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For someone with a poor appetite, it'd seemed that Vincent's hunger would never be satisfied as of late.
And it most definitely was not because of a certain unkempt waiter.
When the waiter went on break, Vincent would join with a cigarette because he felt like it — not because he enjoyed the company. When the waiter went home, Vincent would send him off with a warm plate because he didn’t want to waste leftovers — not because he wanted the flattery. When the waiter came to work soaked, Vincent would dry him off because it would tarnish customer reviews — not because he enjoyed the feeling of those soft, ruffled curls. And most importantly, when the waiter flaunted around with an disheveled tie, Vincent would tie it for him for professionalism — not because he liked to admire the dotted moles and faint blush and soft lips —
“Chef!” The subject of discussion appeared before him. “I’m headed out.”
“You don’t need to announce it.” Vincent set down the restaurant reviews he was currently refraining from setting fire to. Despicable, really. For them to insult his waiter.
Rody scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. It was a habit that Vincent picked up on — not that he cared, of course. “Right, right. I just figured I’d say good night.”
“Well you’ve said it, is that all?”
“I guess— is that the latest paper?”
The chef glanced down at the reviews, then back up at the waiter. He calmly folded it and put it in his desk. “Perhaps.”
“I’ll have to read it sometime!”
He scoffed, eyes looking off to the side. Sometimes, Rody’s enthusiasm was blinding.“They’re unreliable, written by idiots who clearly haven’t stepped foot in a kitchen.”
“….Right.”
Vincent redirected his gaze back towards the redhead. He looked… tired. And tragically beautiful, like a wilting rose holding its own on a vacant bush.
“Well, good night—”
“Would you like—”
They both stopped mid-sentence, only to stare at one another expectantly.
Rody let out a laugh, something between a snort and a chuckle. “You first, sir.”
If the title had any effect on Vincent, he most definitely would not admit it.
“Would you…” he sighed as if he was in pain. “Would you like to read it with me? Maybe with a bottle of wine?”
There was a beat of uncomfortable silence. One with a fear of rejection and the other with a fear of something… foreign. If it had lingered any longer, the chef would have scrapped the idea altogether and physically thrown out the waiter himself.
“Really? Is this a test?”
Why was it always so frustrating talking to him — why did this single, unruly, pathetic man make him feel nervous? “Or I could just kick you out.” Vincent threatened through gritted teeth.
“No, no! I just—” There he was with that stupid tick again. “I didn’t—” And again. “Yes. Yeah. I’d love to, really.”
Rody smiled. Not one of those plastered smiles reserved for customers and awkward situations. Not one of those overjoyed dazzling smiles reserved for friends and coworkers. No. It was a soft, comforting smile. And it was so, so painfully Rody Lamoree.
Vincent could only wish that it was reserved for him. He would appeal his hunger, for once.