Kitchen Boy Losange Volume 3

Losange can do nothing right in Maximilian’s kitchen. He’s never fast enough. He’s always in the way of everyone else, even though his work is necessary. Someone needs to prepare the vegetables, after all. His old friends call to tell him about the student occupation at the university, but he can barely spare a thought for it, his mind and body too tired.

Days pass of this new life, and Losange can barely keep his eyes open as he stands at the counter. The knife slips. He doesn’t feel the cut, but then the blood begins to well, spilling onto the scarred wood of the cutting board. He tucks his injured hand under his arm, afraid to let anyone see.

“Where are you going?” Maximilian demands.

Losange ignores him, heading for the exit.

“Chef, let him go,” the sous chef says, relief evident in her eyes.

Maximilian catches up to him at the double doors. On the other side, the restaurant is bustling.

“We are in the middle of the dinner service, Losange.”

Losange barges out of the kitchen, nearly colliding with a serveur bearing a tray full of dishes. He dashes toward the exit, heedless of the diners who are gaping at him, and makes it out to the street, gasping for air, his cheeks flushed.

Someone has vandalized the building across the street, spray painted words scrawled across the façade: Be Realistic, Demand the Impossible!

He looks at his hand, eyes widening as thick drops of blood fall to the sidewalk. And then Maximilian is there. Losange tries to push him away, but he is too fast. He captures his hand and wipes away the blood with a handkerchief. Losange hisses in pain, chest heaving. Maximilian’s grip tightens. Next to them, warm, amber light spills from the restaurant windows. He pulls Losange into this light, inspecting his hand and wrapping it tight with the handkerchief.

“You don’t need stitches. We’ll clean it and bandage it when we go back inside.”

Losange is finally able to push him away. “And if I refuse to return?”

Maximilian tugs him back into the shadows. “And if I refuse to let you go?”

“You are asking me to bleed for nothing!”

“Is this nothing, Losange?”

Losange stares. Maximilian's face is shrouded in shadow, but he can still make out his expression. He grips the front of his uniform and draws him in. They kiss for what seems to be an eternity. It is a beautiful sight to behold, a line of light cutting halfway across them from the restaurant window, moonlight reflecting on Losange’s dark hair, the stars leaving trails of light in the sky as they wheel overhead. It is as if their love is the very axis on which the world spins.

Maximilian finally breaks away, panting. He buries his face in Losange’s neck.

“My little fool,” he breathes against his skin.

Losange’s fingers dig into his back. “I am no fool, Maximilian.”

“Then prove it,” Maximilian says, looking into his eyes...

Lalo peered over the top edge of Kitchen Boy Losange Volume 3, grinning like a fool. Valentine was lying on his stomach next to him, black hair tousled and falling in his face, black silk sheets sliding down his back as he propped himself up on his elbows, playing a game on his cherry pink GameKid. The zombie cat from Build-A-Were was perched on the pillows between them.

They were in Valentine’s apartment, a tiny studio with a small kitchen along one wall and a futon couch along the other, which had been transformed into a full-sized bed. There was a television mounted on the wall, and a cat clock hanging next to it. Black, of course. Its eyes swiveled in time with the pendulum of its tail. The rest of the available wall space was lined with bookshelves full of manga and collector’s items.

“Ooooh, did you get to the kiss?” Valentine asked. He paused his game, glowing with excitement.

Lalo had an inkling of what it might feel like to be a tree struck by lightning, clean through to the heartwood at the very center. The Losange/Maximilian kiss was beautiful. Valentine was beautiful. Hell, everything was beautiful at that moment. He closed the manga and plucked the GameKid from Valentine’s hands, earning an arched eyebrow. He placed both items on the coffee table carefully. There was nothing quite like the surreal experience of reading a love story while existing in one at the same time. Lalo scooted back under the covers and pulled Valentine against him.

Losange learns to cook. Each dish is explained in such sumptuous detail as to make even the most stoic reader’s mouth water with temptation. He and Maximilian eat good food, drink good wine, and go to bed together, their long nights outlined in intimate detail.

The days pass. Around them, the tension grows. By late spring, the university has been shut down, flooded by police. Thousands of students and university teachers march in protest. Losange’s phone rings off the hook, his aunt taking messages for him, but he is never home.

Maximilian is dismissive of the students and what they demand. He says they are the sons and daughters of justices and ministers, playing at revolution. He says they claim solidarity with the workers of France, and yet know nothing of what it means to really work. Losange feels trapped, his loyalties split between his old life and his new one.

The restaurant continues to operate, but the patrons are on edge. They no longer linger over their plates, savoring every bite. They are anxious, scarfing their food and drinking too much. The factory workers join the fray, though they are just as wary of the students and their grandiose ideals. The staff at the restaurant begins to diminish, each day another one or two gone with no notice.

Losange has been having trouble sleeping. He cradles his bowl of café au lait in both hands, sipping slowly as he watches the sun emerge outside of the window. There’s a plate with a half-eaten tartine, a bit of bread with butter and fig jam, resting precariously on the windowsill. Maximilian lies sleeping behind him.

The window overlooks a park, deceptively tranquil in the morning light. Losange is imagining what exists behind it. Barricades made of shattered furniture and broken paving stones. Overturned cars. Statues with broken noses. The sun rises and Maximilian begins to stir.

“Good morning.” He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Coffee and no breakfast again?”

Losange motions to his half-eaten tartine. “Here is my breakfast.”

Maximilian walks over to wrap his arms around him. “Didn’t I teach you to savor every bite, mon chéri?”

Losange slips out of his arms. Maximilian lets him go, taking the tartine from the plate and finishing it in two bites. He motions with one hand, and Losange hands over his coffee.

“Is this it, Maximilian?”

“What do you mean?” Maximilian peers over the rim of the bowl.

“Food, wine, and the nightly conquest of love? It was exciting at first, I’ll admit. You have proven yourself to be a more than adequate distraction.”

Maximilian lowers the bowl. “A distraction?”

Losange rests a hand on his chest, right over his breaking heart. “The world is erupting around us, and you keep on as if nothing is happening.”

“It hasn’t felt like nothing to me.”

“You should close the restaurant in solidarity.”

Maximilian scoffs. “That is not my decision, Losange.”

“It is.”

“I must answer to the proprietor, and he says to continue.”

“He will always say to continue, until there is no one left to serve.”

“The dreamer has awoken, it seems. Welcome to the real world, darling. We will always be forced to continue until there is nothing left.”

“Which is exactly why we must agree to refuse together! You think I have abandoned my dreams, Maximilian? I would never. It is my dreams that drive me. Dreams of a better world. I am still dreaming and I will never stop.”

Maximilian rolls his eyes. “Here we go again.”

When they argue like this, it always leads to the same kind of reconciliation. This time, however, the words of disagreement do not dissipate. Losange and Maximilian keep falling in and out of sync with each other, movements misaligned. When they are finished, Losange slips out of the bed and gets dressed, leaving without another word. Maximilian is left alone, brow furrowed as he stares out the window, watching his lover disappear into the distance.

And that was the end of volume three.

Lalo closed the manga, looking over at the cat clock on the wall. It was getting late. He knew he should try sleeping, but his heart felt all twisted up. He was dying to know how Losange and Maximilian would reconcile, and what would happen with the students and the factory workers. He wanted to read more, but he had to go to work tomorrow.

Valentine was passed out next to him, mouth open, snoring slightly. It was almost a cartoon-ish sound, and he imagined a burly lumberjack character sawing logs in short bursts of movement. He wondered how many people had witnessed this phenomenon, or if he was the only one who knew Valentine’s secret.

He gently eased off of the futon, groaning as he stretched out his stiff body, and turned off the floor lamp, blinking in the streetlight-tinged darkness. His phone buzzed, lost in the pile of clothes he’d left on the rug, and he fished it out of his jeans pocket, remembering that his cousin had been expecting a check-in message. There was a stream of texts from him, more frequent the later the night got.

7:08 pm: good luck on ur date!  🙂

9:18 pm: let me know when u get home!

10:10 pm: oooh maybe you didn’t go home?  😉

10:41 pm: omg did u not go home?

11:15 pm: Lalooooo, laliiiiiito! the suspense is killing me.

11:27 pm: did you have fun? Did valentine treat u right? is he *still* treating u right?

11:39 pm: omg leslie said to stop hassling u, but i can’t help itttttt. Text me when u get this!!!

Lalo wiggled back into his discarded underwear and settled into the cozy velvet armchair by the window, typing a message in response.

Hello, Claudio. Sorry it took me so long to respond. I’m at Valentine’s. He’s asleep now, though. I’m not sure if I should stay or go.

Claudio’s response came immediately. 👀 👀 👀 STAY OBVIOUSLY

Lalo bit his lip, looking over at the futon, where Valentine had splayed out in his absence.

Are you sure?  he typed.

YES!!!  Claudio replied, then another message came in right after. HA! i *knew* u 2 would get along

Yeah, yeah. 😊 He’s even letting me read his copies of Kitchen Boy Losange!  Lalo smiled, matching the emoji he had chosen, imagining Claudio’s reaction.

OMG i want all the details tomorrow. ALLLLL. thank u for texting me. Now i can sleep. Goodnight Lalito mi primito más bonito

Lalo rolled his eyes, but it was affectionate. His cousin was truly one of a kind.

Good night, Claudito.

He put his phone down after sending that last message, staring out at the city night, filtered as it was through the bars of the fire escape. After a little while, he wandered back to the shelf where the remaining volumes of Kitchen Boy Losange rested. He hesitated, looking back at the cat clock over his shoulder, but it was too dim to read the time. He pulled Volume 4 from the shelf and sat down in the arm chair. There was just enough light coming through the window to keep reading.