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passivenovember · 1 month

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(sharing again because I'm so proud of this one)

When Billy Falls in Love

Max's hair is twisted into a rough pink towel when she answers the door. She’s got a berry sorbet sunburn peeking through the angry red flush on her cheeks, freckles looking like they could peel off at any moment. It’s the same way Billy gets in the summertime, but he turns gold in seconds.

Max stays angry red.

She wasn’t at the pool today. Steve knows because he was at the pool fifteen minutes ago, and Billy wasn’t there. And if Billy’s gone so is Max, and if Max is here--

“He’s not here. What’s with the flowers?” Max wonders, with her teeth pulling at the wrapper of a Scoops brand popsicle as she eyes the poorly picked and assembled bouquet of daisies and weeds Steve managed to convince the gardener to let him snag.

Steve can tell she doesn’t really want to know what the deal is. Maybe she already knows.

Max is fourteen and a perpetually bored pain in the ass, already moving to shut Steve out of the house when he jams his foot so the door won’t close.

Max tugs on it. Groans. “Steve,” Max says, sounding tired.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know because we don’t keep tabs on each other, you psycho.”

“Bullshit,” Steve says. Neil’s car isn’t in the driveway, he almost points out.

Doesn’t.

Max almost cracks a smile, seeming to hear him anyway. If Neil’s gone that leaves Billy to play guard dog. “If you care so much about my stupid brother all of a sudden--”

“--All of a--”

“Get in your stupid shitty car and go drive around until you find him,” Max says, like. Get lost.

They’re so similar it burns. Chars licking over Steve’s skin in the shape of how they sneer and heckle the same, and they’re both so smart that Steve has to do math and study chemistry, and perform mental gymnastics just to keep up.

There’s a lot to latch on to, Steve’s hands slip over it like a gymnast missing the high bar.

The way she’s looking at him, the way Max said all of a sudden like Steve’s done something wrong--

“He used to drive you around,” Steve says, like. Aha. “Don’t you give a shit?”

About him?

About his bones and blood.

Max shrugs. “Why should I?”

And. Steve’s an idiot but he remembers how it was before, back when this whole thing started. His lips, red and tender from sucking on any piece of Billy he could find. His fingers, tugging on worn belt loops and begging for a night on Loch Nora and that dull, exhausted phrase gotta watch my sister sinking a hole in Steve’s hope.

“It’s summer,” Max says after a minute, irritated, “We have an arrangement in the summer. June to Labor Day I do what I want, Billy fucks off for a bit, and we always show up here right when--”

“His car's gone,” Steve says. Because she owes it to him and his months and months of blue balls at her lack of self-preservation. She owes it to Billy.

“His car’s gone because he’s not here, Steve, we just went over this--”

Max moves to slam the door and Steve holds it open, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that spreads through his stomach. “Why are you acting weird?” Steve demands.

“I’m not acting weird, you’re the one who’s trying to break into my house because Billy stepped out for five minutes,” Max tugs on the door, groaning dramatically, “C’mon Steve--”

Steve clutches the bouquet of flowers close to his chest. “We’re supposed to go see a movie.”

Max stops pulling on the door, all the attitude cut from her with something dull.

Steve swallows. His nails dig into the palm of his free hand. Steve feels blood swell, but it’s probably just sweat. “Billy. He’s not on a date--”

“Look, Steve,” Max says suddenly, sounding. Much older and wiser than she did five seconds ago. “I like you. You’re cute and dumb but you’re annoyingly sweet and thoughtful. You’re tall, too. You’ve probably failed freshman biology a couple of times.--”

“--I--”

“Shut up,” Max tells him, and Steve swears there’s a bit of green swirling in all that red, embarrassment mixing like watercolor. “Can I be honest with you, Steve?”

Steve nods. He takes his foot from the door jam and rubs his hand on his jeans. Shudders as the feeling in his stomach ebbs and swirls and gets so much worse.

“You’re not his fucking boyfriend,” Max says, and slams the door in his face.

“Well. To be fair, she’s not wrong.”

Steve grips the steering wheel. The leather crackles and squeals with the skin of his palms, giving way to the rumble of the engine when he turns the car onto Park Avenue.

“Jesus,” Eddie snaps, his free hand scrambling to brace against the passenger door while the bouquet teeters dangerously on his lap, “You don’t have to take the turns so fast, Harrington--”

“I can’t believe she said that.”

“--Fucking Evel Kenevil--”

“I mean. I’m practically his boyfriend, right?”

“Sure, and you’ll still be ‘practically his boyfriend,’ even if you drive at the speed limit.”

“Thought you said Max wasn’t talking out of her ass, Munson?”

“Look, I’m allowed to take things minute by minute. I’m just saying,” Eddie tightens the seatbelt against his chest, “You haven’t exactly popped the question.”

“You think Billy’s the kind of guy who--”

“Yeah,” Eddie says casually. “He’s exactly the kind of guy who wants to be asked out. I’ve seen the way he picks flowers and puts them in his own hair when he thinks no one’s looking.”

Steve snorts. “When has he ever done that?”

“We hang out, you know,” Eddie tells him, in lieu of an answer. “When you’re not around, we hang out loads--”

“Maybe you’re Billy’s mystery man,” Steve says only half serious. Mostly joking.

Eddie flushes deep red, “Anyway. This bag of weeds is a good start,” He mumbles, twisting the fat head of a dandelion gently between two fingers.

Steve doesn’t have it in him to unpack any of what that might mean.

They’ve been driving for what feels like hours. The sky has turned hazy, floating in that honey-dipped place between dayglow and starlight. The world will be gold, soon, and then dark. Midnight black.

Hawkins is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it affair. A shithole. Billy only has a handful of places to hide.

Steve presses a little harder on the gas, knowing in the very pit of himself that this is crazy. This is insane, driving around like a bat out of hell with Eddie Munson, but Billy likes Eddie Munson. Steve tolerates him. And Robin’s at camp, so.

Eddie clutches the door again with another sharp, sudden turn. “Harrington--”

“I’m not dropping you off until I find him.”

“Alright,” Munson grumbles. He lights a cigarette and stares out the window for half a neighborhood block and then says, “How do you know he’s not at home, already?”

Steve grips the steering wheel, convinced Eddie wasn’t listening the first time. “Maxine said--”

“That was an hour ago.”

“Neil doesn’t get off until seven, if Billy’s gone he wont be back until six-thirty at the earliest.”

Eddie checks the dash. “It’s six-thirty now.”

“Do you wanna die today, freak?”

“God, you’re so unpleasant,” Eddie says, handing his cigarette over, anyway, “You’re the worst, actually. Worse than I ever imagined and I’ve imagined it a lot when Billy and Dustin yap their fucking gums about how great you are.”

Steve takes a harsh pull from the cigarette. Coughs and hands it back.

Eddie takes it from him. Ash gathers on the cherry but he’s got no self-awareness.

“If you get ash in my flowers, Munson--”

“Jesus Christ, would you give it a rest? He’s gonna love them. He’ll probably cry, once he’s done beating the shit out of you.”

Silence falls, lurid and uncomfortable, and Steve realizes Munson is watching him. Staring at him,

“This is insane boyfriend behavior, Harrington,” Eddie says.

“So, you admit I’m his boyfriend?” Steve tries weakly, in lieu of what he means. Why Should I Take Advice from You?

“I’m saying this is boyfriend behavior but you won’t be a boyfriend for long, once he finds out what we’re doing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve grits his teeth. “What are we doing that’s so wrong, Munson?”

“Hunting him. Like a couple of crazy fucking bloodhounds.”

“We had a date,” Steve tells Eddie again. For the eightieth time. “Billy’s never missed a date so he’s either dead or dying or riding some other guy’s--”

Eddie bangs his head against the window.

Steve rolls the window down for him if only to protect the integrity of the Beemer. “Look, I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but I know Billy. And he wouldn’t just disappear without--”

“You’re not his dad,” Eddie tells him, and Steve.

Steve doesn’t have time to get into all the reasons that’s spot -fucking-on. He’s not Billy’s dad, because Steve loves Billy. To his bones and beyond, a little knob of heartache swirling around each nucleus of every atom in the very core of him.

Steve loves Billy so much it gets him into trouble.

Eddie sucks down his smoke again, like, “You’re really doing all this for a missed date?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m just saying,” Eddie shrugs, “I heard stories about you and the Wheeler chick. Seems like she missed a lot of dates at the end and you never did anything like this for her.”

“Billy’s not Nancy. Billy’s not like anyone, he’s--”

“Holy shit,” Eddie says, coughing. “You. You’re not just blowing smoke up my ass, you’re serious about him.”

And.

Munson says it like it’s a shock.

Like Steve Harrington’s not capable of loving anything but himself. His hair and his house on the hill and this stupid fucking car and maybe that’s what the losers at Hawkins High think, but they’re wrong.

Way wrong. Stuck four years in the past.

Steve has to bite down against every harsh word on the tip of his tongue, tear the sentences apart and swallow them down because of course he’s worried.

Steve’s worried all the time about a lot of things when it comes to this crush he’s been nursing for a year and a half. Steve worries if Billy sleeps enough, for one. If Neil was in a good mood today. How many new bruises Steve will have to cover with hickies the next time they see each other, paint all that hurt over with something good.

It makes him crazy.

Steve worries all the time if Billy loves him. If actually saying it makes a difference.

Steve wonders most of all how much money and begging it’ll take to get Billy out of that house on Cherry Lane. Steve’s spent many restless nights doing the math in his head, staring at the popcorn ceiling as he imagines taking Billy away from here. And if Steve’s taking Billy home, to the coast, then he’s taking Max, too.

So whatever number, whatever dollar amount Steve’s gotta hoard to make it happen--he’d better take it and multiply it by seven, because. Steve’s going to lasso the moon and give it to Billy in a bouquet of yellow daisies.

If it kills him.

He’s going to find Billy tonight and tell him the truth if it kills him--

“We’ve gone down this street, already,” Eddie says.

“You’re not helping.”

“I'm just pointing out the obvious.”

“And I’m just pointing out--”

“Look, if you care about Billy so much, why don’t you respect his privacy?” Eddie demands. Somewhere, along the way, he ashed his cigarette on the dashboard.

Steve wants to check the flowers.

Can’t find it within himself to be angry about that. “I just want to make sure he’s okay. If something happened to him and I wasn’t there to make it better and figure out how to stop it from happening again--”

“God, you’re such a brownie,” Eddie snaps, turning from the window. “What if he ditched you because he’s not into you anymore, Harrington? What if Billy got tired of waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass and stop obsessing over him where no one else can see it? What if he’s sick of being the plaything you fuck in the dark?”

Steve swallows. Feeling so, so small.

“Everyone says you’re a changed man,” Eddie gets closer, somehow. Looms. “What if Billy thinks you’re bullshit?”

Steve pulls the car to the side of the road. In front of them, hazy with the dregs of the afternoon, a coal brown sign announces that Hawkins will soon be a spot on a map left somewhere far, far away.

Everything in that shitty little town hangs over him. Feels so huge. Max and Neil and his parents and graduation and the last month of summer, sitting bigger than the sky.

The engine thrums underneath them and Steve swallows, turning against his seatbelt. “If Billy doesn’t love me,” Steve says, easy and slow, “He can say it to my face.”

Eddie blinks.

Steve can sense the cogs turning, underneath all that hair. Brown like his, curly like Billy’s. “It won’t change how you feel about him?” Eddie asks.

And Steve realizes, like a punch to the gut, that Eddie Munson cares about this.

About Billy.

He’s worried, too, in his own twisted, guard-dog best friend kinda way. It reminds Steve of Robin. Dustin, too, always baring their teeth at Billy because they’re not fully convinced that this thing between them will survive the summer.

That Steve would survive losing this.

He wishes, a deep ache thrumming in his chest, that everyone would either get it or fuck off.

“I love him,” Steve says easily, “Love isn’t something that stops just because the other person’s come to their fucking senses about how much of a loser you are. It isn’t something you say because you want to hear it back. I’ve loved him for a year and a half and I’ll love him even when he realizes I’m not half good enough.”

Eddie smirks. It’s slow and terrible.

“Alright, Harrington,” He leans back in his seat and nods, satisfied. “I think I know where our boy is hiding.”

Duane county used to house to the only mall within a hundred miles until Starcourt.

It’s a small and bustling and annoyingly progressive city, compared to Hawkins, and Steve isn’t the least bit surprised that Billy would run to a place like this to hide for a while.

What surprises him is that Billy knows how to skateboard.

He’s riding the half pipe, so focused on the concrete that laps like waves under the wheels of his long, colorful board that Billy doesn’t notice when the Beemer’s engine cuts and Steve opens the driver’s side door.

Eddie doesn’t move.

“You coming?” Steve asks, frowning when Eddie sparks something too pale and skinny to be a cigarette.

“Nah, you go ahead.”

“You don’t wanna give me your blessing?” Steve wonders, suddenly terrified that Billy won’t go steady with him if he doesn’t see the irritatingly awful face of his best friend giving the thumbs up.

Eddie hands Steve the bouquet. It’s crushed and it smells like dope.

“Billy’s gonna take one look at these sorry fucking flowers and break up with me,” Steve grumbles, his nose scrunching, and.

Eddie smiles at him.

It’s soft and real, and kind of beautiful, and Steve gets why Chrissy Cunningham is apparently head over heels for the guy.

“He loves you, too,” Eddie says, like, “Go on. Quit stalling. Don’t think your big love confession will feel the same if I have told your hand through it.”

Steve slams the door, and Billy floats to the top of the half-pipe with the echo of it. He looks like an angel in the clouds, shirtless with his skin golden in the setting sun, jeans slung low on his hips. The curly, bronze tendrils of hair Steve will always remember the feel of are swooped back in a scrunchie.

Max’s scrunchie.

Billy squints across the parking lot and recognizes Steve, his expression clouding over immediately. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He demands.

Steve waddles across the parking lot, “Eddie’s here,” He calls, like an idiot.

“So?” You fucking him now?”

“No, I--”

“What are you doing here, Harrington?”

Steve almost trips over himself, knees with with nerves. Billy does that to him, always. Forever.

The half-pipe is huge up close, looming like the mast of some ancient, terrible ship and Billy is the pirate waiting to throw him overboard. “We had a date,” Steve says.

Out of breath.

Weak.

“I had to get out of that house,” Billy shades his eyes with one hand, holding the long board aloft with his bare foot. He doesn’t say anything for a long, terrible moment and then he says, “Whatcha got there, pretty boy?”

“Flowers,” Steve tells him.

“Flowers,” Billy mocks softly. There’s no bite.

He considers the moment. The Scene. Steve Harrington, with flowers clutched to his chest and the dingy little park beyond that and Eddie Munson, probably, hanging from a cloud of marijuana smoke as the afternoon crashes into nightfall.

As Steve crashes and burns.

Steve holds his breath. Billy glides down the half pipe, seeming to ride on the wind until he comes to a delicate, perfect stop in front of him.

He smells like peaches.

He’s been eating peaches. Billy’s hands are sticky when he grabs the bouquet, and Steve’s skin lights on fire from his touch.

It’s so usual. It’s brand new every time.

“You bought me flowers?” Billy asks, pinning Steve with a clear, vibrant stare.

His eyes are so blue. So beautiful--

“I didn’t buy them, I. I picked them,” Steve says dumbly, “The gardener was going to clear them away, but. I wanted to pick some for our date. I always pick you up on the way but I never bring anything, and I thought. Maybe Neil wouldn’t notice who they were for if it seemed like someone just picked them from a garden. Or the side of the road,” Billy snorts, and Steve nearly breaks an ankle trying to recover, “But I’ve thought about it, and they’re almost out of season, so the gardener--”

“--Right--”

“And. I see them every morning, from my bedroom window, and they remind me of you. Pretty and. Golden, so. I caught the gardener just in time, and i had to pay him $5 to let me pick ‘em before he cleared them away. They’re pretty. Right? I wanted--”

Billy sniffs the daisies first. His eyes close, lashes casting long, noir shadows over the cinnamon freckles on his cheeks and Steve aches to live forever in this moment. To scrape the image into his mind so it can live there, in a house made in Billy’s image.

“Some of these are weeds,” Billy tells him.

“I--”

“Are you in love with me, Harrington?” Billy rubs the petals of one flower with his thumb, watching as the stems knock together. He’s holding the bouquet like it’s made of glass. Like it might shatter and crumble away if he’s not careful, and Steve.

Feels that way about Billy.

“I,” Steve tries again,

“Thanks for the flowers,” Billy says, and he turns to go.

“Wait,” Steve says. Begs. He almost reaches to stop Billy but he doesn’t want to hurt him.

Billy stops. Waits.

Something sharp and fragile sits there, just under the layer of indifference Steve was always too stupide to notice before, but.

“I love you,” Steve says. He sounds strangled. Drowning.

It hurts.

It hurts and it really, really doesn’t when Billy flushes red. “I love you, too.”

And.

Steve’s going to catch on fire at any moment. “You love me,” He repeats, testing the words. He doesn’t trust them to hold his hope. Doesn’t think Billy means it how Steve aches and dreams he does. “You love me, like. How you love Max? Or Eddie? Like a friend who you want to suck off sometimes--”

“Eddie and I are just friends,” Billy says, quickly. His gaze is steady on Steve’s face. “I don’t need anyone else for that, I have. You.”

He does.

He really does.

Billy’s watching Steve like he’s expecting him to say something else, and maybe he is. Has been, for as long as they’ve been sliding inside of each other. Steve was just too dumb to get it before now.

So he straightens his spine. Clears his throat. Says, “Well. I love you like I want to take you on dates. And introduce you to my parents. I want you to go steady with me and wear my letter--”

“We can’t do that sort of stuff, Harrington.”

“I know.”

“Well, then, why’d you say it?”

“Because it’s what I want,” Steve snaps. Like, “You’re so annoying.”

“It was your idea,” Billy smirks. It’s beautiful. It’s Steve’s second favorite thing, second only to his laugh. And the soft curve of his lips. Billy fiddles with one of the weeds and says, “You don’t even have a letter to give me.”

“Neither do you, asshole,”

“So now what?” Billy demands, his arms flaring wide, “You’re gonna say you want to go steady with me and we’re not gonna do it? Tease.”

Steve rolls his eyes to the heavens, grumbling as they plop wetly on the sun-warmed earth. Billy’s still barefoot and Steve wonders how his toes aren’t burning. “How are your toes not burning?” He demands.

“They are,” Billy tells him, annoyed.

And then.

Steve gets an idea.

He sits on the ground and pulls both shoes off.

“What are you doing?” Billy snaps, but Steve can hear a smile in his voice, curling tendrils through the teasing annoyance that has made him so different from anyone Steve has ever loved before. “Steve--”

“Here,” Steve says, standing to hold the shoes out in front of him. He hops from one foot to the other as his heels start to burn.

Billy stares at the Nike’s as if they’re coiled snakes. Like if he takes them, they’ll burrow under his toenails and poison him from the inside out. “I don’t get it--”

“I don’t have a letter, but. People might see you in them and get it, right? When has anyone ever seen Billy Hargrove in a pair of Nike’s?”

Billy blinks, confused.

“You’re mine,” Steve says. “So they’re yours. Take them,”

Billy considers him for a long moment and then sets the bouquet on the ground. “Wait here,” He says, and skates off around the bend in the half pipe.

Steve’s feet are on fire.

He’s hopping dramatically, and in the distance he can hear Eddie laughing, and Steve’s going to kill him, but then.

Billy’s back and he’s holding his boots in his hands. “Here,” He says, “Eye for an eye, right?”

And Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. He slips into the worn leather, pleasantly surprised at how comfortable they are. His feet thank him, the raging fire finally simmering.

Steve watches Billy.

The careful way his fingers lace the Nike’s onto his feet. How his hips shift his weight when he stands. Billy walks in a slow, timid circle, “Shit, Harrington,” He says thickly, “I’ve never been someone’s boyfriend before.”

Steve shrugs, “I’ve never had a boyfriend, before.”

“Think we’ll be any good at it?” Billy asks. He squats deeply, popping back up with a wide, beautiful smile planted pretty as a forest on his face.

It beams itself, magically, onto Steve’s. Startles a bright, hysterical laugh from somewhere deep inside of him.

“You’re perfect,” Steve says. Nothing has ever felt more true.

#harringrove #clothes sharing #fluff #love confessions

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bestiesenpai · 8 months

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Chef Getou

Yes i have watched the bear thank you for asking (i have also worked in kitchens before please respect me), fem reader in the way you are referred to as miss and daughter. All the dishes & names of people are from actual michelin star restaurants around the world

10.3k words

Your hands shook with excitement, practically falling down as you tried to stop yourself from sprinting to the restaurant. You’d been called by the executive chef himself to work at his esteemed restaurant; he already had one Michelin star under his belt and he was hungry for another as his letter said.

“Ah, you must be Miss (Y/N).” The maître d’ greeted you at the door, her hair tied back in a tight bun. “Right this way.” Swiftly turning, she didn’t check back to see if you were following her. Rushing to keep pace with her, you looked around the dining area quickly. It was lit with undoubtedly expensive hanging lights with some well placed candles on the tables. Sparkling silverware and intricately folded napkins atop glazed stoneware sat on the tables and a light scent wafted through the air, one of baked goods and something fruity.

Going around a corner, you entered the kitchen, immediately nudged to the side and back against the wall. The kitchen was bright, sterile almost from how clean it was - but also heavy with tense silence. Every worker stood at attention around the perimeter of the kitchen, all of them focused on the chef before them, someone you instantly recognized.

“So, tell me again what this is.” Getou spoke, his voice so calm it raised goosebumps on your arm. His hair was tied back in a tight bun and gripped tightly in his fingers was a spoon, a scoop of sorbet sitting atop it. It came from the small glass dish to his side, decorated with a mint leaf and a small slice of lemon.

“It’s- it’s a coupe colonel…” The person standing before him looked tiny in front of him. They were cowering in their spot, fingers twitching at their side but unable to move even an inch away from his deadly stare.

“Really? Because it tastes like absolute shit to me!” Letting the spoon clatter loudly onto the counter, Getou picked up the glass dish and held it between them. “You mean to look me in the eye and tell me that this is the coupe colonel I asked for? Where is the flavor, the tartness? And did you make this vodka in the fucking toilet? Tell me, answer me seriously now.”

“I’m sorry sir, I truly am. I can remake-”

“Not in this kitchen.” Taking a staggeringly deep breath, he put the glass down and looked at it with disgust. “You’ll never make another coupe colonel in this kitchen. Now,” Letting his eyes wander the room, he briefly looked at you before looking in front of him, “Go make something else for tonight or consider yourself out.”

No one dared move until Getou did, no one dared take a breath too loud until he did; they were all waiting for his next decision. Standing straight up, he closed his eyes for a moment to let his heart steady before snapping his fingers twice. And just like that, the hold he had on everyone broke and they scattered like rats back to their stations.

“You.” Getou came right up to you, excusing the maître d’ with a wave of his hand.

“Hello Chef.” Nodding quickly, you found yourself unable to hold eye contact with him.

“Do you know what a coupe colonel is?”

“I do?” Your brow furrowed for a moment.

“What do you think of it?”

“Personally?” Raising a brow, Getou gave you a slight nod of confirmation. “Not enough vodka for me.”

“I won’t have you make it either then; I want my guests happy, not drunk from a little sorbet.” Getou cracked a smile, the only indication he had any emotion before his face settled back down. “I trust you know my name and I yours.”

“Yes Chef.” It was disappointing Getou didn’t say your name, it worried you that maybe he hadn’t remembered it all and that he called you here as a joke.

“Good. Follow me.” He walked through the kitchen with ease, glancing over line cooks shoulders and offering quick tips. “It’s good to see you got the uniform, a few more should be delivered to your new place of residence soon.” Coming to a stop in front of a freshly cleaned station, Getou pat the counterspace. “This will be for you when you’re ready.”

“Ready?” You’d already studied the menu and practiced making the dishes, even going back to previous restaurants Getou had been at and trying those as well.

“Yes. I need to make sure my choice wasn’t a mistake.” Getou pointed back to the front of the kitchen. “You will be with me, you’ll take notes and maybe take over as the aboyeur for a time.”

“Okay Chef.” Nodding, you felt your shoulders sag a little as your hopes dashed away. You’d been called here to be a sous chef and impress Getou, make him happy that he invited you to be here.

The rest of prep time was spent trailing Getou, getting to know all the other staff and where everything was. The pastry chef was quiet, looked tired and was so dedicated to his craft he was always the first person there. Under him was a baker, a young boy surprisingly passionate about bread making. And standing off to the side was the poor chef glacier who had gotten scolded in front of everyone.

Going through the restaurant, it was surprising to see how much space there was. A station for entremetiers, grillardin, a butcher and more. Seeing how many stations there were gave you peace in a way, there would be so many people to learn from and possibly make friends with.

“Everyone, front.” Getou announced, taking long strides to stand at the head of the long countertop at the front of the kitchen. A chorus of yes’s followed and it took less than a minute and a half for everyone to be lined up and looking at him.

“As you hopefully saw, we have someone new joining us today.” He gave a brief motion to you and your mouth opened to introduce yourself, but no chance came. “This is (Y/N). She will be my new sous chef in due time, but for now she will be calling orders with me.” No one spoke as he continued to speak about the dinner menu and what high brow guests to expect. Getou didn’t mince words, calling out certain stations that were not up to his par or praising some that were.

“Alright that’s it. Get out of my sight and get ready for tonight.”

“Yes Chef.” Everyone spoke in unison, their feet carrying them just a bit faster to their stations. Looking at the clock on the wall, there was only five minutes before service started. Getou was writing things down on a notepad, crossing lines out on a guest list and writing down food substitutions for a few stations.

“Three, two, one. It’s time.” Getou announced, clapping his hands loudly. Everything happened all at once: the sound of searing meat, sauce cooking in a pan, bottles of wine being uncorked and glasses already being run out to guests. Spotting your somewhat nervous expression, Getou nudged you. “Try to keep up, okay?”

“Chef.” Someone walked up, holding out a small dish of gazpacho.

“Delicious, add a touch more goat cheese and a dash of salt.”

“Yes Chef, thank you.” And away they were, going back into the fray.

“Monkfish filet for tables one and five. Table two has specifically ordered the lobster to be, in his words, ‘smothered in brown butter atop a smattering of potatoes and with a bottle of the finest cabernet sauvignon the sommelier has to offer’.”

“Red? Are you serious?” The sommelier, an older gentleman that you’d learned was named Guillaume, dramatically slumped over. “I have told him time and again- no, I will go out and show him.” Without another word, Guillaume left for the dining room with a bottle of white wine in hand.

“Don’t be too harsh!” Getou’s words trailed after him with a light laugh.

“Those two have history?”

“Yeah, it’s his son.” Laughing to himself, Getou flicked his chin over to the entremetier. “Go over there and help, it appears they’ve forgotten what a monkfish is.”

“Yes Chef.” Rushing over, you quickly introduced yourself before helping slice the fish and laying it in the pan, staying to ensure it cooked right. You dared not glance over your shoulder to see if Getou was watching you, if he was you wanted to impress him with your focus.

“Chef.” The plate was presented to Getou in just a few minutes, delivered directly from you. He looked over it while still calling out orders and quirked his head.

“Why are the vegetables like that?” Fishing a spoon from his apron, Getou gave you a glance. “I wrote it to be creamy, does this look creamy to you?” Analyzing the spoonful he held up, you thought they looked fine. Your lack of answer frustrated Getou and he ate it himself.

“Call the others over.” He said, voice low and face disparaging. Collecting the people in question, you stood before him. “Tell me why you think this is acceptable?” He’d taken a bite of the monkfish and spat it out almost immediately.

“We measured the internal temperature and did everything the exact same way as the trial run.” A line cook spoke up.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Giving you a pointed look, he asked again. “(Y/N). Why do you think this is acceptable? The texture of the fish is appalling, like chewing on a tire. And these vegetables are underdone to hell yet somehow you’ve managed to burn them and try to cover up the mess with the sauce.”

“My apologies Chef, I should have watched more closely.”

“Have you ever cooked monkfish?”

“Yes.”

“And did I not request you personally to come work here?”

“You did.” His words were cold, calculated. Humiliation started to waft over you, being scolded like this especially in front of the line cooks you’d helped.

“So then why have you decided to disappoint me on your first day here?” Shoving the spoon back in his apron, Getou scoffed at the plate, a silent demand for it be taken away. “Remake it immediately.”

The line cooks left hastily, not sparing you a glance lest they be scolded as well. You were left to stand there alone, head cast down and heart beating hard. The cacophony all around you deafened for a moment as you sank into the feelings swirling around you.

“Chef, do you think the beginning of dinner service is an appropriate time to sulk?” Getou quipped, snapping near your ear before barking out an order.

“Sorry Chef.” Your apology went unnoticed, Getou had already moved onto something else. Choking down the knot in your throat, you forced yourself to continue with service. Getou was right, you couldn’t let your feelings get the best of you so quickly.

“Hands!” You cried out ten minutes later as Getou went on a bathroom break. Dishes were leaving the kitchen quickly and you could faintly hear the chatter in the dining room with the sommeliers making lively chatter about their favorite picks for the night.

“Ice cream, please!” There was no way you would send out a subpar dish, especially not after what Getou had said earlier. It was presented before you by the same chef from earlier, their ego still bruised from the coupe colonel.

“I’ve been working on this for a bit, it’s a creamy chocolate and salted butter caramel atop a peanut ice cream.” Nodding along to their words, you took a bite. It was indeed all that they had explained and you smiled slightly.

“This is delicious, send it out.” Giving them a nod, you watched the chef walk away with a smile of their own.

“Delicious?” Getou’s voice sounded from behind you, his frame coming into your peripheral vision. “Let’s see if you’re correct.” Having a taste for himself, Getou’s face held no emotion. “Tasty, yes. Mind blowing? No. The guests will like it well enough though I suppose.” Taking his list back from you, Getou resumed control of the kitchen.

“Nice work everyone.” He announced when dinner was over. There wasn’t a hair out of place on his head and although there were a few stains on his jacket, Getou looked the same as when you walked in.

“Thank you Chef.” Responding in kind, everyone began to pack up, clean their stations or begin prep for the next day.

“(Y/N).” Getou grabbed the back of your jacket, stopping you from going to help.

“Yes?” By the tone in his voice you were sure his next words wouldn’t be particularly positive. Flicking his chin, he had you follow him out into the dining area where the servers were cleaning up. Leaning against a wall near the restrooms, he let his hair down and ran a hand through the dark strands.

“What do you think of your first day here? Is it everything you dreamt of, working for me?” Getou looked at you with a neutral face, as if he could wait all day for whatever answer you had to give him and he still wouldn’t like it.

“I…think it went well.” Taking a deep breath to study yourself, you noticed the way Getou glanced away for a few seconds.

“Well? If you would like to think that way you can.”

“What do you mean?”

“I expected more from you.” You knew you didn’t want to hear his answer, knew it would be something that would hurt your feelings, knew he was disappointed in you - and yet you still asked.

“I-I’m sorry but-” He silenced you with a raise of his calloused hand, a few burn marks and knife knicks on his palm.

“How could you let the monkfish possibly get to that state? You should have been more on top of the temperature and controlled it better. And the vegetables - were you playing around with me? Think you could get one over on me, maybe trick me? I know you can cook a better piece of fucking broccoli than that.”

“Chef, I swear that wasn’t my intention.”

“And that goddamn ice cream? Anyone with a functioning palate could tell the chocolate was much too rich and the ice cream was basically chunky peanut butter.”

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry. I need you to be focused and actually taste the dishes, put some thought into them and consider for a moment that if you were paying this much to dine here, would you want to be served something as subpar as what you tried to send out tonight?”

“Y-you’re right.” Fighting back embarrassed tears was the only thing you could focus on now. You kept your eyes cast to the floor, hardly taking Getou into your peripheral at all.

“Go home.” Sensing your upset mood, Getou took a step back and motioned away.

“What?” This made you look up at him with wide, scared eyes. He couldn’t be firing you already, could he?

“Your shift is over. Go home, think about today and what you can do differently tomorrow. I expect you here a bit early, we’ll go over some basics.” Taking a step to leave, Getou stopped himself. “And grow a thicker skin, will you?” With those parting words, Getou left you all alone to lean against the wall and try to collect yourself.

Driving off into the night, you waited until you were a few good blocks away before letting out a wail. Pulling over and letting the tears fall down your face and into your lap, you let go of the emotions that had welled up. Getou had told you to grow a thicker skin and you would in due time but for now this was all you wanted to do.

Eventually your crying ran out and you made it home emotionally drained and hungry. Hardly having energy to take a shower, making proper food was the last thing on your mind and your hand landed on the first thing in the cupboard: a styrofoam cup of instant noodles. Setting the pot to boil, you answered a few text messages and tried to forget about the day. Eating the noodles in a haste, you collapsed into bed in a sorry huff, letting sleep take you quickly.

Was it as difficult for the other staff to return to Getou day after day? To be subjected to his painfully neutral face and demanding voice. It seemed the only people he could even feasibly stand were the pastry chef and the sommelier, but maybe that was because both of them were older and earned their respect from Getou long ago. The glacier chef had been fired and a new one was already in their place, making a perfect coupe colonel for Getou.

You fared no better than the others, what with adjusting to a new city and having to deal with a boss that wanted such a high degree of excellence from everyone you feared it would break you. He said he wanted better from you and every day you tried to do that for him but it wasn’t enough.

“This plating on the sea bream tartare, do it over.”

“Where’s the pear on this goat cheese tartellete? You can’t have seriously forgotten.”

“Nice try (Y/N) but this pasta is far past al dente.”

Every day it was something new, something that you missed and messed up on and needed to correct. This torment lasted a week and there seemed to be no reprieve, the only indication it was getting better was when he went down from scolding you three times to two times a shift. His word choices hadn’t gotten better but they had at least eased up.

“What’re you doing here?” Coming in through the back entrance Getou was surprised to see you tucked behind a corner of the kitchen, sitting at a small table peeling potatoes from a shipment received a day ago.

“I asked the prep cooks if I could do this for them.” Taking a brief pause, you looked behind you towards the rest of the kitchen. “I just…need a break, that’s all.” Keeping quiet, Getou nodded and said nothing more, walking further into the restaurant himself. Resuming your work in silence didn’t last long, your phone interrupting you with its incessant buzzing.

“Hello?” Putting the phone on speaker, you were confused as to why your parents would be calling you now when their timezone was a few hours behind yours.

“Sweetie, you’ll never guess what we have to tell you.” Your father started, a light buzz of people behind him.

“What is it?”

“We’re here!” Both your parents said in unison, your mother clapping her hands excitedly. “I know you said not to visit you just yet but this is such an amazing opportunity for you, we couldn’t bear the wait any longer!”

“I’ve hardly been gone three weeks.” Resting your head on the table, you let out a soft sigh. “I don’t know if tonight is a good night for you guys to come.” Or any night, really.

“Nonsense, we’ll be there right as dinner service starts! Besides, this was the only time we could manage to get a dang reservation!” Chuckling to himself, your father recounted the hassle it was to try and line everything up.

“We look forward to seeing you tonight.” Nearly breaking your neck from turning so fast, your jaw fell in shock at seeing Getou standing off to the side with his hair not tied or his jacket done up.

“Honey, is that who we think it is?” Your mother whispered excitedly.

“Y-yes, it is!” Your ears were burning, scalding even as Getou laughed behind his hand. You tried to rush and turn off speakerphone before she said anything damning but Getou beat you to it and picked up the phone.

“Hello, this is Chef Getou at your service. Once again, I look forward to having you here tonight and I promise it will be a night you won’t forget.” Excited murmurs broke out between your parents while you looked on in shock.

“Th-thank you so much for this, Chef! And for hiring our daughter as well, she has always been a big fan of yours and-”

“Okay, love you both bye!” Now you were desperate to turn the phone off. Slamming it face down on the table, you thought about taking an eye out with the peeler. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be.” Getou could hardly contain his amused look. “Are they allergic to anything?”

“Nothing.” Peeking out from the corner of your eye, you watched Getou take out a notebook from his back pocket.

“Perfect. Quail filet with fried duck liver, orange, sherry vinegar, dried fruits and a nut crumble. I wasn’t planning on pushing this out for another few weeks but two of the restaurant's arguably most important guests will be here tonight.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” You hadn’t the heart to say that your parents weren’t the most high brow when it came to their dining choices. This was the fanciest restaurant they would be in their whole life and no way would they know how to react to such an elaborate meal.

“Of course I do, they’re your parents after all. They’re spending time and money just to come and see you, see how well you’re doing and all your hard work. It’d be a disservice to them to give any less than my best.” Getou wasn’t one to give touches of reassurance to his staff but he broke the rule for you, giving you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “And it’s been too long since I’ve had parents to impress, I need to make sure I still got it.”

“Where are your parents?” Coming to a stand, you regretted it when Getou froze for a second.

“They passed away a long time ago when I was a teenager.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” You wanted to return the touch on the shoulder that he’d just given you but you didn’t want to risk it and push him away by being too forward.

“Don’t be, they’re in the family plot back home and I made a name for myself just like I promised them I would. They’ve funded my entire career, from my first day of culinary school all the way to now.” Taking a sharp inhale and exhale through his nose, Getou clapped his hands and turned around. “Enough about that though, we have some prep to do.”

When you were this early to the kitchen, it showed how quiet it could be; with just as much chaos and yelling there could be a time where you could hear a pin drop and know exactly where it fell. Seasoning the liver and watching Getou cut the quail out of the corner of your eye felt serene, almost like you could fall asleep to the atmosphere.

Getous face held no expression but there was a noticeable relaxation to his brows and his shoulders were lower than they usually were. He himself looked content standing over the cutting board with a look in his eyes that said there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“So, what have you told your parents about this job?” Breaking the silence, the two of you made eye contact.

“I told them it’s going great.” Nodding to yourself, there were countless times you had told them parts of the truth about how your day went while fighting back tears of frustration, numerous days you had to splash your face with cold water and calm down before video calling them and lying through your teeth.

“Makes sense. You wouldn’t want to let them know how much of a piece of shit I am.” A bark of laughter came from Getous chest tinged with bitterness.

“No you- you’re not-”

“Yes I am, you don’t have to lie to me.” Drawing out a few of the words, Getou set down his knife and turned to you. “I know I’m strict and demanding and never have anything nice to say to anyone or about the food they make. I’ve made people cry, too many to count; and I know I’ve made you cry too.”

Setting your knife down as well, you worried your lip. What could you say to that? He was right, there were plenty of nights you went to sleep hoping that he wouldn’t show up the next day or that he would get an offer from a restaurant across the world. And he was more than right about making you cry.

“I…” Struggling to find the words, you stared at quail. “You’re right about it, all of it-” he cut you off with another bitter laugh, “but I can understand it?” Shrinking under his peculiar stare, you kept going. “You went to the best culinary schools in the world, trained under the best chefs and now you have a star - aiming for another one at that. All of that time, all of that effort, I can understand why you’re so…intense about everything.”

“Intense.” Getou repeated that word, a smirk on his face. “I guess that’s one way to put it, huh?”

“I guess.” Unsure of what else to say, you let silence fall over the kitchen again. As the minutes ticked by more people started to come in and the familiar noise of the kitchen was returning.

“(Y/N).” Done with his work, Getou took a step away and looked around, seeing the familiar faces of the staff and putting his hard exterior back on. “Thanks for being honest in such a…nice way.” Tilting his head and giving you a wink, Getou was gone and walking away with not only the quail but the liver too.

Your nerves were starting to get the better of you as dinner service started to approach. Your parents were coming with such high expectations of you and the restaurant, you didn’t dare want to let them down and make them think you had to come back home.

“(Y/N).” Getou spoke to you after nearly forty-five minutes of ignoring you, not looking your way or truly speaking to you. “When your parents get here, I want you to dine with them.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind being back here.”

“Have you yourself ever eaten at one of my restaurants?”

“No.”

“Then this is the perfect night to do so. I told the maître d’ to let your parents in early so they could see the place before it got all busy.” The sudden kindness from Getou was taking you back, knocking you off your feet and making you question if he’d taken something to change his mood.

“You’re being too kind.” Shaking your head lightly, you refused to believe such a thing.

“And Guillaume will pull out the best wine we have - they do like wine, don’t they?”

“I suppose.” Truth be told, you usually found a can of beer in your fathers hand and maybe a cocktail for your mother.

“Jeez, do you know anything?” Getou teased, laughing at your glare. Seeing the mask he had on slip away for a moment, allowing you to see that he did have feelings other than discontent for his fellow man, was nice. It made a gentle bloom spring from your chest and settle warmly into your mind.

“Miss (Y/N), it appears they’re here.” With a light tap to your shoulder, the maître d’ went to open the door of the restaurant.

“There she is!” Your parents entered in their best attire, holding a gift bag in the crook of her elbow. You rushed to them, hugging and exchanging elated hellos.

“What’s this?” Attempting to reach for the bag, your mother swatted your hand away and motioned to the man you’d just left behind you.

“Sshh, not for you.” She muttered quietly, watching Getou stride over with his hands behind his back.

“Ma’am.” Outstretching a hand, Getou shook your mothers gently and kissed the back of it. “Sir.” Turning to your father, he shook his hand as well before turning and motioning to the dining room. “Welcome to my humble establishment.”

“Thank you for having us!” Your mother jumped in, holding the gift bag out to Getou. “We brought you something for giving our daughter an opportunity here. It means the world to us; all of us.” She snuck a glance over to you, remembering clear as day when you got the invitation.

“What’s this?” Getou took it gingerly, also giving you a glance as if you had any idea what it was. “Oh.” Pulling the contents out of the bag, his brows rose high in surprise when it wasn’t the usual bottle of scotch he received but instead a candy bouquet, something he could find in the grocery store.

“Oh my god.” Slapping a hand over your mouth to stifle your loud gasp, you looked between the two of them in horror. How could she give Getou this of all things?

“(Y/N) loves these, we always get her one for her birthday and she eats them up within a day!” Giving your shoulder a nudge, your father patted Getou on the arm. “Maybe you’ll be more patient than her, hm?”

“I-I’m so sorry.” Your knees were on the edge of buckling.

“I…” Getou looked over the candy, some he hadn’t eaten in years. “I love this, thank you.” Your jaw dropped open at his admission and if you looked just right you could see a slight glisten to his eyes. “Here, I’ll have the maître d’ put this in my office and I’ll give you a tour.”

It all happened so quickly: Getou escorting your parents around - explaining the inspiration behind the design and construction of the restaurant - showing them his notebook and what he had planned for future menu items. He even opened the door to the kitchen and showed them inside, proudly stating that you stood right by his side and helped him call out orders.

The restaurant opened soon after and you were seated at the best table in the house with three glasses of wine poured after Guillaume and your parents had a lengthy and passionate discussion about the best vineyards and types of grapes. Starting with an iberico ham salad as an appetizer, you made pleasant conversation, noise that mixed in with the rest of the dining room.

“Here we are folks, the main course.” Getou of course had to be the one to present it to you all, nearly making the whole dining room turn and watch as it was laid out before you. “As promised, fileted quail served as a rouleau with fried duck liver, orange, sherry vinegar dried fruits and a nut crumble.”

“Oh my.” Staring in awe, your mother didn’t move an inch. Your father, ever eager, took his phone out and snapped multiple pictures, even telling you to smile as he got a quick few of you.

“Thank you Chef.” You were quick to fill in the silence seeing as your parents were too busy.

“Enjoy, please.” Giving you a grin, Getou slinked away to the kitchen.

“Honey, what part of this did you work on?” Done with his phone, your dad waved his fork at the plate.

“I helped with the liver and a few other things.”

“Well this looks much too fancy to eat but I wouldn’t want your hard work going to waste.” You hardly blinked, watching your parents take their first few bites of the food. Maybe it’d be too complicated for them or the flavors wouldn’t mix well in their mouths, or maybe they’d force themselves to stuff it down and then complain about it later.

“Dear, this is amazing.” Reaching across the table for your hand, your mother grasped it tightly. “We are so proud of you.”

The rest of the dinner went smoothly, words of adoration and appreciation never too far from your parents' mouths. They loved any and everything they set their eyes on, even gushing about the hand soap in the bathroom. Dessert was crème brûlée with peach ragout and lemon thyme ice cream, the patissier even bringing it out himself.

As dinner ended, Getou gave your parents one last goodbye, even indulging your father in taking a picture with all of you. Despite Getou saying there would be no rush, you promised to come back quickly after walking your parents out to the car they’d rented.

“I feel like we’ve said it a thousand times but truly, we are so proud of you (Y/N).” Both of them had tears in their eyes, a flair for the dramatics in both of them. Both of them launched into small speeches about watching you grow up and rooting for you every step of the way.

“Thank you guys, really.” Even your eyes had become a little misty and you had to cut them off or you’d be there all night. Bidding them a goodbye and vowing to let them into your apartment, you went back to the restaurant with your head held high.

Coming back to the kitchen, it was a surprise to see Getou not at his usual position. Looking around and not seeing his tall frame anywhere, you knew he must be in his office. Coming around a corner, there he was sitting in his chair, gnawing away at a chocolate bar.

“Caught me.” He didn’t try to hide it at all, letting his mouth be covered in the sweet stuff.

“I’m surprised to see you actually eating that.”

“What, you think I’d throw it away?”

“Yeah, actually.” You had a vision of him tossing the whole bouquet into the dumpster out back and laughing at your parents' stupidity.

“You think just ‘cause I have a star I can’t eat commercial candy?” Giving you a teasing petulant look, Getou pointed to a Twix bar with chocolate coated fingers. “I’ll have you know, this is my favorite candy in the world.” Letting a beat of silence go, he huffed and shook his head. “It’s not all black forest cherry tarts and lobster thermidors for me.”

“Of course, of course! My mistake!” Giggling under your breath, you held your hands up in mock surrender. “I wanted to come by and thank you for tonight, truly. My parents will definitely not be forgetting it.”

“You’re welcome.” He says it sincerely and you can tell in his eyes he wishes he could do the same for his. “It’s always a treat having family here.” The two of you shared a look, one tinged with slowly growing warmth and what felt like could be a friendship of sorts - or at least a more positive relationship in general, maybe one where he respected you in the kitchen like he did with Guillaume and the patissier.

“I should…go back and help. Make sure everything is good.” You said it slowly, not wanting to leave whatever this was but having a sense of duty to the kitchen. Getou nodded, offering you a quiet ‘see you soon’ before you walked away.

The next few days were surreal, almost like the past few weeks hadn’t happened. You and your parents got to look around the new city you were in, comparing all the food you ate to Getou’s. He also started treating you better, still tough and a little sharp tongued, but gentler. Instead of yelling at you, calling you a half-baked idiot or dumping a dish you’d been trying to perfect into the trash, he offered more advice. Telling you tips and tricks to help make a dish come out the same way every time, helping you sharpen your knives and letting you ask all the questions you wanted.

Not wanting to be accused of favoritism, Getou offered more advice to the chefs as well; though their number of questions came with a limit. He still yelled at someone nearly every shift but no longer was there someone crying in the walk-in that you had to maneuver around.

Walking into work two weeks later - long after your parents had gone back home and left you with a hundred and one things they wanted to do next time they visited - the atmosphere was back to when you had just arrived; heavy, tense, everyone terrified to even breathe too loudly.

“What’s going on?” You whispered to a prep cook. You’d gotten the message to come early with uniforms freshly pressed, just as everyone else had.

“We have a visitor. I saw him in the dining room.” They whispered back. Nodding wordlessly, you walked to your station, idly wiping it down as you waited for something to happen. Getou had finally allowed you to go to it a few days ago, saying you were ready to start your real work now.

“Everyone, front. Now.” Getou’s voice boomed much louder than usual and it made you jump, but you wasted no time in following the order. Lining up shoulder to shoulder, everyone peered at the man standing next to Getou with a tall white hat on. Getou owned one as well but he never wore it, claiming he didn’t want it to slip off his head and into someone's soup.

“Good evening. Thank you for coming early.” Getou started, his hands behind his back. “I’m not going to waste time, so let me introduce you to someone most of you probably know already: Nicolas Conraux.” A quick few claps sounded from most of the staff, only some of you not moving. “And for those that don’t,” Getou sent a look to you, “this is the man that trained me and got me to my first star.”

Your eyes widened upon hearing that; this man was responsible for Getou, for making him the way he is in the kitchen. The memories came back to you, of small times Getou opened up about his past working under a chef who pushed him so hard to be better than he was that it made Getou puke on one occasion. This man’s name would forever be attached to Getou and now here he was right in front of you.

“I hope my presence won’t disturb you too much, but I was eager to see how my protégé was doing. He also sent a few emails regarding some worries he had for getting a second star, so I want to help in any way I can.” A heavy French accent hung over his words forcing you to focus on them closely.

“But just because he’s offered his help doesn't mean you can all slack off or take it easy, not even for a second. Be more meticulous, more precise with what you’re doing. Think twice before sending a dish out and if any dish comes back…” Trailing off, Getou gave you all one of the scariest looks you’d ever seen. After a debrief of how the evening was to go, you broke off back to your stations.

This was the first time since you’d gotten here that you wished you weren’t at your station. It was in the direct line of sight of Getou and Nicolas, the latter of whom had his eyes set intently on you. Taking a deep breath, you ignored his gaze in favor of preparing for the evening.

Tonight should be easy, you mused to yourself; the menu was a familiar one brought back due to popular demand, Texel lamb shoulder with sweet potato and vegetable chips and a tenderloin as well with crispy oyster mushrooms. Getting to work on the lamb, you were able to ignore Nicolas until he went to watch someone else. Letting out a breath at his departure you weren’t able to relax long with Getou announcing dinner would be starting in five minutes.

Counting down the seconds as usual, once the clock struck it felt like a whole different atmosphere. The kitchen was a bit lively again, nowhere near the level of volume it usually was, but it wasn’t painfully quiet anymore either. You felt comfortable calling out to the others and walking around, tasting the harissa for the lamb and wincing at the strong flavor.

“Why are you doing that?” A familiar accent came into your ear and you couldn’t even turn your shoulder to look at Nicolas. He was almost leering at the way you plated the first order of lamb for the night.

“E-excuse me.” Taken aback by his sudden arrival as well as his closeness, you shuffled a few inches from him.

“Answer me.” He pressed, immediately filling the space again.

“This is how Getou and I planned it, we discussed it to-”

“It’s lacking.” Cutting you off sharply, Nicolas called Getou over. “What do you think?” Getou was caught in a hard spot now, looking between the two of you and the plate. You were doing exactly as the two of you had planned but now with Nicolas’ critical eye, Getou was starting to see things differently.

“Perhaps it is lacking.” He agreed, nodding and avoiding your surprised face. “How should we change it, (Y/N)?”

“Don’t ask her.” A brief roll of his eyes and a snap of his fingers and Nicolas was taking the plate from you and grabbing a new one. “She’s already got one idea in her head, she’ll just try to do it again.”

“Of course.” Getou had turned into a complete yes man in front of you. Both of you watched Nicolas replate the dish, adding only a few mild changes that you knew no one would notice.

“There, now it is perfect.” Letting you get a once over of it, Nicolas sent it out of the kitchen. “I hope you took note.” And then he walked away, going to lean over someone else's shoulder.

“What was that?” You hissed, finally catching Getous eye.

“He was right.” That was the only answer he gave you before Getou left you as well. Biting back an annoyed noise, you set to work on the next plate, trying to remember what Nicolas had just done.

By the middle of dinner you were ready to leave the kitchen. It felt like Nicolas took even more offense at the things you did than Getou did, finding a reason to come up to you at every step of your process and correct it. He even commented on the way you stirred a ladle for soup, saying that you would disrupt the flavor profile.

Getou was no help either; he either sat back and watched or actively participated, sometimes spewing a few harsh words your way. You thought you were done hearing him say you might cut it better as a window cleaner or him wondering aloud whether you really knew how to cook some simple carrots.

“(Y/N), this is awful.” You’d come up to the table with a plate of steak tartare appetizers. Spending a bit more time on it than you usually did just to make sure it was made to perfection, hearing those words and watching Nicolas spit it out into a napkin - it threatened to bring angry tears to your eyes.

“Please, you can’t be serious!” Getting fed up, you slapped a hand onto the metal table. “You’ve had nothing good to say about any of the dishes I’ve prepared!”

“That’s because they’re all shit.” Shrugging your words off like they were nothing, Nicolas pushed the plate back to you. “Try again, though I think with your skill level it might be too difficult.”

“Oh fuck you!” In your anger, you pushed the plate back and made it flip over. Getou made a surprised noise and was about to scold you when you turned to him. “And you! I thought things had changed with you, you weren’t going to be such an asshole anymore but I guess I was wrong.”

“(Y/N), stop it.” Getou squared his shoulders. “This isn’t appropriate.”

“But telling me I should see if the local morgue was hiring because that’s the only people that won’t get sick from my food? That’s appropriate?” All of the harsh comments and jabs that had been made at you this night came flooding to the forefront of your mind. You’d tried to ignore it, push it deep down and deal with it when you got home, but that was no use. Hot, angry tears burned at your lash line begging to be set free.

“You want to know why I say those things?” Now Getou was at the same level of emotion as you, his face getting flush. “Because I want you gone.” That was what did it, that is what made the first tear fall. “It was a mistake to fucking invite you here when all you’ve done is cost me time and money. I should have left you in that insignificant little restaurant back in your insignificant little hometown. You’d do better work scrubbing the grease traps there.”

“Go fuck yourself.” You couldn’t be bothered to wipe at the tears now free falling, couldn’t be bothered to care about who saw what now. Ripping off your white jacket and flinging it onto the counter, you turned away from Getou and all but ran off. Quickly grabbing your things, you didn’t spare a single glance back as you left through the backdoor and raced to your car.

Speeding off before anyone could try and follow you, you first stopped at a park to cry. It was cold without your chef's jacket on, it made you feel bare to the world. Now anyone could see that you, in fact, could not cut it working under Getou. That you failed, weren’t good enough and weren’t strong enough to push through.

An unknown number called you and you let it go to voicemail. There wasn’t a chance in hell you’d answer the phone now, not when your eyes were puffy, nose stuffed up and voice hoarse from crying. Even a slight headache started to develop, one which forced you to now drive home.

Dragging your feet and kicking the door closed, you slumped against it and slid down to the floor. Letting your knife case fall to the wayside, you dug your phone out and finally listened to the voicemail.

H-hey…it’s me, Getou. Just the sound of his voice made you roll your eyes.

Things got really heated just now and I want to- fuck, uhm - I want to apologize. I’m your boss I shouldn’t be saying those things to you and- and especially not to someone I’ve come to care about. I want to apologize in person, (Y/N), I really do, you deserve that much at least.

“What if I don’t want to?” You mumbled to yourself, but Getou quickly answered.

I understand if you don’t want to, if you’d rather never see me again for the rest of your life…that’s completely fine. Just let one of the other chefs know and I’ll make sure your final check is posted as soon as possible.

It had gone eerily quiet in the voicemail making you check to see if he’d forgotten to end the call.

Just please…call me, okay? Even if it’s just to curse at me.

Only after those words did the voicemail finally stop, the true silence of your apartment taking over. Your fingers hovered over the delete button, wanting nothing more than to be done with Getou and his ever changing attitude. But you couldn’t find it in you and instead shoved your phone in your pocket and got up, changing out of your uniform and into comfier clothes.

A few hours later, after decompressing and having a meal where no one could judge your plating, your mood was lifting. More tears had fallen during that time and the struggling realization that you’d have to tell your parents sooner or later was in the back of your mind. But for now, you decided to slip on some shoes and head out to treat yourself to a sweet treat.

Walking down the block, you looked at the time. Dinner service had been over for almost forty-five minutes and a couple other chefs messaged you, telling you they’d miss you badly if you decided to never return. Worrying your lip, you wondered if you would ever return, if maybe you could find it in you to push away Getou’s disrespectful words and make him beg for forgiveness.

Coming to an ice cream shop, your hand bumped into someone else's as you reached for the door handle. A quick sorry died on your tongue upon seeing who it was, his long hair and dark circles unmistakable. He was dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, a stark contrast to the bright white jacket he usually sported.

“After you.” Getou mumbled, opening the door. Standing still for just a moment, you took the opportunity and stepped in.

“Following me?” You couldn’t help but ask, standing in line with him beside you. He didn’t say anything, opting to read the menu instead. It was unclear whether that made you more mad or it helped that he was giving you space.

“What flavor are you getting?” He replied instead, glancing tentatively at you.

“Probably cookie dough.” Whispering back, you went through the line, fishing out your wallet when it was time to pay.

“She’s with me.” Getou told the cashier, already sliding some cash across the counter. Rolling your eyes, you took a step back; if he wanted to spend money on you in hopes of winning you back, so be it.

“I don’t know if I’m coming back.” The two of you had decided to take a walk, with you knowing he wouldn’t leave you alone otherwise. These were the first words you’d said to him since starting the idle stroll.

“I-I understand.” You didn’t miss the sudden falter in his steps. Sighing heavily, Getou took a bite out of his ice cream and once again you saw with him chocolate smeared across his face. “I would do the same too if I were you.”

“Why are you such a fucking jerk?” Stopping at a crosswalk, you turned to look at him. Under the light of a street lamp and the setting sun, you could almost mistake him as looking rather handsome.

“I don’t mean to be.” He tried to take a step forward but you refused to move.

“Really? Because everything you say seems rather intentional.” The grip you had on your ice cream cone threatened to break it into pieces.

“I know.” Hanging his head low in shame, Getou faced you properly. “I’m the last person anyone would want to work with in the kitchen, even for just a day. Hell, I don’t really have a lot of friends outside the kitchen either. I can hardly hold a conversation if it’s not about food, I glare at everyone so hard I already have premature wrinkles. And probably worst of all, I make pretty girls cry.” As the last words left his mouth Getou looked up at you through his lashes, a grimace across his face.

The urge to slap in the face made you flex your fingers. How dare he send you such a pitiful look when he had looked upon you with utter disgust just a few hours ago? He called you pretty and as much as it made you want to grin, it also felt like he was trying to compliment you to get out of this situation.

“If you think I’m so pretty then why do you do it?” You mumbled, leaving him to cross the road. Getou’s footsteps were behind you, a few feet away as he mulled over your words. He didn’t fully catch up with you until you made it to the edge of a park, a small green space that was starting to empty out.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Rolling your eyes heavily, you pushed forward.

“Yes, okay?!” Getou’s irritation grew in a flash, making him grab your arm. The motion flung your ice cream out of your hand and he threw his down in tandem. “What am I supposed to say? You want me to admit the reason I told you I wanted you gone is because I realized I had fallen for you?” His face became awash with a red blush both from anger at himself and embarrassment.

“That- that your stupid, pretty little face and the way you smile and the way you laugh with the other chefs made me jealous? I want you to laugh and smile that way with me but all I can manage to do is humiliate and degrade you, make you feel like shit whenever we’re together!”

“And your food is fucking amazing, by the way.” Running a rough hand through his hair, Getou groaned. “I loved it, still do. You’re so talented it hurts me.”

“Why lie to me like that?” The grip he had on your arm was loosening but you could still feel his racing pulse.

“Because if I told you it was bad then maybe you’d come to me for help. Maybe you’d talk to me more and I could impress you with what I knew and then maybe…maybe it would lead to something else.” Fully dropping your arm in defeat, Getou slapped a hand over his face and leaned his head up to the sky. “Maybe I could find out what it feels like to hold your hand, to have you smile at me so brightly and tell me I’m doing a good job and I’m more than just some good chef that’s a grade A asshole.”

A heavy silence hung between you, the weight of all of Getou’s words weighing down the air around you. It felt difficult to breathe but somehow, you managed.

“Amazing.” You whispered, making Getou crack an eye open to look at you.

“Huh?”

“You’re an amazing chef.” Dropping his head back down, Getou stared at you with mild confusion on his face. “You have a Michelin star and an incredible eye for detail and flavor. Don’t get me wrong, you’re absolutely awful to be around and sometimes your presence makes me want to-”

“Okay.” He interjected, a tiny grin on his face betraying him. “I get it, I’m awful.”

“And I would love to learn from you.”

“Seriously?” Raising his brows in shock, Getou was surprised you would even acknowledge that part of what he said.

“Yes.” Your face portrayed no lie, no intention of changing your mind just to hurt him. “You think I’d want to pass up on an opportunity like that from someone I’ve admired for so long?”

Getou swallowed thickly. He had an inkling that you were a fan, from your parents words and from how you were around him, but you finally said it out loud. And maybe admiration could be something more. It made his heart swell hopefully, stupidly. He couldn’t even think of trying to stamp it down.

“When would you like to learn?” He spoke slowly, words coming out carefully as his eyes watched your face, his dumb little heart deflating a bit at the sudden downturn of your lips.

“I don’t know.” Rubbing the back of your neck, you shifted awkwardly on your feet. There was a bench behind you and you motioned for Getou to sit down. “I don’t know if it’d be a good idea for me to come back.”

“Wh- no it is, it is.” Gripping the back of the bench, Getou turned to you with his mouth hanging slightly. “It’ll be better, I swear. I’ll be better.”

“But how long will that last? Until you get mad again and snap at me?” You itched to play with the fraying patch of fabric on his sweats, to give your hands something to do other than twist and turn within themselves.

“I won’t, never again.”

“How long will Nicolas be at the restaurant?” Raising a brow at Getou, you watched his mind work. He was uptight on a good day and with Nicolas’ presence it only made it worse. The strict, military-like regime he had only became tighter and it choked the life out of you.

“A week.” Getou hung his head in shame, knowing he wouldn’t see you again any time soon. “But (Y/N), I swear on my life. Every fiber of my being. I won’t let him talk to you like that anymore; I don’t care if he’s my mentor or not.”

Contemplating Getou’s words, you weighed your options in your head. You had faith that Getou could change his ways, but so suddenly? And with the pressure of Nicolas behind him? Any hope of him being even slightly different during this week was dashed out of your mind. But looking up at him, his worry written all over his face and in the way he chewed his lip, it sparked something in you.

“Okay, I’ll think about it.” Your quiet utterance of the words had Getou leaning back dramatically with the weight of the world off his shoulders. He made a noise from his chest, something akin to a groan and a holler. Taking a few breaths, he sat up and looked at you.

“Yes, please do.” It was then that you noticed, as a breeze rushed past, that it had gotten quite late out. The sky was considerably darker and you could just barely make out some stars between the glaring lights of street lamps.

“Let’s get you home, yeah?” Getou was sliding off the bench and nudging you to stand as well. Walking at a slower pace with him at your side, you took a few turns and made it back to your apartment with no trouble.

“Home sweet home.” You motioned to the building, gradually coming to a stop.

“It’s funny how close we live to each other.” Getou mused, hooking his thumb behind him. “I’m 3 blocks down and to the right.”

“Well neighbor, have a good night.” Feeling emboldened by the cover of darkness, you reach out and pat Getou’s shoulder, letting your hand linger for a moment before sliding off.

“Good night.” Giving you a small wave, Getou waited until you were safely in your apartment before turning and leaving himself.

4:45pm. The clock's large red numbers stared back at Getou. He was waiting not so patiently at the door for your arrival. He knew you came in at about 4:30 and after the conversation the two of you had had last night he hoped you’d be a bit earlier than that.

“Chef!” Someone called for him and Getou’s legs twitched instinctively to go help, but he remained in his spot.

“Chef!” They called again and Getou groaned. 4:46pm, the clock stared back at him. He didn’t want to move, not even a centimeter. But there were more pressing matters to attend to than waiting for you like a puppy.

“Coming!” He yelled back and drug his feet away. He was a fool to expect you to come back so soon after what happened, and although you said you’d think about it, it wasn’t a definitive yes to coming back.

For the next 15 minutes Getou tried to sneak looks at the door whenever he could, hoping and praying you’d waltz right in. He had dry cleaned your jacket that you’d thrown off, the stain from the steak tartare now a memory and no longer glaring right at him.

“Everyone, to the front.” Getou announced like he usually did, fingers wrapped around the metal table in a white knuckle grip. Everyone was standing at attention in no time, everyone but you. “As a reminder for service tonight…” He started, face a little sullen from your lack of appearance. So wrapped up in his own head he was that Getou didn’t notice the sound of the back door opening and closing or the way you snuck in behind everyone.

“And that’s all. Let’s do good tonight.” As everyone dispersed and Getou went about checking his lists, one person remained at the periphery of his vision. “Come here, do you have a question about the menu?”

“I do.” The sound of your voice made his head snap up and a fervent smile fought its way onto his face. Nicolas was off to the side reading something from a list of his own, not wholly paying attention to either of you.

“You came.” Getous mouth hung open slightly. There you were before him looking as eager as the day you’d first stepped foot in the kitchen. He remembered that day so clearly and how he wished he could have made a better impression on you instead of yelling about a coupe colonel.

“I did.” Smoothing down the front of your jacket, you caught his eyes. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not.” Shaking his head, Getou tried to look away from you but he couldn’t. His fingers flexed if only to try and disguise the slight tremble to them.

“Well, service has started.” Inching closer to him, you tried to ignore the slight burn in your cheeks as he continued to stare. “Can I look at the list? I need to make sure we have enough oyster mushrooms for that appetizer.” Your fingers wrapped around his and deftly unwound them from the piece of paper he’d been clenching onto. The action pulled him out of his stupor, enough so that he finally noticed the few line cooks waiting off to the side.

“I-I’ll be right there.” Clearing his throat and giving them a glance, Getou turned to you. “Glad to have you here, (Y/N).”

“Glad to be here.”

#jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen scenarios #jujutsu kaisen fluff #geto fluff #geto x reader #geto suguru #jujutsu kaisen fanfic

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