#i’ve gotten back into the habit of using sou but i wonder if they even remember me doing that at all

[coloredgalaxies]

playing through yttd with friends who haven’t seen the game before and we’re currently nearing the end of chapter 2 part 1. they do not like kanna and all and they really really don’t like sou/shin and i am SO excited to see who they’ll choose at the end aaaaaaa!!!!!

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Weeping Statue | Feeding Habits Update #6 & let’s chat about quitting writing

Hello! Are we back for another Feeding Habits update (finally)?? Let’s chat chapter 7, Weeping Statue.

Just a reminder: This is my original work and plagiarism of any form will not be tolerated.

Can we talk about struggle? Because this chapter was IT. I believe I started it in late July and finished it earlier this month. I’ve taken my time with chapters before, but this was next level--the amounts of changes I went through in one chapter was astronomical, and reminded me of drafting chapter three earlier in the summer. I went through so many stages writing this chapter: from enjoying it, to feeling no joy from writing at all, to nearly quitting this book altogether!

Scene A:

Harrison and his mother Suzanna simultaneously avoid each other over breakfast after he failed to return home the night previous

She lowkey calls him out (calling out his denial of missing Lonan)

Scene B:

Harrison goes to a farmhouse owned by Theodore Harvey, a friend of his mother’s, to drop off the rescued litter of kittens from chapter 6. He realizes he is missing one kitten and concludes Reeve has stolen one after dinner the night previous.

Scene C:

Harvey invites Harrison inside for coffee where he admits his coffee machine is broken.

Harrison fixes the coffee machine, and is hired by Harvey to flip the rest of the farmhouse as he and his wife are moving.

Scene D:

On his way home, Harrison stops at a gas station where he buys a bouquet of tulips for his mother, a dog collar for the puppy he found in the kitten litter, a pack of gum, pastries, and sunscreen before heading to a beach.

At the onset of a lightning storm, Harrison swims in the ocean and has an epiphany--he decides to accept his miserable life (a development!)

Scene E:

After the beach ordeal, Harrison returns to his apartment ready to accept the plainness of his daily life when an old ghost from his past (his! ex!) Lonan appears to be having dinner with Suzanna

This chapter brought so many things. A) many... breakdowns lol (I cried a lot!), B) many false epiphanies that wound me back into ruts, C) a desire to quit this series that was just as terrifying as it sounds and D) an ideology I never would’ve gotten on my own. Just have to thank my sister Sarah for telling me a few weeks ago after I insisted that I knew what needed to logically happen but couldn’t write it no matter how hard I tried. She said: “It’s not about what works, it’s about what you want” << literally changed my philosophy on writing, even as someone who tries their best to advocate for care and enjoyment in writing. Not sure if it’s because of the timing when she said this, but I’d probably never had made it out of the rut without having this said to me.

I was *not* planning at all to have my boys reunite so soon in the book. Technically, it is not very soon and we are almost done the book, but for some reason, I really didn’t think it would work so early because I felt Harrison’s POV was so undeveloped already (I still think it is). HOWEVER, the fact of the matter is: it was not working at all. I knew exactly what I needed to do to get to point A to Z but the thing about writing is, it is not formulaic! I tried to make fit what I thought worked, but as time progressed and I immensely struggled, less and less did I want what worked. Writing was miserable and that’s not what I want writing to be for me. So I took Sarah’s advice, and I did what would make me happy, and that was, and has always been, seeing my boys interact.

Now that I’ve finished this chapter, I’m not sure if I made the right decision! I have yet to write the boys interacting so I don’t know if it will work, but what I liked about this method is that it freed me from this constriction I’d written myself into and opened a new avenue to do something that DOESN’T “work” for the story but that does work for me. To me, this project, this series, is more important to me than making something “work”. Sustaining my health and happiness (which were declining on the path I was on) is critical for me and my writing journey.

EDIT: by the time I’m editing this post, I have written the boys interacting and haha yep this was the right decision! Was doubting myself for a sec, added in a lil robbery, and now it’s all good (oops)

Excerpts:

I don’t have too many for you because this chapter does need an edit to “set” it in place (right now it feels like liquid Jello that has been in the fridge but is yet to set up). I know it needs one more scene but I cannot :) write :) what :) it :) needs :) no matter how hard I have tried, and so I am giving that section of the story a break instead of over-kneading it and toughening up the dough unnecessarily.

Here is part of the opening scene! There are things I don’t like about this but I am trying not to self-hate, so !!!

The next morning, Harrison gets up at dawn to drop the kittens off at the farm, and Suzanna makes coffee for one. This is unusual for both—Harrison rarely leaves the apartment, and Suzanna always makes coffee for two. In his room, Harrison combs his hair and twists his earring, its blue gem pearling in dribbles of sunlight. In the kitchen, Suzanna stirs coffee like it’s wronged her. Harrison dabs cologne onto his throat and blinks off his hangover. Suzanna flecks her spoon onto the tabletop so it leaves an egg of amber on the surface.

When he approaches the kitchen, Harrison pretends he does not see his mother and his mother pretends she does not see him. They move like this, repelled, one moving left, the other moving right, one opening the top cupboard, the other opening the bottom.

Harrison stops at a convenience store and buys a hodge-podge of things (also the beach scene which yes mirrors the last scene in Lonan’s POV hehe I indulge myself):

He picks up the best bouquet of fuchsia tulips, a collar for the dog he left in his bedroom even though it’ll be weeks until she’s big enough to fit in it, a pack of spearmint gum he doesn’t need, a package of pastries, and a tube of sunscreen—SPF 30. He almost drops every item at least once on his way up to the register, and definitely drops them when his receipt is spitting from the machine and the store clerk says she likes his earring—is it vintage—and he nearly vomits in the parking lot, trained against the hood of the taxi—is it even his taxi—the plastic bag teetering from his wrist, rain coiling against his cheek, the air so humid, his clothes so heavy, it is no wonder the next place he ends up is the beach.

It is never smart to swim during a storm. If he thinks hard enough, his mother’s voice warns him to keep from the shore, stand behind the yellow line, stay safe, stay where you are, don’t run under a tree, and even more, don’t run into the water. He does everything wrong in an even worse order—dollops sunscreen into his palm before opening the pastry so his teeth freckles with zinc, chews the gum and the pastry at the same time so his tongue becomes a slime of crumbs, rests the tulips too close to the shoreline so they wilt under a wave, misplaces the dog collar in his own left hand, and dives into the water fully-clothed.

Harrison getting very angsty about Lonan’s future (which he’s predicted completely wrong haha):

He will die alone. Reeve will not think of him again and he will deserve that. Somewhere in the city with the missing kitten, drinking bottles of holy water because there is no drink more fitting for a woman so sacred. His mother will miss him only briefly, and then return to her daily life of no longer needing to clean up after him. Maybe she’ll find the tulips. Put them on display until they wither, then use their carcasses as fertilizer. Save electricity. Use the coffee machine less. Downsize to a smaller, cheaper, prettier apartment with arched walkways and stained-glass windows. Harvey will think he is a fluke who missed his first day of work and will never think of him again. The dog isn’t old enough to recognize him. Suzanna will give her the collar. And Lonan will continue his life in Las Vegas, tottering after Eliza, refilling her wine, getting neon at house parties, watching French silent films without captions because he’s probably learned another language, cut his hair, gotten a tattoo, learned how to cross-stitch, bought life insurance, a yacht, a coastal summer home, learned how to play the mandolin, perfected his lamb sous vide. He’s probably married. Him and Eliza family-planning. He’ll expand a future, and Harrison will do the opposite. There is something freeing in being unmissed.

Lightning snaps across the sky like a wishbone, sounds like the prick of tambourines from under the water. Everything turns violet—the clouds, his skin, the waves. Tomorrow will be a better day, as he sinks lower into the current, tomorrow will be a better day, as the light fades and dissolves into blackness, tomorrow will be a better day, as seaweed wraps his throat, as the freezing water impales his ribs, as he burrows under and simultaneously, rises up.

This next part comes right after!

In the stomach of a tidal wave, the sky is so much bluer. An unrolling of cyan like fractals of a baked marble. There is so little to remember. No grocery lists, no fresh turmeric, no shift of portabella mushrooms. No outstanding to-dos—no kibble to by, no resume to update. Harrison folds in blue and lets it gorge his eardrums. He gives his body to that wide chasm of water and breaststrokes not into a second life, but a third.

Here is the last bit:

He buzzes back into the apartment at 3:00AM, tracking in saltwater and SPF, puff-pastry gummed to his palm, a dog collar wound around his ring finger, a sheath of tulips shedding into the elevator behind him.

He hits every floor button twice and is undisturbed when the elevator lurches and reopens in sixty-second intervals. A man rotating a jade cuff on his wrist gets on at the fourth stop and gets off at the sixth. A woman wearing a lynx cape gets on at the eighth stop, breaks up with two girlfriends, and gets off at the eleventh. Two children in coveralls tail in after she leaves and throw jacks at each other’s eyes until one of them bleeds, and by then, they are on the fifteenth floor and the children are leaving like they have not left behind accidental shell casings. On the sixteenth floor, a deer head chihuahua patters in with no owner and barks at the door chime the moment it releases and lets him out. A mother and daughter shell pistachios on the twentieth, a maintenance man introduces himself as David though his nametag says Maxwell on the twenty-second, a flock of teenage girls in whirl about a new way to blend oil pastel on the twenty-third. So it is no wonder by the twenty-fifth floor, Harrison misses his stop and becomes one of these people too—the man with zinc down his eyes like a weeping statue, juggling pastry and a dog collar and a seedy bouquet of tulips.

He tracks seawater in that hallway, parts of him scattering with the zinc, the petals, the crumbs. Like a way to get back home even though he hasn’t started at his destination, he moves through the labyrinth of halls, both starving and nauseated. Tomorrow he will rise at dawn and taxi to Brooklyn and hammer four nails into two pieces of plywood and repeat. He will feed his dog. Learn how to cook something that will impress his mother, something French that he can’t pronounce like brasillé or oeufs cocotte. Find liberation in the constrict of routine or at least pretend to. It will be good for him, the rising, the taxis, the hammers, the nails, the dog food, the cooking—it will all be good.

By the time he gets to their door, his fingers are oiled and dripping with sunscreen. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. He nearly drops the house keys. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. Tomorrow will be his arrival. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. His beginning swelling as he turns the lock. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. There is no other way out.

The apartment is dark when he tracks in. The scent of cinnamon steeping the air like Suzanna’s pulled a saucepan of papas off the stove. At first he doesn’t hear it, but he should, the voices leafing the kitchen like a flit of moths. He steps out of his shoes but never sets anything down, even after he passes the coffee table. Two plates ringing the centre, streaked with and caldeirada and bayleaf. A pitcher of lemonade sweating onto the glass. It is almost like he never left, like he and his mother shared dinner, sipped from each other’s cups, cleaned the tines of each other’s fishbones. And he almost believes it. He never went to the farm. The kittens are where he left them, just a few feet away, not in Brooklyn. He doesn’t have a job to tend to. He never fixed the coffee machine. He didn’t go to the convenience store. He is not slathered in sunscreen, not holding a dog collar or pastries or a bouquet of tulips. He never dove into the ocean like it was some port to asylum and didn’t emerge soaked and walking half-dead to his apartment because he never left. This reality is so easy to believe, he is unfazed by the voices and how they get louder when he reaches the kitchen, when one says “Were you shopping for the apocalypse?” and the other one chokes on its drink and apologizes for its rudeness and stares at him in daydream, those eyes like forget-me-nots, gas fires, seafoam, the wing of a starling, his drop earring.

Harrison is grateful he is soaking wet when he enters that kitchen and Suzanna and Lonan sit at the table sharing a box of petit fours. At least he has an excuse when he drops everything.

That’s it for this update! The tea starts HERE!

--Rachel

[futuristicallyspeedyparadise]

Waiting For You (Jack x Zhao Zi Story) Chapter 1

“Zhao Zi, if you stare any harder at the door, it will burst into flames.”

Zhao Zi lurched back into reality, ripping his eyes away from the kitchen door to look at Yi Qi’s brown eyes glittering in amusement.

“Why are you so insistent on knowing the new chef? Given our experience with the last few, I would’ve thought you would want to steer clear of that kind of demented folk.”

Perhaps it had just been bad luck, but the restaurant’s endless parade of chefs had resulted in slight trepidation amongst the waitstaff about who the newcomer would be. The chef before this one had the habit of throwing literal knives when someone or something pissed him off. The one before that had emotional breakdowns every once in a while and would lock themselves up in the walk-in freezer for half an hour. And not to mention the one who used the kitchen pantry as his own personal food supply. He would “shop” for items, often the expensive stuff like truffles and Wagyu beef, and take them home to host parties; when being ousted he remained adamant that he hadn’t been stealing.

Each of the previous chefs had cooked spectacularly, but their inability to handle the pressure--or their literal thievery--had made the restaurant owner Tang Yi fire them without hesitation.

Zhao Zi turned fully towards the table again and tucked into his French onion soup. The restaurant’s kitchen was massive, filled with different food stations and prep tables galore. In the corner away from the action, was an area where wait staff could grab food or take their scheduled break. One of the perks of working at the restaurant was that they would occasionally receive free meals. Zhao Zi, a self-identified foodie, could not have been any happier with that particular perk. Sometimes he was able to eat dishes that people had to pay hundreds to eat, for free.

“I’m just curious as to who the new chef is going to be. I mean, c’mon Yi Qi. You know we’ve had quite a string of bad luck.”

“Well...you don’t have to tell me that,” Yi Qi muttered, rubbing her wrist distractedly. Her wrist had been the unfortunate receiver of the last knife that had been thrown by the previous chef. She had not been the intended target, but some things could not be forgiven. When Tang Yi, the owner, heard the news, he had dismissed the chef on the spot and assured Yi Qi that any medical expenses would be paid. Yi Qi had worn a protective band on her wrist for a month and now had a shiny scar to show for it.

“I wonder what their specialty is? I don’t know how we stay afloat. Our menu changes every time a new chef parades through this door!”

“I think that has become the novelty of it. Everytime we fire a chef and the media gets a hold of it, they start conducting polls on what our next specialty food will be.”

“I mean you can’t fault Tang Yi. Whether they are crazy or not, he does find the top people in the culinary field,” Yi Qi agreed.

Tang Yi, their boss, was a no-nonsense restaurant owner. He came out of nowhere a few years before and opened this restaurant, somehow managing to curate the top talent in the field. People wondered how a nobody could convince top chefs, sous-chefs, maître d’s and sommeliers to abandon their posts and come join his restaurant; given Tang Yi’s dubious past—it was rumored he had been affiliated with the gang activity—many figured it had been blackmail.

Despite that, or perhaps because of all the mystery, Trapped surged to the top of every national restaurant list and garnered many recognitions and awards. It’s ever changing and experimental menu, mostly due to the revolving door of chefs, kept it fresh. Though the food changed, the quality certainly did not slip. Zhao Zi had to interview extensively to be a waiter at the restaurant. It was a position that many people in the service industry, from long-time waiters to culinary students, vied for because it included great pay and benefits as well as the chance to work for the culinary greats.

Zhao Zi sighed. He loved working here at the restaurant. Despite the occasional uppity customer who felt they were too rich to have decent manners, he enjoyed the clientele and enjoyed ensuring that they had a great experience. Plus the staff at the restaurant was like family, something that was nice to have given that he had no actual family.

He had lost his parents when he was very young and had grown up with his grandmother. His grandmother, a small but feisty woman, always made sure that he was well taken care of. She put him through school, and encouraged his love for food blogging and consumption. He missed his grandmother’s cooking the most. She made the most wonderful feasts, plates full of steaming, richly flavored food that warmed his stomach and soul.

Stricken with a bout of pneumonia, she passed away a couple of years ago in her sleep.

The door to the kitchen creaked open, and Zhao Zi’s head whipped around to see who had come in. He groaned when he realized it was just Jun Wei, another waiter.

The kitchen staff knew the identity of the new chef; they had had some closed-kitchen training with them to work out the new menu and how the kitchen would be run under their direction. However, it was a tradition for the kitchen staff to not reveal the identity of the new chef to the waitstaff, and legally mandatory for them not to leak information to the press. Tang Yi had made them sign non-disclosures even before the parade of chefs began. Though they had a legal obligation not to, the staff knew that helping drive the media into a speculation frenzy helped garner the restaurant free publicity and more clients which meant a prosperous business. They also just loved to take part in the fun.

“So, sorry to disappoint,” Jun Wei said sarcastically as he made his way over to Zhao Zi and Yi Qi. The waiters at Trapped all wore black button down shirts, black slacks and a black vest. Jun Wei was tall, with an athletic build and wore his uniform well. When he drew close, he reached out to ruffle Zhao Zi’s hair.

“Stop it!” Zhao Zi cried, fending him off. “You know the boss will kill me if he sees my hair like this,” He dropped his spoon, reaching up to pat down his hair. Jun Wei laughed and took up the seat next to Yi Qi. A line-cook came by and dropped off a bowl of soup in front of him; Jun Wei thanked them gratefully.

The cooks in the kitchen and the waitstaff had a mutual respect for each other. They understood that they needed to work cohesively in order to run the restaurant well. Their boss wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Has the dining room been set yet or do they need help?” Zhao Zi asked Jun Wei. He finished off his soup bringing over the bowl to the sink for cleaning.

“I think you might want to go out there and help out a bit. Hong Ye looks a bit...peeved.”

Hong Ye was the restaurant’s maître d. She was a formidable character, strong in personality and with very high standards. She was Tang Yi’s sister and together they ran the restaurant like a pair of benevolent dictators.

Zhao Zi nodded, already heading towards the door. As he was about to push out the doors, someone pushed them in and Zhao Zi jumped back to avoid being hit. The person who walked through the door was...different. He had red wine-colored hair, a black leather jacket and boots to match. He was tall and lithe. His face was nothing short of elegant, a beautifully carved Adonis with a smirk.

“I am so sorry, sir!” he squeaked.

The man’s smirk grew wider.  “No need to apologize.”

“How can I help you, sir?” Zhao Zi asked, with a slight bow. It was a habit to address all clientele as ‘sir’ and ‘madam’ or ‘miss.’ He figured that having gotten past Hong Ye, this person was surely some kind of business partner on his way to chat with Tang Yi. He wasn’t dressed like a businessman, but Tang Yi’s visitors were rarely corporate looking characters.  They were often older gangster looking types, or young ones who came with their chests puffed out looking for Tang Yi and referring to him as “boss.” This one however, with his green leather jacket, simple white t-shirt and motorcycle helmet in hand was definitely one of the more interesting ones.

“Do you call everyone, sir, or is that one particularly reserved for me, shorty?” The redhead asked, smirk still in place.

Zhao Zi blushed. Sure he was practically a head shorter than the man who was standing unbearably close, but it hadn’t been necessary to point it out.

“I...uh—”

“You can follow me,” came a deep voice from behind him.

Zhao Zi turned, hearing Tang Yi’s voice. Tang Yi wore a soft gray cashmere shirt and black slacks, a rich man’s simple daytime outfit. Tang Yi turned and walked back towards his office, clearly expecting the newcomer to follow him.

“Sure thing, boss.” The man said, moving around Zhao Zi to follow Tang Yi. They went into Tang Yi’s back office, which Zhao Zi had only been to once, during his interview. It was a beautiful room, decorated in splendorous dark woods and emerald accents. It was truly a gentlemen’s den. Zhao Zi let out a breath and pushed through the doors to the dining room to see how he could help.

---

Hong Ye wasn’t necessarily mean when she told someone off, but rather she was incisive. She chose her words carefully, ensuring that each word held its own weight and cut the person to their core.

She gazed about the dining room in disgust.

“So far we have fallen in our standards it would seem,” she said in an emotionless, measured tone. “Dust on the wine bottles, crumbs on the floor. Wine glasses on the wrong side of the table. Did you think I would not notice?”

She gazed at the staff. A beautiful woman standing at just over five feet, her stature did not stop her from seemingly towering over anyone. She wore a white billowy shirt, with draped arms and simple black pants.

“If you think for a second I would not fire all of you in a heartbeat then I’ve clearly haven’t made myself clear enough. Perhaps I have been too soft.”

The dining room was in a state of slight disarray. They had just changed the decor and some of the details were still being worked out. Zhao Zi liked the new look. Just like their food, the restaurant underwent certain changes to match the style of the new chef.

Looking around Zhao Zi was able to learn a little bit about the chef who would soon join them. Whereas before the restaurant had adopted the sophisticated golds and burnt oranges that matched their emphasis on Thai food, now the room was decorated in swathes of red with accents of greens, yellows and blues. The room took on a more intimate and private feel with dimmer lighting; it invited introspection and commiseration. Zhao Zi was reminded of the temples he and his grandmother would visit while growing up.

Perhaps the new chef had an affinity for traditional Taiwanese culture? Zhao Zi couldn’t help but feel a slight disappointment. It didn’t seem like they would be getting any exotic foods with this new chef.

Hong Ye disrupted his thoughts by barking out a list of orders and so they spent the rest of the day fixing up the dining room, rearranging again and again the furniture and decor in order to satisfy Hong Ye’s vision. The restaurant was closed to the public this week in order to prepare for the debut of the new chef, so they worked until Hong Ye was satisfied.

Sometime later in the evening, collapsing on to a chair, Jun Wei groaned, “I am so tired. Man, at least we get to eat.”

That was another perk of working at Trapped. All new chefs cooked a full meal for the wait staff thereby making them always the first to fully try the restaurant's new menu. Tang Yi might have been an emotionless, mysterious boss, but he was a good one.

Zhao Zi was nearly bouncing in his seat; he was always excited when it came to trying out the new menu. He often raced home afterwards to update his food blog. He wrote his thoughts and feelings about the food, tried to describe the flavors accurately and fairly and described how the decor tied in with the food and the mood it established. He was careful to not post his accounts until after the restaurant debuted its new chef to the public; he wrote anonymously and was careful to avoid any details that would identify him as one of the staff.

Zhao Zi had quite a following. He received a lot of correspondence from newspapers and magazines inviting him to join their staff or asking for an interview. It was tempting, but Zhao Zi truly loved his coworkers and the ability to have an inside look at the unique restaurant. He loved watching it come together, each piece necessary to its core: Tang Yi’s curation of staff, Hong Ye’s organization, the kitchen staff’s passion and the waitstaff’s excellence. Each review he wrote about the restaurant was like a letter of deep appreciation to his family, because at the end of the day, that’s what they were. The reviews, however, did not shy away from critiquing the food, and were honest about any faults that were found.

Hong Ye thanked them for their hard work and instructed them to sit down. It was time. From the kitchen doors came first Tang Yi who somehow still managed to look put together and unaffected after a long day of work. Behind him came the new chef.

It was the red-haired man.

Zhao Zi’s eyes widened as he took in the new chef’s apparel. He wore a black chef’s jacket with a red trim that seemed as if it had been tailored. It hugged his body like a glove, showing off his athletic form. The man walked casually behind Tang Yi, a casual smirk in place. They stood at the head of the dining room.

“Thank you all for your hard work today.” Tang Yi began his speech, his deep voice carried across the room. He truly had an impenetrable expression. The only time Zhao Zi had seen him crack a smile was with Hong Ye and even that had happened three years ago. “In order to thank you for bringing his vision to life and for the future work on which you will embark together, our new chef has created a menu for us to dine on tonight. You will find the new menu in the booklets in front of you. Please order as you wish.”

The first dinner with the staff was not only a thank you, but also a test to the new chef. It was their chance to command the kitchen fully. They hired extra wait staff for the occasion so that Trapped’s staff could enjoy their meal. As a reward for the night's hard-work, Tang Yi would in turn treat the kitchen staff to dinner at some of the leading restaurants in Taiwan. Cold he was, but benevolent.

“Before you start, our chef would like to say a few words.”

The redhead stepped up beside Tang Yi and greeted them all with a grin. “Hello,” he said, his voice smooth, low, and rich. Zhao Zi swore he heard some of the women and men swoon in response. Yi Qi’s cheeks immediately turned bright red. He himself even felt a slight swooping sensation in his stomach that he decidedly ignored.

“My name is Jack. You may refer to me as Chef Jack.”

Jack was an odd name. Zhao Zi wondered whether the chef had spent some time abroad. Plus, did he not have a last name?

“Today I have prepared a traditional Taiwanese menu, with my own personal touches. I hope you enjoy it.”

He nodded and led the way back to the kitchen to start the service.

“Taiwanese, huh,” Yi Qi said as they all turned back to the table. A low murmur was already filling the room. They opened the menu and were scandalized. “But...but this looks like the kind of food you would get at a corner shop! Why would anyone want to pay top dollar for this?”

Zhao Zi had to agree. The menu items weren’t particularly exciting, but perhaps the execution would be. He settled for a bowl of beef noodle soup. You could tell a lot about a chef by how they executed the simplest of dishes. Beef noodle soup was common, but every restaurant and food-stand had their own closely guarded recipe that made the dish their own. Zhao Zi was interested to see the chef’s take on it.

Orders taken, the team settled into their seats, wine in hand.

“I wonder what made Tang Yi go for this guy,” Yi Qi questioned. She lifted the glass of white wine to her lips. “Has anyone ever heard of him? At least we had heard about the others.” She looked at Zhao Zi in particular, seeing as he was the one who always displayed more knowledge about the industry.

“No,” he shrugged. “But Tang Yi has never failed us before..”

Jun Wei peered at him. “You are not as excited about this menu as I’ve seen you be at other times.”

Zhao Zi laughed. “Yeah, it’s a bit difficult to be excited about something I can get anywhere. Plus no one can beat my grandma’s beef noodle soup. Not even a top chef, or whatever this guy is.”

“You sure?” Jun Wei challenged, a growing grin taking over his face. He nodded towards the food that was now exiting the kitchen. “We will find out soon enough.”

When Zhao Zi’s beef noodle soup was set in front of him, he couldn’t help but feel a little impressed. Plating up an appealing looking soup was always a challenge and the chef’s arrangement of this one was stunning. The broth was dark and rich, contrasting greatly with the white noodles. The bok choy was a deep green and accented by the light green scallions sprinkled across the top. The beef was sliced thinly and served on top of the noodles. Zhao Zi saw hints of red flakes, indicating the soup would come with heat.

He stuck his chopstick in and pulled out a wad of noodles. They were well cooked with a slight firmness. Zhao Zi brought the noodles to his mouth.

A moan escaped him.

Jun Wei and Yi Qi stopped and looked at him with raised eyebrows. Zhao Zi flushed a deep red, quickly chewing up the noodles.

“That good, huh,” Jun Wei laughed.

Zhao Zi nodded, but had no words. He continued to dig into the soup, enjoying the tenderness of the beef contrasted by the structural fidelity of the noodles. The hint of licorice flavor in the soup was perfect and there was something else, something Zhao Zi couldn’t pinpoint quite just yet, that tied the whole thing together.

His grandmother had been an expert at making beef noodle soup. She had her own recipe and made it for him constantly. It was his comfort food. So he wondered what was the story behind this meal. Despite its clear appeal to the palette, a symphony of tasty perfection, he felt something was missing. Something that told a story and gave a hint as to who Jack was.

The team enjoyed their meal. Yi Qi praised her vermicelli oyster soup and Jun Wei had a second order of soup dumplings.

“Well I guess you were right. Tang Yi didn’t let us down. That was amazing,” Yi Qi said. “The public won’t know what hit them.”

After dinner, they always completed anonymous surveys that were given to the chef. While he knew most of the staff praised the food, he often tried to give good constructive criticism. For his beef noodle soup, he wrote: Amazing soup with a deep, rich flavor and delightful hint of licorice. A flavorful adventure. However, I can’t help but wonder, where’s the story? What are you trying to say?

Zhao Zi knew that previous chefs had never responded to their critiques. Oftentimes they thought themselves above the staff, an unfortunate result of early career success and zero-humility. He wondered if this chef would be the same.

When he got home that night, he stepped into his house and felt...alone. Putting his things away, Zhao Zi slipped into his pajamas, a big t-shirt and soft sweat pants before walking over to the little alter he kept for his grandmother and lighting a candle for her. “Nǎinai, I had some pretty amazing beef soup today. World class,” he whispered to her. “It still wasn’t as good as yours.” He bowed his head and stood up, making his way upstairs to bed.

--- Back in the kitchen, Jack looked over the survey responses that had been submitted by the waitstaff. A lot of them expressed the fact that they had been surprised at the simplicity of the menu, but were blown away by the food. Good. Jack liked surprising people with the unexpected.

He knew he didn’t necessarily carry himself like a professional chef, and that he was relatively unknown and would therefore be put under a lot of scrutiny, but Jack had no doubts that he would succeed in impressing the public. He would settle for nothing less.

“How did the staff take it?” Tang Yi asked, slipping into the seat next to him.

“I seem to have pleasantly surprised them.”

“I expect you to do the same to the critics.”

“I will, boss,” Jack affirmed. He pulled out one of the survey cards, “Do you know who this is?” Jack asked. Tang Yi took the card and read through it.

He smirked.

“What is your story then?”

Jack smiled back, coyly taking back the card and slipping it into his pocket. Tang Yi and him had met under unconventional circumstances. Tang Yi did not know much about Jack’s background, no one did, but in their time of interaction he grew to realize that Jack was amazing in the kitchen. Now he was using that to his advantage.

Jack stood and lazily saluted Tang Yi before slipping through the kitchen doors.

-------------------

I will be posting updates to this story on AO3.

[sabraeal]

Obi attempts to bake Miss's favorite.

The steps are simple; the trick is patience.

And oh, does Obi have a wealth of that.

“I won’t need you to walk me back tonight,” Miss tells him as he skips over the crenelations beside her.

“Is that so, Miss?” he inquires blithely, trying to keep the disapproval from his voice. He’s finally gotten two days off in a row, and she’s planning on pulling an all-nighter. “Are you planning on spending the night in the library then? Need a few extra hours in the lab?”

If she is, he plans to offer himself for company. Even after three years, she never assumes he’ll watch over her while she works, always waiting until he asks if she’d like a stray cat to keep her company – I’d rather you, she’d clap back with a laugh, and oh, it’s not good for his heart thinking she wants him, even like that.

His miss shakes her head, sending snowflakes scattering in the cold. “Tonight is the apprentice entry exam, and I offered to proctor.”

“Oh, I see,” he drawls, stepping off the wall to keep pace beside her. “You just want to be able to snatch the best one for yourself.”

She flushes. “Suzu and I could get along with anyone, but I want to make sure Ryuu…”

She struggles to find the words, and in the end gives him a helpless shrug. He picks up her meaning; Shidan was emphatic that it was time for their lab to take on at least one apprentice this season – three of Wilant’s brightest minds could not stay locked up in their ivory tower forever, never passing on their techniques. Suzu had already relented to teaching a class – supplemented heavily with field trips to the hot houses to bother Yuzuri – but it seems Shirayuki’s been left the unenviable duty of evaluation not only a promising candidate talent-wise, but also….Ryuu-wise.

“When will you be out?” He knows that even if he offered, she wouldn’t be able to have him with her at the exam. Some of the committee would think he was a distraction; he can’t quite fault them either. Not with the number of apprentices that linger around the yard while he trains recruits.

“Dawn.” She darts a look at him from the corner of her eyes. “You’ll be fine on your own, won’t you?”

“I’ll survive somehow, Miss,” he assures her, hand pressed dramatically to his breast. “Though, it is supposed to be cold tonight –”

She rolls her eyes, gently pushing him away. “Buy coal.”

It feels like he’s been scraping butter for centuries. He’s fit; he could climb Wilant’s towers top to bottom without getting winded, but –

But he’s been working this butter into a square for the better part of an hour, and sweat is not only beading at his forehead, but dripping down his back, shivers coursing up his spine.

No wonder all the bakers have those arms. To think he’d thought it was from lugging flour around.

Somehow he finishes, proudly wrapping the pat in parchment and slipping it into the ice chest beside the dough.

There. The hard part must be over.

Ani the baker is flushed and ruddy, built squat and bulky and strong. She’s a few bare years older than him, and when he approaches with charming smile in place, she eyes him warily and says, “I ain’t no lightskirt. You might be wanting one of them who makes nice with the customers.”

His smile withers at the edges, but he thinks of his miss, of her bright, pleased laugh, of the way it feels for her head to rest on his chest on cold nights, and he says, “I’m not here for that.”

If anything, this only makes her grow warier. He thought they’d had a good rapport these last few years – just last week he’d complimented the thick muscles of her arms, and she hadn’t glowered at him – but it seems she does not remember her most loyal customer.

“I’m here for something only you can give me.”

That was perhaps not his best opening.

Miss does not cuss.

Less so because she disapproves of it – she is, as she often points out, the daughter of a bar – and more that the words never occur to her. Still, he is…self-conscious about exposing her to the sort of coarse language he’s used to. He could count on one hand the number of times one has slipped from him in her presence, always met with a wide-eyed look and a shocked, “Obi!”

After so long beside her, he’s practically fallen out of the habit. Even his men like to tease about his goodness me and his my word.

But with roller in hand he cusses a bluestreak, wailing on the hardened brick of dough and butter. He may, in fact, be inventing words to keep up with his ire.

He doesn’t know how such a thing was ever invented, save that it must have been by a sadist.

“You’re from the mountains, aren’t you?” he finally works his way around to saying, now that Ani isn’t trying to throw him from the shop. “The Lion’s Village.”

“Aye.” Her eyes narrow. “Who told you?”

His first impulse it to be coy, to tease, but these few minutes of conversation have told him that would be a mistake.

“No one,” he admits. “I wanted to know who made a certain pastry, and I was pointed here. It just so happens I’ve only seen them one other place.”

“Hn,” she hums, finally interested. “You can buy them from the front, though. Why come back here to find me?” Her mouth cants at the corner. “Gonna ask me to marry you so you can get them for free?”

“No,” he says with a laugh, “but I have a favor I’d like to ask…”

The second set of turns is easier, less from effort, and more because he knows what to expect. He doesn’t cuss, but oh, is it a close thing.

Ani had teased, had said, why would I teach you when you’re already a customer? But she hadn’t been worried, and now he knows why. Only an idiot would do this twice.

“You want to use the kitchens?” Wilant’s head butler seems incredulous, casting a worried look back into the room. It’s bustling now, full with apprentice and sous chefs making ready the meals for all the castle’s inhabitants.

“Just overnight,” he assures the man. “After dinner’s all been done. I won’t be in anyone’s way.”

The head butler eyes the tag hanging around Obi’s neck. His mouth bows worriedly.

“And I’ll start the morning fires,” he adds. He would have done it anyway – no use in leaving more work for the scullions when he’s in there already – but Obi hasn’t made it this far in life by not keeping a trump card up his sleeve.

The man’s demeanor changes instantly. “What did you say you needed it for?”

“Oh.” He lets his cheeks flush, his gaze turn absently fond. “I just thought I might surprise my girl with a little something…”

The best lies are the ones mixed with truths.

“Well then,” the head butler says with a smile. “I guess it would be no bother.”

Obi favors him with a wide smile. “Thank you, I –”

“After all,” the man continues, tone almost arch. “We’d all do anything for Lady Shirayuki.”

The part he thought would be hardest at the start turns out to be simple. Wide triangles wind around firm bars of chocolate with an ease that stuns him, and in no time he is setting them aside, carefully laying a wide-weft towel over them to let them breathe.

Almost done, give or take a few hours.

Just a little more patience.

“Obi!” His miss looks up from her books, slowly coming to realize she is the only one left in the lab. “Did everyone already leave for dinner?”

“Something like that,” he replies, standing a ways off as she packs up her things. “Yuzuri caught Ryuu sleeping by the yura shigure and marched him up to bed, and Suzu’s finishing up his lecture. I got sent to come fetch you.” His eyebrows rise innocently. “For some reason, they thought you wouldn’t remember to eat on your own.”

Her cheeks blush an enticing pink, and she ducks her head, making a show of putting her notes in her satchel. “And you?” she asks, trying to change the subject. “I haven’t seen you all day. I thought you had it off.”

“Oh, I’ve been around.” He gestures widely, trying to encompass all of Wilant and Lyrias besides. She rolls her eyes slinging her bag over one shoulder, following him to the door, and then –

“Are you coming, Miss?” he asks after a long moment, turning back to her. There’s a quizzical look on her face. “Miss?”

“Obi?” she says carefully. “Is there a reason there’s a handprint on the seat of your trousers?”

He slides the puffy pastries into the oven, wiping sweat off his brow. Nearly done now.

He peeks out of the kitchen windows sees pink start to stretch from the horizon. A nervous flutter beats in his stomach. Soon.

Shirayuki is dead on her feet.

Never has it been such an achievement to make it the ten steps from her door to her bed; she manages to take off her boots somewhere in between and honestly they should give her tenure just for that. She collapses in a heap on top of the covers, feet still on the floor, and decides to dream of fitting favors she can extract from Suzu. His lecture can’t possibly be as thoroughly exhausting as the exam.

Her eyes narrow. Hadn’t it been him that suggested the division of work? Convenient.

She considers pulling her legs up on the bed – it’s too much effort, really, but if she wants to sleep she should lie the the correct way – but then her stomach growls. She last ate at dinner, nearly twelve hours ago. The longer she deliberates, the more insistent the ache in her belly becomes, and though the commissary is clearly too far with her current level of wakefulness, she’s tempted to try.

She takes in a long breath, rallying herself to rise, but then –

Then she smells bread and chocolate, and clearly she is too tired if she’s hallucinating –

“Good morning, Miss,” a familiar voice rumbles from above her. “Or should I say ‘good night?’“

She opens her eyes – she doesn’t recall closing them, but then, she doesn’t recall half her trip across the castle either – and Obi stands above her, a tray in one hand and two mugs in the other. She sits up, enticed by the heavenly smells wafting toward her, and –

And he’s holding chocolate crescents, near to a dozen all stacked on top of each other and piping hot, just like how her mother used to make. “Obi.”

His smile turns sheepish. “I thought we might have breakfast together before you go to bed. To celebrate.”

She’s never been more attracted to a person than she is right now. He has chocolate crescents.

“Where did you find them?” she whispers. There’s only one store that has them on all of Pavilion Street, and they aren’t open this early. By the time she gets there around lunch they’re sold out.

“I, uh…” He coughs, setting down his bounty. “I made them.”

Oh my. She was wrong. This is the most attracted to a person she’s ever been.

His hands are busy divvying up their breakfasts, but she seizes one, so large and rough compare to hers. He stills at her touch, letting her turn over his palm, hardly breathing as she presses a kiss to it. She has no words, and she hopes that this, at least, can convey her gratitude instead.

“Thank you, Obi,” she murmurs, nuzzling into his hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, his hand running up over her cheek to ruffle her hair. “Well, Miss, I don’t intend for you ever to find out.” He hands her a pastry. “Now let’s eat!”

All right, maybe he’ll make them twice.