One dream in Paris

11. Sticky Fingers (Hashirama)

I frowned, looked at my empty hook, then back at Madara, who was at his station, smiling. Smiling, can you imagine? Man had no shame; he still wore my robe. I ended up taking Tobirama's robe; he wasn't there yet, and the thought of making Madara jealous thrilled me.

When I walked past him, he was actually whistling.

"Someone got laid", I teased but it stung. I kind of knew he had.

"I recommend it", he teased back. "Maybe, go out. Find yourself a girl."

"I don't do girls", I said, and to my great pleasure, he stopped dead with his knife that was halfway slicing through dill to make a non-conventional Scandinavian-tasting sashimi.

I looked at his face, expected him to smirk but to my great surprise, he was gaping at me, an expression of pure shock on his face. I couldn't help but smile; man really didn't have a gaydar.

I went about my chores, but I was always aware of Madara; where he was, what he was doing, what he was looking at. And he, in turn, was hyper-aware of the door, waiting for someone.

It wasn't hard to figure out who that someone was.

Of course, Tobirama showed up when Madara was busy smoking fish so he had to concentrate entirely on the task at hand; smoking fish was a delicate art and it was of uttermost importance that you didn't smoke it for too short or too long. Tobirama got in through the door and his eyes immediately searched until they found Madara, and I saw his entire demeanour relax. Tobirama smiled, noticing he hadn't been noticed, then went to the hooks. Shit. I had only had teasing Madara in mind; I hadn't even considered Tobirama's reaction to me wearing his robe. Before I had had time to think, his eyes caught me, and of course, he immediately saw I was wearing his robe as the shoulders were black, while our robes were completely white. He lifted an eyebrow and I couldn't help but look down, blushing.

He stood still for a while, maybe considering whether he should take Madara's robe or not, then decided against it if that had been his thought. He went, wearing a marine long-sleeved T-shirt and grey suit pants and stood behind Madara, who still hadn't noticed him. He took a step forwards, not pressing his front to the black-haired man's back but not far from. I felt a pleasant sensation down the front of my thighs.

God, I want them.

I had no idea where the thought had come from. No idea at all. But as soon as the thought was there, it was impossible to unthink it. I wanted them both so much. My body ached with a longing for both of them to sit with me in a couch, one on either side of me, just taking care of me.

Tobirama opened his mouth, said something I couldn't hear; a ringing had started in my ears. Madara stiffened up. Tobirama smiled. He placed his hand on his sous chef's waist discretely, but Madara's reaction was anything but discrete.

I had to turn and leave.

Something strange happened to you once you became a chef of fine dining.

You would find yourself well and truly unable to cook a normal meal.

"Can you make spaghetti for me?" one of my mates in Paris had asked once we hung out together in his apartment, playing video games (my apartment was too small to hold any form of gaming console).

"Ehhhhh..." I had said intelligently.

It was always so hard for me to dumb down to a simple dish. Which was why I tried to avoid situations where I had to cook dinner for my friends at any cost.

I did have a splendid group of friends, though, even if they sometimes complained I never invited them over for dinner, or didn't want to do anything but drinks during our cooking nights. We were four boys and one masculine lesbian woman who always beat the others to the girls they tried to pull (I never tried as I was gay). Sometimes, they fought massively but deep down, we loved each other endlessly and, if it ever came to it, would do anything for each other.