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If you had asked Alex growing up what he wanted to be, he would have said a lawyer. A politician like his parents. Maybe something in business. Never would he have dreamed he would become a fucking chef, of all things.
As a teenager, it was almost always just June and him around for dinner so it was inevitable that one of them had to figure out how to feed themselves. So it began as a necessity, born out of Alex’s unwillingness to eat sandwiches or frozen meals for the sixth night in a row. Eventually, cooking became a hobby, an escape. Alex would focus on the recipe, the ingredients, the flavours - he’d get so caught up in the process that it would calm his mind.
With school, his mind was always busy; racing in a thousand different directions as he tried to accomplish everything all at once. But cooking was the opposite, in the way that it settled the chaos of his thoughts. Recipes were detailed, step-by-step, making perfect sense as each specific action was completed, fell right into line, and let him see clearly what he needed to do to achieve the final dish.
The way June would look at him when he started serving her home-cooked meals almost every night also didn’t hurt. She seemed to gain an appreciation for him, maybe even admired him. He went from ‘Little Bit’ to ‘Chef Alex’ and he certainly preferred that nickname over all the others. So he kept cooking. And over time, the hobby became more than a hobby. In high school, he got a part-time job as a line cook at a local diner and he moved up in the kitchen as he progressed through his undergrad degree. It not only helped fund his schooling but it gave him a creative outlet; the opposite of the strict and straight-forward nature of the economics and political science he studied in university.
One day, during his last year of school, Nora and June cornered him. They told him how much they loved his dishes and reminded him that he’d honed his skills over the years to the point where he was really quite talented. They explained how the new menu items that he was constantly adding were regularly outperforming the original ones at the campus restaurant that he'd moved to in order to optimize the commute between work and the library, the two places where he spent the most time. They reminded him how happy he always looked when he was slicing, mixing, tasting, and serving food. Then they pointed out how stressed out he was getting with school, the darkened areas under his eyes that only got worse with each passing day, the feeling of not being good enough, smart enough, dedicated enough that was constantly eating at him.
Which was completely unlike the way he felt when others were eating something he had prepared. There was something special about the look on someone’s face when they tasted his food and that glimmer of enjoyment would immediately change their expression. It was incredible how good food could change someone’s mood in an instant. Alex could live off the fucking fumes of the high he felt when he watched someone eat his food.
Eventually, he was convinced to completely switch gears. After a short stint at culinary school, Alex was able to leverage all of his schooling and managed to find a way to beg, borrow, and steal (okay, he didn’t technically steal much other than some special embroidered napkins and tablecloths that his abuela had passed down to his dad that hadn’t been touched for years and no one seemed to miss) enough to open his own small restaurant in a not-so-great part of town. It still amazed him how New York was able to sustain so many restaurants in such a small vicinity, but it worked in his favour, nonetheless.
Alex sits in the moment now, a year later, and ponders how he got here. The planning, the permits, the loans, tens of thousands of dollars out of his own pocket. The people. All of these people rely on him to be successful so they can pay their own bills, feed their children. It feels like a lot of weight on his shoulders. He takes in a huge breath and lets it out slowly, trying not to spiral. It wouldn’t do any good. He’s supposed to be happy right now, ecstatic even.
Twelve months of hard work - of blood, sweat, and tears in the most literal sense of the words - have led to this moment. Alex was so damn proud on the day that he finally achieved his dream of opening his own restaurant. Things have gone extremely well, despite the fact that they opened in the dead of winter, especially considering most restaurateurs have very limited profit, if not massive crushing debt after the first year. Each day, everyone steps up, goes over and above. All of the reviews they’ve received throughout the year, from influencers to actual food critics, have all generated high praise on the quality of the food, the service, and the ambiance. And now, Alex is still one proud motherfucker.
If he takes out a hypothetical magnifying glass to inspect it, he likes what he sees. He examines it all in his mind, from a business perspective, from a culinary perspective, from a customer's perspective; his chances of continued success seem relatively high no matter how you slice it.
Alex watches the snow swirling outside and seriously considers going home, though it’s hard to stand up. He knows that he should try and salvage what little sleep he still can until they have to do this all over again tomorrow. He’s about to force himself to do the right thing when Henry Fox, his restaurant manager, shows up at his side holding a bottle of their best house red. He silently settles into the chair beside him and presents the bottle to him like any good sommelier would. One of Alex’s efficiency measures was to hire someone who could handle both roles and Henry accomplishes both with expert ease. Alex nods at him and Henry proceeds to perfectly pour out two glasses, handing one over to Alex.
They each take a sip, which Alex savours, before Henry breaks the silence. “Remember how much you hated me when I first started?”
Alex still remembers that day when Henry had walked into this restaurant just over a year ago. He had thought Henry was attractive, dressed sharp yet stuffy, chin tipped up, with not a hair out of place. The opposite of Alex, who always let his curls just do their own thing. If they ever became too unruly, he’d just run his hands through them a couple times and hope for the best.
Alex scoffs, though Henry isn’t wrong. “Yeah, I thought you were a stuck up, pretentious asshole,” he admits, avoiding eye contact at first. “But I hired you anyway.” Alex pointedly looks in Henry’s direction as if he deserves praise for that.
“You weren’t exactly the epitome of warmth and welcome either, if you recall,” Henry retorts, the corner of his mouth lifting before he takes another sip of his wine.
“Yeah, I was a total dick to you, wasn't I?” Alex confesses. “For the record, I'm sorry. Even though you deserved it. At least a little.”
Henry breaks out in a full-blown laugh. “You almost had it there!” he teases. “I know how much that apology must have cost you.”
And he does, because despite getting off on the wrong foot, they’ve had to spend so much time together, that Alex would definitely acknowledge that they’ve probably become something close to friends.
Over the past year, he’s learned that Henry is a fantastic, highly-skilled restaurant manager. He sets standards and keeps them, and he and his team do everything Alex could ask and more. Henry manages to fix any problem that comes up amongst the guests. He’s just really fucking good at his job, okay?
Despite keeping very long hours to run the restaurant, they have gotten in the habit of texting constantly outside of work too, and not always about work-related matters. Sometimes it’s just Alex sharing what he’s made himself for breakfast, sometimes Henry shares details of the book he’s reading, and sometimes they fight over silly things like which movie franchise is better. Sometimes they make plans to meet up at other restaurants to scope out the competition. Turns out Alex just really enjoys being in Henry’s company.
As soon as Henry polishes off his first glass, Alex quickly grabs the bottle to pour him another, before topping up his own glass which was down to the dregs. Henry softly smiles at him as he does.
That smile still gets him though, causing a little pang in his chest, awfully close to his heart.
Over the course of the year, Alex’s eyes have been opened to a few realizations. It was just a matter of time before he realized that his feelings towards Henry weren’t quite entirely platonic. But he sure as hell wasn’t planning to do anything about it. They had a good thing going, an entire business resting on their joint shoulders, on the way they work so well together. Alex certainly didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize their restaurant or their precarious working relationship. If he stretched, if he was being generous to himself, he could maybe call it a true friendship. Nothing more.
They continue to gossip about their coworkers, share memories both good and downright horrible from the past year and they take turns filling both their glasses. Alex is about to suggest calling it a night, when Henry flees to the wine cellar and returns with a bottle Alex has never seen before. This time, Henry doesn’t present it to him, he uncorks it unceremoniously and pours a glass for each of them, settling the bottle on the table in between them.
Alex can see it’s a Dominio de Pingus - an insanely expensive Spanish wine, somewhere in the realm of over a thousand bucks a bottle. Certainly not anywhere close to the caliber of wines they serve at their place - far above it, in fact.
“Henry, what the fuck, where did you get this?” Alex sputters with fake outrage.
In an attempt to calm him down before he gets any more upset, Henry rests his hand lightly on Alex’s forearm. “My grandmother gave this to me when I passed my master sommelier examination. As you can see, she’s much too wealthy for her own good,” he rolls his eyes and Alex nods in understanding. “Truthfully, I think this was a power play trying to bribe me to stay and work at one of her stuffy restaurants in London, but it was important to me to see if I could make it on my own.”
Before Alex can reassure him, Henry adds, “And it seems pretty clear that I’ve managed to do that. Which I think calls for a celebration, don’t you think?”
Alex certainly isn’t going to argue with that. He grabs his wine glass and holds it up in front of Henry. “Salud.”
Henry clinks his glass with Alex’s and brings the rim of the glass to his mouth, taking a dainty sip. Alex can’t help but watch - he’s utterly mesmerised. Watching Henry taste wine is an experience Alex has been lucky enough to have many times over the last year, but Henry’s face is absolutely incandescent when it’s a really good wine. He’s never seen Henry look like this before. His eyes flutter close and his lips are curled up, yet open ever so slightly, letting in just the tiniest bit of air to mingle with the tannins on his tongue. Henry’s lips are already tinged red from polishing off the first bottle together, making them appear as if he’s wearing lipstick or like he’s just been kissed. And that’s not somewhere Alex is willing to let his mind go right now. Either way, he is the personification of indulgence, and it takes Alex’s breath away in the moment.
When Alex takes his own sip, he marvels at just how fucking good it is. Damn, Henry really wasn’t overreacting.
“No, I really wasn’t,” Henry smugly replies and smirks, as Alex realizes that he must have said that out loud. The wine is clearly going to his head.
Alex tries not to think about how much each sip of wine would cost as he savours the supple feeling of it in his mouth, the way it makes his taste buds sing. He’s almost drunk enough to share that with Henry, but he doesn’t want to sound like an idiot. That being said, he is drunk enough to watch the line of Henry’s throat as he swallows another sip. The pure enjoyment is clear as day across his face. He was trained for this and it shows. It’s unfair how devastatingly beautiful he is. There’s something Alex notices about the way light attaches to him. Just the wintery moonlight casting a pale brightness across the restaurant, streaming in from the windows that line the front of their restaurant that catches on all of Henry’s striking features and makes him positively glow. Alex wants to attach himself to Henry too.
So, really, it’s not too much of a surprise when Alex finishes his two-hundred-ish dollar glass of wine and blurts out, “You really are the best thing in my life.”
Fuck. His brain catches up with his super fucking traitor of a mouth and tries to backpedal as quickly as he can. “I mean, this restaurant really is the best thing in my life.” He prays to every deity, every god, every ancestor in existence, hoping that Henry didn’t quite hear the first thing he said.
Henry looks him right in the eye, fumbling to try and put down his wine glass upright without spilling a twenty dollar drop. “What did you just say, Alex?” he says, his voice nothing more than a tentative whisper.
“Uhh,” he stammers, trying to get his brain back on track. Under regular circumstances, he can’t stop his mind from having a million ideas at once and of course now it’s abandoning him in his time of need. “Nothing?” Henry’s still looking at him with a mixture of fondness and confusion. Waiting. That answer obviously won’t cut it.
“You can just ignore what I said,” Alex tries again, hoping for more of the fondness to take over and less of the puzzled look on Henry’s face. But it doesn’t seem to work, as Henry still seems shocked and bewildered instead.
Fuck, he thinks again. That was a huge mistake, his unhelpful mind supplies. I’m going to lose him now.
Then it hits him, like more than a ton of bricks - he’s more worried about losing Henry than losing the restaurant. And that means something. Henry opens his mouth and Alex convinces himself that he absolutely cannot let him end this. End them. So he decides to just take the fucking leap. He did it before, he’s chosen passion over practicality time and time again - cooking, culinary school, opening this restaurant - and now, this.
“Henry.” He waits until Henry closes those wine-stained lips once more before he speaks again, his heart racing. “I have to be honest. I really do think you’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”
Alex isn’t sure if the blush high on Henry’s cheeks is from the wine or just the way he naturally reddens when he gets embarrassed. “What are you trying to say?”
The months of unintentional pining plus the wine and adrenaline coursing through Alex's veins makes him throw his head back with a frustrated groan and raise his voice slightly, “What’s with all the questions? Isn’t it fucking obvious that I’m fucking in love with you?”
And well, it doesn’t matter the reason, because Henry looks immensely beautiful with the even-brighter pink highlighting his gorgeous cheekbones as his whole face flushes.
When Alex searches Henry’s eyes, hoping to find the answer to his question there, the only thing he sees there is a look of longing, of affection, of... relief.
“I thought it was just me,” Henry murmurs shakily. “I never thought you’d be interested in me like that, let alone actually love me.” He slides his chair a few inches towards Alex, closing the distance between them.
“Well, sweetheart, you better get used to it.”
Henry’s wearing a stupid, dopey smile on his face and Alex loves it. Loves him. He can’t say anything about it when he’s quite sure he’s returning the same.
Alex is sure Henry’s about to kiss him when he leans forward, bringing their faces closer together and wraps his arm around Alex’s head, burying his fingers softly into Alex’s hair. Alex closes his eyes, waiting, but Henry whispers, “Gladly, love,” and Alex can feel the movement on his lips, barely there, but still there, as he speaks.
No one has ever accused Alex of being a particularly patient man, so it shouldn’t be surprising when he presses his lips against Henry’s as soon as he’s sure that Henry’s said all he needed to say.
The kiss is soft, and Henry’s full, velvety lips feel like the petals of the flowers that sit in the centrepiece of every table. Henry tastes sweet, like the strawberries that adorned each scoop of artisanal ice cream they had served earlier that evening, cut by the slight bitterness of several glasses of wine. Alex loves it when the sweetness of a berry explodes in his mouth, the flavour overwhelming his taste buds, and he’s overcome with the same feeling as he sweeps his tongue a little further into Henry’s mouth. Kissing him is delicious. He’s willing to admit it’s better than the best dessert on his menu.
Kissing Henry feels right, like the fresh promise of spring after a long, dark winter. When they pause for a moment, it leaves him breathless, but settled.
Alex reaches for Henry’s hand and he gladly gives it. “You’ve been here all along. I’ve been an idiot.”
“No more than I have, really.” Henry strokes his thumb across Alex’s knuckles, then switches to the softer skin on the back of his hand. Alex squeezes back to let Henry know how much he likes it.
Alex inhales a fairly large breath, working up the courage for what he’s about to say next. He guesses now that he’s admitted he’s in love with Henry, it’s not too far of a stretch to admit he’d also really fucking like to see Henry naked. “Care to join me at my place tonight?”
“I’d love nothing more,” Henry says, though Alex senses a hint of hesitancy in his voice. Alex carefully drops Henry’s hand, not wanting to overwhelm him.
“Really, Henry, it’s late and today’s been a lot.” Henry looks at him like he knows that’s a severe understatement and Alex would tend to agree. “It’s okay if you would rather take a rain cheque.”
Henry grabs Alex’s bicep and he’s not subtle when he takes the opportunity to grasp it tightly. Alex can’t even help the slight flex he makes in return. “Listen to me when I say, I really, really would love to,” Henry insists. Alex waits for the but. “But there’s still a few more glasses left in this bottle.” He picks it up off the table for good measure.
“Well, we definitely can’t let it go to waste,” Alex admits, feeling relieved. He’s more than happy to sit and converse with Henry a little while longer in order to polish off the remaining glasses of this phenomenal, once-in-a-lifetime wine with this phenomenal, once-in-a-lifetime man. He’ll even try not to think about how much money they’re consuming while they do it. After all, it has definitely been a once-in-a-lifetime type of evening. Certainly worth every penny, even if Henry hadn’t gotten it for free.
After finishing the wine and tidying up after themselves, they bundle up against the cold, ready to walk out the door hand-in-hand and a little buzzed, swaying against each other with each step. Alex isn’t a hundred percent sure if the light-headedness is from all the alcohol or the love confession, but that’s irrelevant right now. He can feel Henry’s warmth radiating from the hand he’s holding and the arm pressed against him and that’s all he needs. He knows he’ll keep the chill of winter at bay like this, with Henry by his side.
Henry stops in the doorway and Alex worries for a moment he’s having second thoughts. But his worries are unfounded, as Henry turns to him and shares a confident, “I love you, Alex.”
It’s been three hundred and sixty-five times that he’s watched Henry walk through the doors of his restaurant - of their restaurant, really - dressed impeccably, ready to greet and serve their customers. Still without a hair out of place, every single time. It’s been fifty-two times he’s watched Henry smile to himself with pride when he thinks no one is watching because he’d completed the New York Times Sunday crossword. And now it’s been one time that Alex has heard Henry say he loves him in their restaurant.
And Alex knows without a doubt they’ll do it all over again tomorrow, and he can't fucking wait.