Looking For The Light (Book 2)

Looking For The Light Chapter 26 - Vikenti

“Oh, good.  I was afraid you’d moved.” Miro deadpanned as he walked in the door, exhausted from his day, and exhausted to see his boyfriend laying on the couch.  His chef’s jacket hung open, and his hair had started to fall from its tiny curl of a ponytail.  Vikenti hadn’t even realized what time it was until Miro came home.  If he was here, the restaurant was closed, and it was after midnight.

Miro peeled off his uniform as he made his path through the apartment.  He would walk to the bedroom, change into something comfortable – usually sweatpants and a tank top, or tee shirt.  Miro would stop in the bathroom to wash his face and fix his hair.  He didn’t usually notice how disheveled it looked until he found the mirror.  Then he would walk to the kitchen, his footsteps heavy.  He would ask Vikenti if he ate, but without waiting for an answer, he would already be preparing something.  But he never once wore a smile.

The last time Vikenti had seen Miro’s smile was weeks ago, and not for him.  Miro had been awarded his first Michelin star.  Quite the achievement for someone so young, and without traditional training.  Paired with the restaurants recent booming success, the owner was more than thrilled to invite journalists and critics into his dining room to meet with Miro.  He took almost one hundred pictures that day, smiling in all of them.  Somewhere, Miro’s mother had a scrapbook full of her son’s fake happiness.  The smiles were exhausted by the time Miro returned home, and returned to the truth.

It wasn’t always this bad.  There was a time, not so long ago, when Miro would come home still tired, but his eyes would light up when they fell on Vikenti.  He would worry over Vikenti’s leg, still healing after being shot.  The bullet had shattered the bone, breaking his leg, making the healing process longer than it would have been otherwise.  He brought Vikenti home something from the restaurant, always still warm, rich and delicious.  Miro used to ask Vikenti about his day, rub his back, and hold his hands.  Miro still loved him.  It just used to be easier to see.

“Did you do anything today?”  The question wasn’t kind.  Miro didn’t want to know if Vikenti had done anything interesting that day.  Only if he’d done anything at all, because he expected otherwise.  Miro wasn’t gentle in his apartment’s small kitchen, putting pots heavily on the range.  Metal on metal rang out, giving sound to Miro’s mood.

“I … No, I didn’t.”  Vikenti admitted as he sat up.  There was no use lying to Miro.  He wouldn’t anyway.

“Your leg is healed.  You aren’t limping anymore.  When are you going back to work?”  Miro was direct.  He didn’t used to be.  Once, he was patient with Vikenti, letting him come to his answers in his own time.  His patience was removed along with Vikenti’s cast.

There was a long silence between the men.  Vikenti came into the kitchen, edging into Miro’s domain.  Technically, as this was Miro’s apartment, it all belonged to him, but the kitchen was special.  The kitchen was where Miro was alive, where he made miracles from meat and vegetables.  Even when he begrudgingly made Vikenti his dinner, there was a peace inside of him.  Maybe that’s why he still bothered to make a meal for him.  Perhaps it was the only thing keeping Miro from completely snapping at Vikenti.

“I don’t know that I want to go back.” Vikenti finally admitted.  He wasn’t sure if he was telling Miro, or telling himself, but it finally came out.

“Well, you have to.” Miro told him, his voice quiet and hard.  His back was to Vikenti, as he carved into some poor animal’s meat.  “You aren’t finished with what you started.”

Vikenti didn’t say anything.  He wasn’t sure what to say.  What would Miro know about his work?  He only told Miro what little he could about his duties.  The tension was as thick of the muscle Miro sliced through.