Work Text:
That scent again. Lemon Pledge. Enough of it to bounce the overhead Edison bulb’s shine to make a glint in your eye. Which sharpens when you finally ask.
“…Why?”
It’s not like you to ask why. Who, what, where, when, and how cover the basics. Besides, after years in the business, you can usually deduce why simply by the nature of the request.
But not once in all these years have you received a request like this.
“I mean, it’s been months,” you backtrack, in an attempt to retroactively preface, “and dinner is always great, believe me, I’m not complaining by any means, I just…”
The kitchen faucet turns on. A gentle trickle. Subdued. Still cleansing, but not above your voice. Background noise rather than signal.
You smile to yourself, feeling safe to keep your eyes on his back while you continue with, “I know these evenings mean something to you. Believe me. In my line of work. I know this is a band-aid, or an escape, or a playground. All three, more often than not. I’m just… Like, if you’re looking for someone to talk about it with…” Your eyes latch on as his elbows start to move, fingers working a soapy sponge into nooks and crannies. “I dunno, I guess I’m saying that—” Your eyebrows flick up. “I’m here to listen— Hey, are you sure I can’t help with the dishes or something?”
Loyal customers are surprisingly routined, even with their fetishes. Especially so. When you started your career, you assumed that so much of your work would be propelled by happenstance, fleeting moments that overwhelmed someone enough to be in search of you. Now, you know that for many of your clients, it takes forethought. There are systems in place. Languages to learn. And, in some ways, it becomes easier to indulge in those fantasies when you find someone who will help you figure out exactly where and when and how you will get to. When you feel safe.
So it doesn’t surprise you when his ear turns at the sound of you scraping your chair back, body lifting with every intention of joining him at the sink. And it doesn’t surprise you when he counters with a pleasant but firm, “No, I’m alright here. Thank you.”
It doesn’t even register anymore. With no more than that to go off every week, you realize that curiosity has evolved into charm has evolved into concern. You realize that you’re not actually asking him why. You’re asking if he feels safe.
He glances over his shoulder at you. A quick peek. A flashed smile. “How about you try that dessert?”
It’s not a hard thing for you to do, you happily think, as you sit back down and reacquaint yourself with the banana bread pudding. You grin as you take a spoonful, crowning it with the caramel ice cream on the side. But you keep your eyes on his back as you do.
Once the dishes from the main course are clean, he takes a deep and satisfied breath, places his hands on his hips, arches back, cricks his neck, and shakes his head as he removes his rubber gloves.
He turns around and is thrilled to see that nearly half of the banana bread pudding is gone.
Feeling slightly guilty, you keep your spoon in your mouth.
“It’s for you!” he laughs, walking back over to the table and taking his seat, “Please. Have as much as you like. There’s more in the fridge.”
You look down at the other, still-clean spoon in the bowl. And then you look back up at him.
“Alright, alright,” he says, smiling slightly, as he leans forward for the spoon.
You take another dollop, and he gently scrapes along the sides.
You still want to know why.
Why weekly dinners. Why just dinner. Why just dinner when you know you could be doing so much more for him.
Is it you?
And does he even want more than this from you?
Maybe if you break down the “why"s. Like—
"Why banana bread pudding?” you ask.
He blinks. “Huh?”
“What made you think to make banana bread pudding?” You shrug and reach for your glass of water. “Or anything? Why did you decide on seaweed salad and spicy pork belly and banana bread pudding?”
His smile goes a little funny. “Uh,” he laughs, “I dunno… I was craving seaweed salad, and when I was at the store, I saw the pork belly cuts, and I thought of this really great spice blend I had here at home…”
His eyes go a little foggy. “And then I thought it might be nice to have something sweeter for dessert to balance that out… But it’s also still a little cool outside, so I wanted something warm…”
His lips widen a little more freely. “Then I looked up and realized I had somehow made it over to the produce section, and the bananas on display were overripe."
You gawk at him. And as you dig into the pudding again, you mutter, "Ugh. That’s so cool.”
He smiles. He tilts his head. He goes in for more caramel ice cream. “It is?”
“I don’t know the first thing about cooking,” you say, treats pushed into your left cheek. “Anyone who can do it is a magician. And you—” Your eyes meet his. “You might be a god, y'know, just—” You wave your spoon around in the air. “—divining a menu like that!”
He licks his spoon clean. “Well. When you put it that way.”
You switch sides, and he follows your lead, building bigger and bigger bites of banana bread and taller and taller tiaras of ice cream.
Your spoon clinks against the bowl when you ask, “Why do you wash the dishes before we finish dessert?” you ask.
He takes a moment to swallow his spoonful. He licks his lips, more nooks and crannies to clean. And then he seems to decide something. His shoulders ease. His eyes widen with newfound clarity. His entire aura softens.
“Dessert is a treat,” he says. “It’s a good note to end on.”
“Wait, so you leave the dishes for the next day?” you clarify.
“Who wants to do dishes after having dessert?” he asks.
You find yourself laughing. “That’s so true!”
He chuckles along with you, setting his spoon face down on the lip of the bowl, the end of the handle balancing on the tabletop.
“…That’s something that she used to say a lot.”
His face shows no sharp angles. No shadows. No walls.
So you ask.
“Why do you invite me over for… dinner?”
When he hesitates, you try to hold onto the in that you think you’ve found. “I’m so happy that you invite me. I’m just wondering if I can make the experience better for you. Help you ease into things. I’m open.”
“Ah,” he says with a knowing smile. “No need. It’s actually not about sex at all.”
You’d better pay attention. You have so much to learn.
“I was married,” he says. He looks a little paler all of a sudden. “She, uh, died… about a year ago…”
You nod softly, your breaths a little jagged.
“She was sick. Lots of stuff. All these meds and…” He stares at the end of his spoon, still balancing on the tabletop. And then he smiles. “Y'know, even after she couldn’t eat solid foods anymore, she still insisted I make her a plate.”
He lifts his eyes to meet your teary ones.
“I was actually really excited to bust out those spices,” he says, making you laugh.
Both of you relish a little in the warm whisky of the Edison bulb glow.
“What should I make next week?” he asks, sitting up a little.
“Oh, no, don’t ask me,” you say, dabbing your eyes with the back of one hand while sticking your spoon in the ice cream and waving him off with the other. “Not getting in the way of whatever mystical thing you do.”
He laughs and says, “OK, well, tell me something that might guide me. You have any taste preferences? Craving anything in particular?”
You have an idea. You don’t know if it’d be pushing too far. But now that you understand more of the why, you’re getting a better picture of the whats and hows.
“How about you make something that’s tied to a happy memory?” you ask. “You can tell me more about her.”
He brightens. Maybe not like dawn breaking. More like light creeping, sun returning after a thunderstorm.
He lets you help him place the last few dishes in the sink. And then he walks you to the door with a grateful smile.
You reach out for your customary handshake.
He takes your palm in his.
“Goodnight, Yoongi,” you say.
When you give his hand a warm squeeze, he squeezes back.