Kitchen Boy Losange Volume 4

Maximilian is sitting in his office at the restaurant, going over menus, but his eyes keep blurring. The clock on the wall behind him reads 11:30 at night. It’s been two weeks since he’d last held Losange in his arms, and though they didn’t part on good terms, he can’t help clinging to that morning in his memory. The shape of Losange’s body as he stood at the window, outlined by the dawn. The taste of coffee and butter on his lips. The faraway look in his eyes.

He’d known that was the end of it, when Losange left that morning, but he hadn’t wanted to accept it. Only time could prove it, and he’d given Losange that time. They’d spent every day and night together for the past two months, so fourteen days without him feels like an eternity. It’s only when he’s alone, late at night, that he allows his misery to rise to the surface.

It’s become harder to avoid thinking about the unrest that is erupting all over the country now. He’s lost so much staff over it, including Losange. His sous chef, Françoise, talks about it incessantly with their remaining coworkers. On the metro, strangers speak of solidarity. It feels as if the whole city has become one big friendly neighborhood.

He jumps at the sound of a sharp rap on the door frame, and Françoise enters the office.

“Still mourning the loss of your boy toy?” she asks.

Maximilian scrubs at his face, grinding away his tears. He doesn’t have the energy to be vulnerable with her, and she can’t afford to show any of her own vulnerability, either. That’s how it is in this world. That’s what had come between him and Losange, too. Layers and layers of warped reality that keep people from being able to truly know one another.

“He was good at that, at least,” he replies, because that’s what Françoise expects to hear.

“I’m sure you’ll find another one to bed soon enough,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Now go home, you fool. You can finish this in the morning.”

“In a minute,” he says.

After she leaves, he takes out Losange’s employment contract from where he’d hidden it in a desk drawer. The contact address and phone number are listed, and Maximilian traces a finger over the letters and numbers with reverence. He’d never had to use the information before, given that Losange had practically moved in with him after their first night together. He certainly won’t dare to use it now. He takes a bottle of wine out of another drawer and pours himself a glass.

It was never supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a fling, like all of the other loves Maximilian has known. Losange is a fool, but he is a brilliant fool. His passion lit a fire in Maximilian’s heart that refuses to go out. He has been dreaming of finding his way back to the joy of cooking. He fantasizes about making food that is savored for the gift that it is, rather than being treated as a commodity. He can see no place for himself in the revolt of the intellectuals, but he thinks of somehow aligning with the factory workers, who demand concrete things. Oh, how Losange would smile if he knew. How he would—

“You’re going to destroy your vision reading like that.”

Lalo startled at the sound of Valentine’s voice, nearly dropping Volume 4 from where he held it tilted toward the window, catching as much light from the street as possible. He was still perched in the armchair in Valentine’s apartment, clad only in his underwear, and upon being interrupted, two things became immediately apparent to him: 1) he was a little chilly and 2) he needed to use the bathroom.

“I’d almost think you started sleeping with me just to get to my manga collection,” Valentine added.

Lalo could just make out the pout on Valentine’s face in the near darkness. Any remaining doubts he had about overstaying his welcome were banished at that moment. He took a detour by the futon, looking down at Valentine sternly.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Valentine’s pout dissolved into a smile. “Come read in bed, then.”

“In the dark?”

“No. I have a book light.”

“All right.” Lalo had to admit that being able to cuddle with Valentine and read at the same time was infinitely better than being hunched over in the armchair. “I have to go to the bathroom first.”

After Lalo had finished taking care of business, he emerged to find Valentine rummaging through a shoe box that he’d pulled out from under the futon.

“Ah-ha! Found it.” He raised his hand triumphantly, a tiny book light resting in his open palm. “I think the battery is still good. I haven’t used it in a long time.”

The book light was purple, with a tiny little light bulb at the end of a flexible stalk. There was a clip you could use to attach it to the back cover of a book.

“Are you sure the light won’t bother you?” Lalo asked.

“I’m sure,” Valentine said, sliding his arms around Lalo’s waist. “Come on.”

“And you’re not worried the clip will damage the back cover?”

Valentine kissed his shoulder. “I trust you to be careful.”

“Awww, really?” Lalo asked, his heart fit to burst. “Would you really trust this destroyer of books?”

Valentine rolled his eyes. “Don’t throw my words back in my face, or I might change my mind.”

“Okay, okay, my Valentine.” Lalo kissed him, but Valentine cut it short with a yawn.

“Sorry, darling. I’m really tired.”

They both crawled back under the covers and Valentine curled up by his side, draping an arm over his waist.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he said, through another big yawn. “You have to work tomorrow, right?”

“Mmm-hmmm. I’ll just finish this volume.” Lalo carefully clipped the book light onto the back cover of the manga, turning his head when he got no response.

Valentine had already fallen back asleep, warm breath puffing against his neck. Lalo regarded him for a long moment, deeply amused. He adjusted the tiny bulb, angling it away from Valentine’s face as much as possible before turning on the light.

Oh, how Losange would smile if he knew. How he would laugh and tease Maximilian with that gentle mocking formality of his, infuriating and enchanting all at once.

Maximilian eventually falls asleep at his desk, and when he wakes, it is to a delicate hand on his shoulder.

“Chef, I’m sorry to disturb you, but perhaps you would be more comfortable at home?”

It is Heloise, the pastry chef, who has arrived for her early morning baking shift. Maximilian pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Too late to go home and come back,” he says.

Heloise looks like she might want to argue, but she doesn’t. Maximilian follows her out to the kitchen, ostensibly to make himself some coffee, but he gets drawn into assisting her. Heloise is a very private person, and Maximilian finds himself extra grateful for that. She doesn’t tease him, or ask questions, or do anything but go about her work, thinking her own thoughts, dreaming her own dreams, and leaving him to himself. The day passes, steady and calm in a way Maximilian hasn’t felt in awhile. He even has time to take a nap in between lunch and dinner service, stretched out on the floor in his office, his head cradled in a pile of dirty aprons.

Come dinner time, the calm remains. As a matter of fact, nobody comes in. There are police patrolling the streets, and there are barricades blocking the avenues. The world feels as if it has changed overnight. He sends Françoise and the rest of the crew home, intending to shut the restaurant early. There would have been a time he would have insisted they stay open, but the rules of everyday life seem meaningless now, and he is weary of pretending that nothing is wrong.

He has just finished washing the last pan, drying it as he walks back through the kitchen to hang it on the rack where it belongs. He nearly drops it when he sees Losange standing there, in front of the counter where he used to julienne carrots, arms crossed across his chest. He looks exhausted yet radiant, his hair tousled, his shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned far enough to show his collarbones. Maximilian has never seen him in this much disarray, even when they were in bed together. Losange has always had a way about him, a rumpled type of elegance that seemed effortless, but now everything about him screams of effort.

“Hello, Maximilian,” he says. “I’m sorry to come unannounced, but nobody answered the phone. You’ve closed the restaurant early?”

Maximilian places the pan gently on the surface next to him.

“You’ve seen it out there. There’s no point to being open.” The words catch in his throat, another conversation from another time coming back to haunt him.

(“You should close the restaurant in solidarity.”
“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.”)

“Welcome to the new world, darling,” Losange says, a mocking tinge to his words. “My comrades and I need food. Will you help me?”

Maximilian swallows. Of course, he hadn’t been foolish enough to think that Losange would return just for him. He knows he’s never been what Losange wanted, really. Losange has his dreams, and his dreams do not include stubborn ignorant chefs. The playboy, it seems, has finally been played.

They cook together, using the supplies meant for tonight’s dinner menu, because Maximilian sees no point in saving any of it. Losange seems more comfortable when it’s just the two of them in the kitchen, his movements confident and fluid. Maximilian, more than once, thinks to correct him, but he can’t bring himself to do it. More than once, he has to hold himself back from touching him.

They make large portions of boeuf bourguignon, as well as a vegetable stew for those who do not eat meat. Both need to simmer in the oven for some time, so Losange, without even being prompted, goes to wash the dishes while they wait.

Maximilian hovers awkwardly by the ovens. Normally, there would always be something else to do, but not tonight. There is no one else to cook for, and nothing else to do but let Losange finish breaking his heart. Maximilian uncorks the wine they used for the bourguignon and drinks right from the bottle, savoring the rich taste on his tongue. He can hear Losange humming to himself as he fills the sinks, and then silence.

“Maximilian!”

Maximilian leaves the wine bottle on the counter and peeks around the corner.

“Yes?”

“There’s no sponge.”

Maximilian frowns. It’s true that he hadn’t put the sponge back in its usual location after washing dishes earlier, but it is clearly visible on the shelf behind Losange.

“Turn around,” he says. “It’s right behind you.”

Losange glances over his shoulder. “Ah, my mistake.”

Their eyes meet. Maximilian’s heart shatters into little pieces.

“Is that all?” he asks, brusque in his distress.

“No,” Losange says.

“What else, then?”

Losange, for once, seems at a loss for words. Maximilian remembers how they’d argued, how they’d loved, how they’d existed together as one. If he could do it all again, he would declare his feelings plainly, rather than hinting at them, even if it meant risking another broken heart. It’s too late to change things with the man that stands before him, but perhaps fate will grant him another chance at love one day.

“Maximilian, mon beau,” Losange says. “Can you ever forgive me?”

A single tear trickles down his cheek. Maximilian is frozen, watching it fall. By the time the second one comes, he can’t hold himself back. He steps forward and catches it with a gentle thumb.

And that was the end of volume four.

Lalo squeezed his eyes shut, swearing under his breath. Valentine was snoring quietly into his ear, his arm a pleasant weight across Lalo’s stomach. Lalo knew he should try to sleep, but every cell in his body had come awake with the story, sparkling with excitement. How was he supposed to go to sleep with that kind of ending hanging over his head?