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6:00 p.m.
The two men sit on opposite sides of a booth, arms crossed, menus untouched on the table. Their body language is mirrored across multiple tables in the restaurant – it plainly screams Hello! We just had a big stupid fight at IKEA!
The waitstaff at this particular Chili’s know this look all too well. IKEA is right there, just a couple of chain restaurants and parking lots away. And while the store’s restaurant does serve delicious Swedish meatballs, it does not serve alcohol. And so, the weary refugees of the flat-pack furniture and storage solutions mecca eventually end up here. (Or at one of the other half-dozen chain restaurants in the White Marsh shopping complex.)
Charlie is the first to uncross his arms and make a move towards his menu.
Nick clears his throat.
And then, at the exact same moment: “I’m sorry.”
They laugh and shake their heads.
“That was so dumb.”
“I cannot believe I almost had a breakdown over a bookshelf.”
“To be fair, the website SAID it was in stock.”
“Well, half of it was. In what universe does one bookshelf require four separate boxes??”
“I do like the lamp we picked out?”
“Yeah, although I think we bought the wrong light bulbs.”
“Wait, WHAT?”
Nick picks up his menu with purpose. “No more IKEA talk. Time for food.”
Charlie nods but flips directly to the cocktail menu.
“Mmmm,” Nick hums in approval. “Endless all-you-can-eat appetizers for only $10. If you get two orders, that’s a pretty good deal.”
“How many appetizers can one theoretically eat, though? Like one order of most of these apps is already half of your recommended calories for an entire day?”
“Charlie, I am a growing lad! And I’m shocked to hear you doubting my love of mozzarella sticks. Or fried cheese in general.”
“Okay, so one order of fried mozzarella sticks is $9.29.”
“So three orders for $10 is a REALLY good deal! That’s it, I’m sold.” Nick closes his menu with a satisfied grin.
“And that’s all you’re getting? Just plate after plate of mozzarella sticks?”
“It’s carbs, fat, protein, PLUS marinara sauce, which is a vegetable. Or a fruit? Tomatoes are one of those weird ones. But it seems pretty balanced to me.”
“As balanced as a coronary, sure,” Charlie frowns.
Charlie’s frowny face reminds Nick of their earlier fight in IKEA and a bit of residual annoyance bubbles back up to the surface. “It’s only three sticks per order. I bet I can eat, like, at least four orders. Which is a GREAT deal.”
“Oh, we’re placing bets now, are we?”
Their waitress – Caity, according to her nametag – arrives at their table, already apologizing for the wait. “There’s like this special all-you-can-eat appetizer promotion going on? And people are just sitting here, all day, eating nothing but appetizers. It’s a nightmare, to be honest.”
Charlie nods politely, assuring Caity they’re in no rush. He orders a margarita on the rocks – salt on half of the rim, please – and the Margarita Grilled Chicken, with an extra lime wedge and the pico de gallo on the side.
“And for you, sir?” Gabby smiles at Nick.
“I would like the all-you-can-eat fried mozzarella sticks, please!”
Caity’s face visibly falls. “Are you…sure? They aren’t, like, what some people expect?”
“Yep! Very sure,” Nick flashes her a radiant smile until Charlie kicks his shin under the table. “Fu- ow ! And, um, an IPA, please.”
Charlie rolls his eyes. Nick leans across the table with a grin. “Better settle in, we’re gonna be here awhile.”
“Well, that sounds boring. Care to make it a little more interesting?”
“I’m listening,” Nick says. He’s feeling confident. And hungry.
Charlie thinks for a minute. He's feeling muppet-y. And horny.
“For every two full plates of mozzarella sticks you eat, I’ll go to the restroom and send you a naughty selfie.”
“Is this meant to be…a discouragement? Because…”
“Five orders earn you one sexual favor of your choice, performed anywhere on the premises of this dining establishment.”
Nick gulps. “And?”
“Nick, there is no way you can eat more than five orders of mozzarella sticks.”
“Again, you doubt my allegiance to fried cheese.”
“Fine. Eat 10 orders and I will wake you up with my fingers or a blowjob every morning for a year,” Charlie offers with a shrug. “If you actually live another year after eating that much deep-fried cheese, that is.”
The waitress drops off their drinks, which they both lift to toast.
“Deal,” Nick says with a smirk. “Fair warning, I am earning the grand prize. Prepare to become a morning person, Mr. Grumpypants.”
Charlie snorts and sips his drink. He makes a face. “Oh, shit, that is terrible.”
6:17 p.m.
Nick’s first plate of mozzarella sticks arrive. The two men lean in to survey the offering. Charlie tilts his head to the side in confusion.
“Those don’t look like sticks? Why are they so…wide?”
He is correct. Each “stick” is a large rectangle, about the size of a deck of playing cards. Nick picks one up to inspect it and frowns. They are – as their waitress tried to tell him – not what he expected.
Charlie re-opens the menu and immediately spots Nick’s mistake. “Oh, so see? Chili’s doesn’t call them sticks. They’re just called fried mozzarella.”
“But of course people are going to expect sticks! Your brain basically fills in the word! And I know for a FACT that Chili’s used to serve proper mozzarella sticks. Even if I was shit-faced off my arse most times I ate them.”
“Well, there’s no going back now! Dig in.”
Nick tentatively takes a bite. Half of the cheese pulls free of the breadcrumb coating and dangles flaccidly from his lips. The ratio of cheese to breading is…very off. He chews. And chews.
“OH. Oh no. That tastes like goddamn garbage.”
“Really??”
Nick sets it down and sticks his tongue out a few times, trying to identify the specific source of foulness. “It’s like, aggressively salty Elmer’s Glue deep-fried in…Italian-seasoned cat litter?”
He takes a healthy chug of his beer. He stares at the plate of fried disappointment.
“I’m just…so confused. I’m so, so confused.”
Nick looks so genuinely heartbroken Charlie can’t bring himself to tease. “Try dipping it in the sauce? Maybe that will help?”
Nick’s eyebrows rise in thoughtful optimism, only to furrow together when he realizes that the slab-like monstrosities are over twice as wide as the diameter of the dipping sauce cup. He sets it back down on the plate with a huff.
“Oh well, live and learn, sweetheart.” Charlie sips the last bit of his margarita – it tastes better now, somehow – and pats Nick’s hand sympathetically. “We probably need to get home and assemble the furniture for Alice’s room more than we need sexy selfies and semi-public sex, anyway.”
Nick snaps his head up and looks at Charlie. He shoves an entire block of cheese into his mouth and chews.
6:38 p.m.
Nick’s second plate of mozzarella sticks arrive, along with Charlie’s chicken.
“Another margarita, please?” Charlie asks Caity. “Nick, another beer?”
“WATER,” Nick gasps.
“Nick, this is ridiculous. You don’t like them. Stop eating them. Order something else.”
“Two plates…is a good deal. And…” Nick coughs and pounds his chest with his fist. “…one sexy selfie.”
“Nick, honey, there is literally no part of my body I can photograph that you have not seen, intimately, a million times before.”
Caity drops Nick’s water off and he guzzles it. When he sets the glass back on the table, there’s an alarming amount of masticated breadcrumb coating floating around.
He unwraps a packet of silverware and tries to cut the cheese block into thirds so they’ll fit into the marinara dipping cup. The cheese in this batch remains solid and unyielding.
7:01 p.m.
Charlie’s chicken was just okay. He was definitely wrong about the margaritas though; they’re great!
Nick, meanwhile, is whooping. Loudly. He punches both fists in the air. Charlie looks around for a TV with some sort of sports thing Nick might be celebrating before Nick shoves his empty plate in his face.
“That’s two,” he says triumphantly, though his voice sounds a touch hoarse. “You owe me a selfie.”
“A deal’s a deal,” Charlie shrugs, and heads to the bathroom with his phone.
7:08 p.m.
Nick’s phone buzzes on the table and he fumbles to unlock it.
He opens Charlie’s message and promptly drops his phone in the marinara sauce.
He’s still cursing and trying to wipe it clean with a napkin when Charlie slides back into the booth with a grin.
“Were you…” Nick lowers his voice as he zooms in on the photo. “Seriously jerking off in the Chili’s bathroom? Fuck, you’re actually leaking.”
“Just a little fluffing, my love,” Charlie grins. “Shall we get going? Did you ask for the check?”
7:09 p.m.
Nick’s third plate of mozzarella sticks arrives.
“Nick! You didn’t! Why?”
Caity silently delivers another water and margarita to their table and quickly scurries off – both men look like they’re on the verge of tears and she does not have the time nor the patience to deal with that level of gay drama tonight.
7:19 p.m.
“You realize there’s no point to this plate, right?” Charlie slouches in their booth, bored out of his mind and unable to watch his husband sadly gum his way through another brick of deep-fried soap masquerading as a mozzarella stick. “No selfie, no sex. The latter of which you could realistically get at home, provided you don’t eat yourself into a pointless cheese coma.”
Nick peels the breading off one stick, curious to see if the elements taste better separately. “But three orders at $10 is a REALLY good deal.”
Nick gags. Nope, no, it’s all somehow even worse now.
Charlie drops his forehead to the table with a thud.
7:29 p.m.
Nick tries to wipe his tongue on a napkin. Charlie busies himself with reorganizing the container of sweetener packets.
7:37 p.m.
Nick heaves. Charlie switches to straight tequila.
7:45 p.m.
“Nick,” Charlie stage-whispers conspiratorially. “Nick!”
Nick looks up miserably from the final blobby stick from his third plate.
“I THINK THE PEOPLE AT THAT TABLE ARE SWINGERS! THEY’RE GONNA GO HOME AND BANG EACH OTHER.”
Charlie collapses into scandalized giggles while Nick attempts to Google the symptoms of a sodium overdose.
8:17 p.m.
Nick’s fourth plate of mozzarella sticks arrives.
“Again, for the record,” Charlie’s tone is bossy and also a little drunk. “All you earn with this plate is a photo of a body part you have 100% seen, touched, licked, and/or fucked before. If you eat ANOTHER plate, you get to do one sex thing that we 100% could’ve done already, AT HOME, if you just ordered a fucking burger like a normal human being.”
“Charlie, this bet was YOUR idea, remember?”
“Mistakes were made, obviously,” Charlie says with a sniff and another sip of tequila.
Nick dunks a mozzarella stick in his water glass before shoving the entire thing in his mouth. It’s what those hot dog eaters do, he remembers, during those weird eating competitions.
It doesn’t help at all. The breading turns to cement in his mouth, and the cheese retains the texture of a pencil eraser.
“Oblusivly,” Nick agrees.
8:30 p.m.
Charlie’s phone buzzes.
“Your mum wants to know if we’re picking Alice up tonight or if she should go ahead and put her to bed.”
“Tell her we’ll pick her up first thing tomorrow, if that’s alright,” Nick replies. He’s busy picking ice cubes out of his water, finding their texture and taste delightfully refreshing.
Charlie nods and starts typing.
“That way we’ll have the house to ourselves,” Nick winks, crunching happily on his ice. “You know, for round two.”
Charlie looks across the table at his husband. His face is a deep pink and covered with a light sheen of sweat. Charlie rolls his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that, my love.”
9:05 p.m.
Nick tosses a balled-up napkin at Charlie’s head. He misses, spectacularly, then burps, even more spectacularly.
Charlie looks up from his phone and sees Nick proudly pointing at his fourth empty plate.
Charlie gets up and storms off to the restroom.
Caity approaches the table, almost afraid to ask.
“Another round of tequila and cheese, please!”
Fuck these fucking dipshits, Caity thinks. They’ll probably tip like shit too.
9:19 p.m.
Charlie changes stalls multiple times in search of a better angle and lighting.
9:22 p.m.
Nick’s fifth plate arrives.
His phone buzzes and he is rewarded with an explicit, somewhat physics-defying photo of Charlie’s arsehole.
Charlie bumps into their table before crawling back into his seat. He smiles coquettishly as Nick stares at his phone.
“Charlie,” Nick frowns at his husband. “There is no way you took this just now in the restroom.”
“Hmmm?” Charlie hums innocently. “’Course I did.”
“Unless this Chili’s restroom is equipped with a phone tripod and a ring light, you sent me a recycled hole pic from your camera roll.”
“Did not.”
“Did too . Look, I can pull up the EXIF data and…”
“Niiiiiick,” Charlie groans. “Who the fuck cares? Please, will you just get the check?”
Nick simply picks up his next block of mozzarella, swallows hard to brace himself, and takes a generous bite, never taking his eyes off Charlie.
“Get your arse back in there and take a proper photo of said arse.”
Charlie humphs but obeys, muttering about the restroom’s shit lighting and then something something numpty piece of shit.
Nick continues to slowly work his way through the cuboid dumpster fire in his hand. This one has a bit of melted plastic wrap stuck to it. It doesn’t affect the taste in any way whatsoever.
9:31 p.m.
Nick sits alone in their booth, contemplating the many mistakes he’s made in his life. His mere presence is a visible drag on Chili’s signature fun and energetic atmosphere.
There is no God in this Chili’s tonight, Nick thinks. Because there is no God. This plate before me is proof.
Two-and-a-half giant blocks of doom remain. He takes a sip of Charlie’s tequila. It tastes like rubbing alcohol and is easily the best thing he’s tried all night.
9:32 p.m.
Charlie’s phone is propped – somewhat precariously – on the top of a metal toilet paper holder as he struggles to maneuver in the cramped stall. With his backside facing the camera, he keeps misjudging the angle and snapping photos of one blurry arse cheek. He sighs and sets the timer and tries again.
9:36 p.m.
Nick is lonely. Caity is nice and brought him more tequila but then she left and now he’s all alone again.
Where is Charlie? He picks up his phone to text him when it buzzes in his hand, startling him. He drops it on his plate. He picks it up and tries to unlock it before realizing he’s trying to unlock a mozzarella stick. He puts it down with a heavy sigh.
“Are you all done with those, sir?” Caity suddenly appears, her voice pleadingly hopeful. “Can I clear anything for you?”
Nick looks defeatedly at plate number five, still mostly untouched.
He glances back towards the restrooms.
The coast is clear. He’ll never know.
“Um, yes, actually,” Nick says, clearing his parched, parmesan-coated throat. “You can take these…”
“Aw, giving up then? And you were so close.”
Charlie slides back into the booth with a wicked grin.
Caity reaches out towards Nick’s plate. He quickly grips it with both hands.
“Actually, on second thought, I’m still kind of hungry.”
“Okie dokie,” Caity replies with a sigh. “Sounds good.”
It does NOT sound good, Nick thinks. NOTHING about any of this is okie dokie.
9:40 p.m.
Nick suddenly remembers he hasn’t looked at Charlie’s latest photo yet. He gleefully unlocks his phone and…
“Oh.”
It is indeed a photo of Charlie’s arse, his olive-toned skin completely blown out to a blinding shade of white. It’s a bit off-center, although Nick can clearly make out that Charlie used only his middle fingers to spread his cheeks apart.
“Told you the first one was better,” Charlie shrugs.
“I still like it,” Nick says, blowing a kiss across the table.
“Eat up. Those must be getting cold by now.”
Nick sighs. It doesn’t matter if they’re cold. Nothing fucking matters in this universe.
9:52 p.m.
Charlie is drinking…something else. He’s not sure what; he just sort of picked up the cocktail menu and pointed at a random photo. It’s garnished with a sad little shish kabob of fruit. He lifts it from the glass, looking lost in thought.
Nick briefly contemplates shoving one of the mutant mozzarella goblins in his coat pocket and sneaking it to their dog at home.
No.
He loves Nellie far too much. She doesn’t deserve to get dragged into this mess.
He takes a big bite, fast and furious, and cringes as the cheese makes an honest-to-God squeaking noise against his back molars.
“What are those hats people wear,” Charlie asks, out of nowhere. “With the fruit? Like for dancing?”
“Fruit hats,” Nick mumbles around the gasoline-flavored 10-car pileup in his mouth.
“No, that can’t be right. They have a name, like a proper name.”
Nick swallows and gasps in relief. He wipes his mouth and hands off for the hundredth time with his hundredth napkin. Their table is littered with them, like a cozy little trash nest for some baby raccoons.
“My love, we’ve had this exact conversation before. They are literally just called fruit hats.”
“Huh,” Charlie says, sipping his drink. “That’s oddly disappointing.”
10:02 p.m.
Nick’s already soft stomach is visibly distended over the waistline of his jeans. There’s a slight ringing in his ears but he can’t tell if it’s coming from inside his head or from the speaker placed directly over their table.
He takes another bite but does not chew, hopeful that it will eventually disintegrate into his body on its own.
10:20 p.m.
Charlie watches Nick in a sort of horrified amazement as the last bite of the last mozzarella stick disappears behind his lips. Nick squeezes his eyes tight and forces himself to swallow. He succeeds, but with another slight heave.
“So…not going for the grand prize then?”
“Shut the fuck up. Get the check. Meet me in the men’s room.”
Charlie’s hand is only halfway towards his wallet when Caity magically appears with their check. Charlie hands her his credit card and she vanishes just as quickly.
Nick rises from their booth for the first time all night and groans into a stretch. He stops and puts a hand over his stomach.
“On second thought, can you…give me like five minutes…alone…before…”
“Oh, Nicholas Nelson-Spring, you sexy, sexy man.”
Nick grumbles and hastily retreats to the men's room.
Caity returns with Charlie’s card and receipt. He mentally rounds up the cost of their meal to include four more regular-priced orders of fried mozzarella and tips Caity 20% of the revised amount.
10:30 p.m.
Just as Charlie decides he’s waited long enough, Nick bursts out of the door of the restroom. Charlie looks at him expectantly, but Nick shakes his head.
“Not in there,” he says, chagrined. “It has been…befouled.”
“Oh, Nick,” Charlie winces, feeling genuinely sorry for his disaster-in-every-era husband. “We can just go home, baby, it’s alright.”
“NO!” Nick protests, a bit too loudly. “I have suffered enough. We are fucking somewhere in this Chili’s tonight if it’s the last thing I do.”
He takes Charlie’s hand and heads off in search of an alternate location to bone.
10:58 p.m.
It’s not the most romantic of locations or sexual encounters, Charlie has to admit. But sweet Jesus it’s fucking hot as hell.
Nick has a completely nude Charlie pinned up against the door of the restaurant’s supply closet, fucking up into him mercilessly. Charlie is clinging to Nick’s neck with one hand and the other is balled into a fist against his mouth to muffle his noises.
He’d been expecting, at most, a quick drop to his knees in a bathroom stall. But even after Nick discovered the unlocked dry goods storage room door, he was reluctant to let Charlie put his face or mouth anywhere near…down there. So instead, after locking the door from the inside, he’d flipped Charlie around, pressed him face-first against the door, kicked Charlie’s legs out wide and went to town on his arse with his mouth.
“Finally,” Nick had growled after pausing to take a breath. “Something genuinely delicious to eat in this place.”
“Oh my God, Nick, NO DAD JOKES. Shut up,” Charlie had groaned against the wooden door. Nick just gave his fingers a slick coating of spit and went back to work between Charlie’s cheeks.
And now here they are, raw-dogging it in a Chili’s, surrounded by giant tubs of industrial ranch dressing… and the gallon-sized jug of vegetable oil they may or may not have cracked open as emergency lube.
“You still okay, baby?” Nick pants into Charlie’s ear. “I’m not hurting you?”
Charlie finally dares to move his hand from his mouth down to his cock.
“I’m good, so fucking good. I’m so close, Nick, please don’t sto-PAAH OH GOD, fuck fuck,” Charlie whimpers as quietly as possible.
“Me too, baby, fuck you’re so hot and tight, this is so fucking…” Nick buries his head between Charlie’s neck and shoulder and shudders.
“Cum for me, fucking cum in me,” Charlie begs in a desperate whisper.
Nick crashes their lips together as they peak and crescendo near-simultaneously and in near-total silence.
They stay put, frozen, for another minute before Nick slowly lowers Charlie down to the ground. Nick grabs a kitchen towel from a nearby stack for a hasty clean-up, though Charlie resigns himself to a slightly oily and sticky – but fucking worth it – car ride home. Nick tucks himself back into his pants as Charlie quickly redresses, side-eyeing the dirty towel in Nick’s hand.
“I think I’ll…ah…just keep this,” Nick grins and shoves it in his coat pocket.
“Awww, a little souvenir,” Charlie says sweetly. “Of the time you ate your weight in cheese in order to fuck an already sure thing in the supply room of a mediocre chain restaurant.”
“I’m not entirely convinced any of that was actual cheese, to be honest,” Nick whispers. He presses his ear against the door and attempts to hear if there’s anyone outside. “More like some kind of failed test-kitchen experiment with vegan silly putty.”
He slowly turns the lock and opens the door a tiny crack. The coast looks clear. He opens the door a bit wider and they both slip out and…
“Oh! Caity…um, hi!” Nick stammers.
“We were just...looking for…” Charlie trails off, unable to think of any believable end to that sentence.
“Your credit card?” Her expression is unreadable. “You left it on your table.”
“Yes! That, I was…looking for that, thank you so much,” Charlie awkwardly takes his card from her outstretched hand.
“Thank you for dining at Chili’s,” Caity says flatly. “And for the proper tip. I appreciate it. These promotions really drag down our table turnover rate and average check size.”
Charlie nods and slides his card back in his wallet, coming to terms that this Chili’s was unfortunately not built on an ancient evil burial ground and the earth will not open to swallow them whole. He quickly pulls all the cash out of his wallet and presses it into Caity’s hand as Nick drags him to the nearest exit.
“You did TRY to warn him about the mozzarella sticks,” Charlie calls back to her. “Okay. Bye!”
Caity watches them leave before pocketing the cash in her apron. With one last heavy sigh, she pushes the supply closet door open and steps inside.
“CAITY! HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”
Caity turns around and laughs at the sight of her thoroughly shocked-looking coworker emerging from behind a shelf of floor-to-ceiling marinara sauce cans.
“Those two just…barged in and straight-up hardcore fucked for, like, 20 solid minutes. I didn’t know what to do so I just hid in the corner!”
“Oh dear, has our personal fuck closet been befouled like the men’s restroom?” Caity smirks and flips the door lock.
“Actually…” the other waitress admits. “It was really fucking hot. They’re both like… damn.”
“They’re also funding our date tonight,” Caity pulls her girlfriend close for a kiss, ignoring her questioning look. “It's a pretty good deal.”
(11:00 p.m. ~ Closing Time)
(The End)