here or there, until, in the last few months, the sessions had started to actually feel collaborative.
Kian looked at the plate Bastian had chosen and knew that sauce ringing the edge of the plate would be a messy proposition at best.
“Let me taste it first,” Bastian demanded, and Kian passed over the pot. He dipped a spoon in, licked it clean, and let the flavor of the sauce linger on his palate. Chef tasted a hundred things, every single day, but the recurring thought of, that should be me, and the automatic denial was second nature to Kian by now.
“God damn, that’s good,” Bastian said fervently. “The little spice on the end, that’s glorious.”
“Thank you, Chef,” Kian said formally, but he was smiling. Nothing ever felt better than a compliment from Bastian, mostly because compliments were so scarce, but also because you knew he meant them.
Unceremoniously he dumped the langoustine in the trash, sliding the plate down near the rest of their dirty dishes. Dishes Kian would probably end up washing, since Jorge wouldn’t be in until later, and he’d have his hands full.
“That sauce needs to be the focal. Which means, a new plate.” Bastian prowled over to the shelving unit that held his plate selections, and picked one, then another, and then a third.
They clattered as he deposited them on the counter in front of Kian. “You pick,” he said.
This was new. Sometimes Bastian asked his opinion, but he’d never been given control of a decision before. And plate selection was huge. It determined plating and garnish and Bastian had told him a thousand times, those often determined the ultimate success of a dish. Food was visual before it ever hit the taste buds.
Kian examined each one carefully, envisioning in his mind the langoustine, the French beans, the sauce, the garnishes. Only one stood to him as the perfect choice. He glanced up at Bastian, who was watching intently.
“Go on,” Bastian said, making a little shooing gesture with his hand, the other tucked up under his armpit. A fierce look of concentration fell over his face as he watched Kian plate the langoustine.
When Kian was finally done, and wiped the plate, Bastian spent a long time looking at it from every angle.
He’d poured the sauce into the bottom of the curved bowl, curled the langoustine in a loose spiral, positioned the beans upright, letting them fan out, and in a final touch, used the eyedropper to dot the surface of the yellowy cream sauce with basil oil.
“You’ve been paying attention,” Bastian said finally.
Kian was almost offended. Was there anyone who assumed he hadn’t been?
“All it needs,” Bastian continued, “is one final touch.” He abruptly turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the walk-in fridges. When he came back, he was holding something in his hands. Carefully he leaned down and nestled one of the miniature Anaheim peppers they’d just gotten into one of the langoustine folds.
“Visually, it’s right,” Bastian said, but he gave a sigh of frustration. “But if any idiot eats that, it’ll overwhelm the shellfish and the sauce. What else do we have that’s red?”
“What about a single slice of radish?” Kian suggested. “It’s a nice vibrant red, but the flavor is fairly neutral.”
“Let’s try it,” Bastian said, and Kian went back to the walk-in, grabbed a radish, then his fish deboning knife, very sharp and very flexible and carved a single, nearly paper-thin slice. The edges were bright red, and the starkness of the white was a good contrast to the yellow and green base. He swapped it for the pepper, and knew it was right when Bastian sighed again, but this time in satisfaction.
He reached over and clapped a hand on Kian’s shoulder.
They didn’t always touch. Touching always felt a little like Russian roulette, especially in the sacred confines of the Terroir kitchens. But once in a while—Kian was never sure if it was because he’d done something good enough to be rewarded or if Bastian was so impressed he couldn’t help himself anymore—he’d reach out like this with a brief clasp of his shoulder.
This time, though, he lingered and Kian’s heartbeat accelerated. He couldn’t stop it and he couldn’t slow it down.
He looked up to see Bastian looking at him, intently. There were a thousand dangerous things brewing in that dark gaze, and Kian trembled.
“You are so . . .” Bastian broke off and dropped his hand, his earlier frustration magnified.
For a moment, Kian considered bringing up the conversation that they didn’t talk about. If Bastian was finding it so difficult to stay professional, maybe they could relax the rules a little.
Except that wouldn’t work either. If one or both of them ever broke down and touched with more than just friendly, professional intent, the resulting wildfire would be all-consuming. There wouldn’t just be a slight bending of the rules, the rules would be entirely incinerated.
There was nothing to say, nothing to be done, because Kian still believed Chef was right. He was learning so much, absorbing everything, and if they hadn’t had that conversation so long ago, would these Sundays even be happening? Sundays where he’d even begun to establish his own point of view as a ch
ef?
“I’m sorry,” Bastian finally said. He sounded wretched—just like Kian felt. “I’d tell you to find another teacher, but I’m horribly territorial and I’d probably end up punching them in the face.”
Kian laughed, because he wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of Chef Aquino. Six months ago, he might have spent a week in wonderment, that Bastian cared enough about him to be territorial at all. But now, all he felt was a hazy sort of desperation.
How long could they continue like this? Kian’s contract with Terroir had been for two years, initially, and he’d intended to stay at least that long, if not longer.
But later that night, as he lay awake in bed, every muscle in his body exhausted but sleep somehow still elusive, he wondered if he could possibly last two years like this.
Something inside him ached, and he was afraid it was his heart. It had been so much easier when he’d believed, like Bastian had hinted at, that their connection was just hormones. But after six months, Kian was afraid that wasn’t all it was anymore. He didn’t want just to protect Bastian anymore. He wanted to teach Bastian, the way Bastian was teaching him, how to handle the stuff that overwhelmed him. Instead of avoiding it, he wanted to be consumed by the fire between them; he wanted to pull Bastian in with him.
Bastian’s own frustration with the arrangement had shown in his face today, but how were they supposed to stop? There was nothing to be done, Kian realized, except to keep going.
Keep learning, keep growing, and keep suffering.
* * *
Two months later, one of Miles’ pastry videos went viral, and he packed up and moved to LA.
When he watched Miles make himself a drunken mess over his new producer, Kian told himself firmly this was exactly why Bastian had insisted they keep things professional between them. He didn’t want to be Miles, and he didn’t want to be Miles’ new producer either. It was messy and embarrassing and it didn’t even matter that they ended up happily together.
Kian told himself firmly that he was thrilled for them, and left it at that.
Four months after that, Wyatt, witnessing the money Miles had made in LA, let himself be lured down there too. He got a job as a private chef for a baseball player, and at this point, Kian was resigned that all his friends were going to abandon him.
As long as Xander stayed, he’d be okay.
Of course, Wyatt leaving meant that Wyatt had to resign from Terroir.
Unfortunately, Kian, who took care of almost all of Bastian’s personnel issues now, as well as prepping and subbing as needed on the line during service, couldn’t be the one to take Wyatt’s resignation letter.
It was going to have to be Bastian, and Bastian wasn’t going to be happy about it.
He loved firing people, but people leaving him? Not good. Abort. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
It would’ve been weird for Kian to be in the office when Wyatt submitted his resignation but he hovered outside, waiting for the moment when everything went sideways.
He heard murmured voices, and then Bastian’s voice edging upwards. Wyatt was still too hard to hear, which meant that he was keeping his own temper, even as Bastian’s sneering tone cut right through the glass walls of his office and echoed throughout the whole kitchen.
“Did someone even hire your sloppy ass?” Bastian demanded, and he said it loud enough, Kian could see heads rise across the kitchen. He sighed and leaned back against the wall. This was going just about as badly as he’d imagined it would. The worst part in Kian’s opinion was that he knew Bastian didn’t mean anything he’d just said. He was so angry because losing Wyatt, who was a fantastic chef with an intuitive touch for meat, was a blow. It didn’t excuse the verbal abuse, but at least it helped explain it.
Kian was startled from his studied nonchalance when a crash resonated through the entire kitchen. Almost immediately Wyatt stormed out, his blue eyes narrow and his expression very pissed off. He didn’t even acknowledge Kian, who raced past him to discover that yes, Bastian had swept the entire contents of his desk onto the floor.
He sighed, and leaned down to pick up a piece of coffee mug that was spinning at his feet.
“I can’t believe that fucking bastard quit,” Bastian said in a huff, but Kian had known him long enough to know it was all defensive posturing. I can’t believe he left me, was what Kian heard.
“He needs the money. His grandmother is in a home,” Kian said quietly. “And this private chef gig pays really well.”
“Private chef,” Bastian sneered. “So he’s going to go grill plain, tough chicken for some socialite in LA?”
Being Bastian’s intern and being friends with Wyatt and Xander was a fine line to walk. He often knew more than he felt comfortable saying to his boss—things that his friends told him in confidence. Like that Xander’s new sauce recipe was almost directly lifted from a Tom Colicchio cookbook, or that Wyatt wasn’t going to be cooking for a socialite at all, but the only “out” player in professional baseball.
Bastian definitely didn’t need to know that there was definitely something going on between the baseball player and Wyatt.
“Probably,” Kian said noncommittedly in his most soothing voice. He leaned down and picked up the keyboard, which was missing a few important keys. This was the fourth keyboard they’d been through in the last year, and Kian had started buying extras because he might still need to place online orders for supplies and ingredients the day that Bastian decided to throw a hissy fit. They couldn’t run out of artichokes just because Kian didn’t have a keyboard.
Kicking a pen, Bastian slumped down into his chair. The anger had passed now, and they’d moved on to guilt.
“I shouldn’t have said those things. I just . . . saw red,” Bastian said hopelessly.
Kian set the broken keyboard on the chair opposite the desk. He maneuvered around the random detritus on the floor and took a chance by moving closer to Bastian than he normally allowed himself. Even took the risk of placing his hands on Bastian’s broad, muscular shoulders, emphasized by the cut of his white chef’s coat.
Bastian stared at him, and something inside Kian trembled. They didn’t often touch, because even a hand on a shoulder was dangerous, and Kian never initiated contact. But he did today, curling his fingers into the starched cotton of Bastian’s jacket, holding him steady as his own pulse accelerated.
“Maybe next time, we can figure out a way for you to only see . . . orange,” Kian suggested softly.
“I have a temper,” Bastian snapped. “It’s not going away.” He jerked out of Kian’s hands, and the moment broke, like an egg cracking against the edge of a bowl.
It would be nice if Bastian’s temper mellowed, but Kian was not laboring under any false impression that it would. Bastian’s temper was part of who he was; it was the product of the intense pressure he put on himself and on others to produce perfection every single day. It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t always professional, but it wasn’t going away.
Still, if Kian could figure out a way to convince him to take a second to think before he acted, then maybe the collateral damage would be less. At the very least, Kian would end up needing less keyboards.
Leaning down, Kian began to gather up pieces of the coffee cup and the pens and pencils scattered over the polished concrete floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Bastian began to pace in the small space, his arms crossed across his chest, like the physical movement might contain what kept trying to escape.
“I just . . . Wyatt . . . he’s good,” Bastian said, and Kian glanced up to see that he’d stopped pacing and was staring at him, crouched on the floor.
“I know he is,” Kian said calmly.
“He knows it too,” Bastian muttered, like that made up for the insults he’d just spit in Wyatt’s direction.
“Yeah, he does. Which is partly why he’s leaving.”
Kian had gathered almost all the pens from the desk and was moving onto the paperclips sprinkle
d across the concrete.
“Here,” Bastian said, and Kian looked up from the floor to see the mesh paperclip holder held at eye level. He’d crouched down next to Kian and was also picking up paperclips.
This was by no means the first time Bastian had cleared his desk in a fit of temper, but it was definitely the first time he’d helped Kian clean up the mess.
Kian tipped a handful of paperclips into the container. “Maybe I should get one with a sealed lid,” he said, trying to use a bit of humor to distract him from the fact that Bastian was right there next to him, helping him. If he turned his head and leaned a little to the left he’d be pressed right against him.
It might not be an apology, but it was something.
Sighing, Bastian pushed back on his heels, observing the mess surrounding them with a cynical expression. “This life is hard.”
“Really?” Kian retorted sarcastically. “I had no idea.”
Bastian, who could be a sarcastic son of a bitch, ironically hated sarcasm in others, so he ignored Kian’s statement. “And this,” he gestured between them, “makes me tense.”
Like on cue, Kian tensed himself. It was the first time Bastian had overtly referred to the non-relationship between them since that first conversation in the dairy walk-in. He’d come close that Sunday when they’d tested the new langoustine dish—a dish that had carved out a permanent place on the menu, which Kian was still unbearably proud of—but he’d never come out and said it directly.
“It’s hard,” Kian agreed softly. He didn’t really believe that sexual frustration was making Bastian an edgier or more terrible boss than he’d been before. It was a convenient excuse, but Kian still understood what he really meant. There were definitely days, those occasional times when their hands would brush or he’d catch Bastian staring intently, possessively, at him, and he also wanted to throw something.