Work Text:
Erik didn’t notice that Raven checked her lipstick in the back of a lobster pot before approaching him. Nor did he notice that she tousled her hair and undid a fourth button on her shirt – revealing a pink lace bra under her black server uniform.
“It's Valentine's Day,” Raven purred at Erik, who only grunted in response. He was standing over the kitchen’s stainless steel work table examining the night’s menu. His white chef's jacket was rolled up to his elbows and he had a pencil shoved behind his ear. Sweat was already beginning to bead on his forehead.
When he didn't so much as glance up, Raven flipped her hair and bent over the table, pressing her breasts together with her elbows. “Do you have any plans?”
“Yes. I'm working. And so are you.” He finally looked up at her. “Button your shirt. And tie your hair back, for fuck's sake. This is a kitchen. No one wants to order a steak and end up flossing.” He turned his attention back to the menu on the table. Raven pouted as she put her hair in a bun, but he ignored her. Instead he pounded his fist on the table and shouted, “Where the fuck is Charles? CHARLES!”
Charles stepped into the kitchen a moment later (after being told that “Mussolini was yelling for him,”) looking neat and pressed. He'd added a red silk tie to his all-black ensemble for the holiday, and his vest was starched stiff enough to deflect a bullet. His street clothes tended toward the grungy and casual, but as head waiter, his uniform was never less than impeccable.
He took one look at Raven and frowned. “Jesus, Raven. Would you put some clothes on? I can see your bra.”
Neither Erik nor Charles paid her a lick of attention as she stomped out of the kitchen in disappointment.
Erik snapped the menu up with his tongs and held it out in front of him as though the ink might be toxic. “What the fuck is this?” he sneered.
Behind him, his line cooks cowered. Azazel suddenly needed something out of the freezer and Janos pretended to be fascinated by the onion he'd just diced. Hank, the pastry chef, actually ducked behind his mixer.
Charles calmly straightened his tie. “It's the specials menu, Erik. It's a list of foods we're offering tonight so people can choose what they want to eat.”
“I know what it is. What I want to know is why you think you can rewrite my menus.”
“Oh, calm down. I didn't rewrite anything. They're your specials. Do you think anyone but you would have put roasted garlic on the Valentine's Day menu?”
Someone snorted, but whoever it was put away their smirk before Erik could turn around and catch them. The last person who spoke to Erik that way – the last person who wasn't Charles, that is - ended up scrubbing the toilets in the men's bathroom, and the person before that was fired. When Charles spoke back to Erik, Erik called it “having balls.” When anyone else spoke back to Erik, he called it “insubordination” and sent them packing.
Erik's tendons tightened. “You rewrote the wine pairings. It was supposed to be muscadet with the oysters, but you changed it to champagne. Why?”
“Because no one likes muscadet. Men are bringing their girlfriends here to try to impress them, or maybe propose to them. Which do you think they're going to order: a $70 bottle of champagne or a $20 bottle of some wine no one's ever heard of? Some people like to have sex on Valentine's Day, so I hear.”
“I know people like to have sex on Valentine's Day, that's why I put the oysters on the menu in the first place. Muscadet goes with oysters.”
“So does champagne.”
“Are you a sommelier now, too?”
“Are you?”
Erik fumed and pretended not to notice that half the waitstaff had snuck into the kitchen to eavesdrop. “People are going to buy champagne whether we suggest it or not. Meanwhile, I’ve got six cases of muscadet on my hands and if we don’t move it now, we’re going to be sitting on it until September. You don’t like muscadet? Tough shit!” He was beginning to shout. “You don’t have to like it! You just have to sell it! If I say everyone is drinking muscadet this Valentine’s Day, then you say ‘Yes, chef’ and sell the fucking muscadet because I tell you to! Now go back to the printers' and redo the menus like I fucking asked you to in the first place!”
The last time Erik yelled at Charles like that, Charles called Erik a limp-dicked megalomaniac and told him that if he spoke to him that way again, he'd piss in the soup and then call the health inspector. That was three days ago.
This time, though, to everyone's surprise, Charles just held his head high and said, “Fine. I'll correct the menus. But no one is going to order the muscadet.”
“They will because you'll sell it.”
Charles stepped into Erik's space and crossed his arms over his chest. He gave Erik the same look he'd given Raven when she asked if she could sell her niece's Girl Scout cookies at the front door. “This is a four star restaurant. You're really going to advise against expensive champagne on Valentine's Day?”
Erik bared his teeth at Charles as though he may just take a bite. “You'll see I'm right. Muscadet over champagne.”
The staff waited for one of them to start strangling the other. Neither of them did. Charles only arched his eyebrows and asked, “Is that a challenge?”
Erik growled. “Go get the menus, Charles.”
Charles smiled as though he'd already won, snatched the menu out of Erik's tongs, and left out the back door.
*
As soon as Charles was off the premises, Erik whistled for the serving staff. Charles sometimes accused Erik of treating the servers like dogs. Erik disagreed: at least dogs came when you called them.
When everyone was huddled in the kitchen, Erik lifted a bottle of wine over his head. “This is muscadet,” he lectured. “It's white wine from France. It's crisp and salty, and lucky for us, it tastes good with oysters. If any of your customers orders oysters tonight, you will sell them a bottle of muscadet. Hell, I don't care what they order: you will try to sell them the muscadet. I want all six cases sold by the time we close tonight. Tomorrow morning every dipshit amateur food blogger with a Twitter account will be talking about what we're serving tonight, and I want them talking about how brilliant I am for serving muscadet. Got it?”
The mumbles and nods he received apparently did not appease him, because he continued.
“Have I not made myself clear? How about this: whoever sells the fewest bottles of muscadet can go home tonight and not come back. If you can’t push a $20 bottle of white wine to a bunch of lovelorn suckers with their wallets open, then I don’t want you here. Understand?”
Message received.
*
Around 7:30, Charles looked around the restaurant and noticed that almost a third of the tables were drinking muscadet. He checked the receipts: muscadet was outselling champagne two-to-one.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he muttered to himself. This will not do. This will not do at all. There was no fucking way Erik was winning tonight.
Charles grabbed Raven as she printed the check for one of her tables.
“Let me see that,” he said, and snatched the bill out of her hands. Sure enough, oysters and muscadet. “Why is everyone drinking muscadet?” he asked her. “It's Valentine's Day. Where's all the champagne?”
Raven rolled her eyes. “Lehnsherr said he was going to fire whoever didn't sell enough muscadet.”
Typical, Charles thought, and shook his head. “He was bluffing. He’s not going to fire you. You know how he is. He thinks intimidation is the best motivator. He's not actually going to fire anyone over shitty wine.”
“I don’t know, I mean, he fired Moira.”
“He did what?” Charles burst, and marched back into the kitchen.
He found Erik shucking oysters over a garbage can with a knife and gave him a good shove. Erik stumbled a bit and roared, “What the fuck! Do you want me to slice my hand off?”
“You fired Moira? You can’t fire Moira!” Charles screamed.
Erik straightened himself out and put down the knife. “I can and I did.”
“Why?”
“She was a spy, Charles. Do you know she’s fucking that guy from the Culinary Institute? She’s probably telling him everything that goes on here.”
Charles turned red with rage. “Are you insane?”
“He was asking me about my filleting technique – why else would he ask me about that unless Moira said something to him about it?”
“She’s not a spy, you maniac! The CIA doesn’t give a flying fuck how you like to fillet a fish! I'm hiring her back!”
“Over my dead body! And if she comes within ten feet of this place, I'm getting rid of every goddamn one of your little army of serve-bots and replacing them all with my own people, you got that?”
Charles opened his mouth to start screaming again, but before he even took a breath, Erik leaned into Charles and, with an evil glint in his eye, hissed, “How do you like me now, Xavier?”
*
“I’m offering – me, personally – I’m offering $350 to whoever can sell the most champagne tonight.”
The servers all gaped at Charles.
“I'm serious,” he continued, and pulled the cash out of his pocket. “I don't care what you have to do to sell it, but I want a bottle of champagne on every table. Sell bottles to go if you have to. But whatever you do, do not sell the muscadet. $350 to whoever sells the most champagne, and you know what – I'll buy the winner a bottle, too.”
Champagne was popping every five minutes. Charles was running back and forth to the liquor storage area to pull out more cases of Moët. By 9:00, they'd already run out of the Veuve Clicquot. By the end of the night, servers were asking Charles if they could run down to the liquor store for more bottles to sell.
When the night was over and Charles reviewed the receipts, they’d sold almost every bottle of champagne in the restaurant.
Raven went home with $350 and a bottle of Cristal. Erik was left with four unopened cases of the muscadet.
*
Charles was halfway out the door when Erik called out to him, “Was it worth it?”
Charles smirked and answered, “$350 and a bottle of champagne to win tonight? Definitely worth it.”
*
Charles stopped for pizza on the way home, not just because he was starving, but also because he knew it would piss Erik off. He was looking forward to leaving a pizza box on the living room table and watching Erik get pissy about you need to eat real food and you seriously can't wait an hour and let me cook you a decent meal for fuckssake you're going to get scurvy.
His hands were full with the pizza box when he pushed open the apartment door, and, with his view blocked by the extra-large pie, Charles tripped and sent the whole pizza flying. It was Erik's shoes. Erik's fucking shoes by the door. For someone who actively fought every time a newspaper wanted his photograph, he was awfully vain. The man owned more shoes than shirts and he left them all over their apartment. Charles spent half his life kicking Erik's shoes out of his way.
And now Charles not only tripped over Erik's fucking shoes again, but he had an extra-large pepperoni pizza splattered all over the floor. And he didn't even get to eat any of it, and his stomach was still growling, and thank you very much, Erik, now he was spending his Valentine's Day trying to get pizza grease out of the carpet. Fucking hell.
His phone buzzed. Text from Erik. Come back.
Charles smiled.
*
Erik was sitting at a table in the kitchen. He had a plate of oysters in front of him, along with two glasses of wine: one glass of muscadet and one glass of champagne.
“Have a seat,” Erik said, and pushed out the second chair for Charles.
Charles laughed and took off his jacket. “You're really not going to let this go?” he asked as he sat. Across the table, Erik was biting at his bottom lip and raking his eyes over Charles, who’d changed into a pair of too-tight jeans and a t-shirt.
“Not until you taste.” He pushed the oysters forward.
Erik leaned onto his elbows and watched intently as Charles raised the oyster to his lips and slurped the live mollusk down. He watched Charles’ Adam’s apple jump up and down in delight as he swallowed and hummed and licked the briny liquor from his fingertips. Charles’ lips were shiny now from the slippery oyster and, Erik imagined, tasted like the sea.
“Now...” Erik pushed the wine glass forward.
Charles took a sip of the muscadet, and again he groaned, “Mmm. Mmm, that is good.”
Erik smiled and handed him another oyster.
This time Charles tongued it out of its shell and tipped his head back to let the oyster slide down his throat. “Nnnh,” he groaned as he swallowed. No one took pleasure from food like Charles, and Erik was rapt in watching him.
Erik pushed forward the champagne flute.
“You know I don’t like champagne,” Charles smirked, and went for another oyster.
“You liked the muscadet, though.”
“I do. Mmm.” He sipped it again with the oyster still fresh on his tongue. “Betting against champagne on Valentine’s Day, though. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were setting yourself up to lose.”
Erik turned coy. “Why would I do that? You know what happens when I lose.”
“I do. Take your pants off.”
Erik tried not to smile as he stood up from the table. He toed off his kitchen shoes and slid off his white chef pants, all the while watching Charles and the oysters.
“Socks and underwear, too,” Charles ordered, and Erik obeyed.
Erik stood next to the table, naked now from the waist down. “Where would you like me?” he asked.
Charles clucked his tongue. “I didn’t say you could speak.” He stood from the table and approached Erik, stepped in front of him and took his cock in hand. Erik hitched in surprise, but did not otherwise move.
“Now, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Charles said, “but I’ve been running around like a lunatic all day and I’m very hungry. So I’m going to eat these oysters while you pleasure yourself, and then when I’m done, I’m going to fuck you against the refrigerator door. Does that sound good?”
Erik nodded.
“Say, ‘Yes, Charles.’”
“Yes, Charles.”
“Good,” he said, and let go of Erik’s dick. He sat back down at the table.
The oysters were sublime: fresh and cool and, Charles suspected, shucked by Erik only moments before he arrived. They reminded him of childhood summers at his grandmother’s house in Southampton, or the months he and Erik spent in Maine. He savored them, slurped them down hungrily, letting the liquid dribble down his chin, catching it with his thumb and sucking. All the while, Erik watched and stroked.
He finished the plate with the last of the muscadet.
“Stop,” he said. “Hands in the air.”
Erik stood with his hands up and his dick out like a midnight rentboy caught by an undercover.
Charles sauntered over to the cabinet and pulled out the olive oil. “Did you think you could talk to me the way you did today and get away with it?” he crowed. “Did you think you could order me around like that? Order my staff around like that?” He unzipped his jeans and pulled himself out, slicked himself up with the olive oil.
“No, Charles,” Erik said, doing his damnedest not let his enjoyment show on his face.
“And you’re going to hire Moira back.”
“Yes, Charles.”
“I want you to stand three feet from the refrigerator door.” Erik walked over to his position. “Put your hands on it.”
Charles stood a hair’s breath behind Erik, still touching only himself.
“Spread your legs for me.”
Erik did.
And that’s when Hank walked in.
“OH HOLY JESUS WHAT THE FUCK!” Hank screamed.
Charles and Erik both jumped and tried to cover themselves. Charles zipped up and Erik, realizing the bottom half of his wardrobe was on the other side of the room, tried to pull his white jacket down, but ended up just covering his dick with this hands.
“WHAT THE FUCK!” Hank was still screaming. “WHAT? Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! The fucking… Are you kidding me? What the fuck!”
“Shut up, Hank! Calm down!” Erik ordered. “What are you doing here?”
“I forgot my cell phone!” He screamed and grabbed it from his station. “Are you… Were you two just… Oh, fuck.” He seemed torn between covering his eyes and letting them pop right out of his skull. He pointed at Charles. “What, were you, like, hate fucking him? Oh, god, were you raping him?”
Charles rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake. No, it’s nothing like that.”
“He’s my husband!” Erik added, dick still in hand.
Hank looked as though he might faint. “What? Your what? You’re married?”
“We’ve been married for six years!” Charles said, and handed Erik his pants.
“Oh, fuck off. You’re kidding.” They shook their heads no. “But. But, what, you’ve been keeping it secret all this time?”
“It’s not a secret, we just don’t tell people.” Erik said as he got dressed.
“You don’t wear rings.”
“Erik says he can’t work with a ring on,” Charles explained.
“Charles says it interferes with his flirting.”
“It’s true,” Charles said, “I make more tips when I don’t wear it. I figured that out quick.”
Hank gaped at them. “But all you do is fight and scream at each other and threaten to cut each other’s dicks off… and then you go home and…”
Charles, at least, had the decency to blush. Erik just looked defiant. Proud, even.
“Ugh, you two are twisted. You deserve each other,” Hank said, and marched out of the kitchen.
Erik turned to Charles and smiled. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s go home.”