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Colette had been the first, but it hadn’t been her fate to be his only.
She had been beautiful and intimidating and funny, opinionated and… good. She had been… good.
But this… this was nothing like what he’d had with her. Anton was nothing like her, starting with the fact he was a he and not a she. But… how could he possibly explain this? This fluttering feeling; this vertigo.
The beginning? Yeah, that could probably help, starting with the beginning.
The first time he saw Colette he’d wanted to keep looking, to have a good look at her because she was always moving, a blur, a whirlwind of motion. The first time he saw Anton his heart stuttered in his chest in fear and, later, in curious excitement. This was it, he had thought. This was the moment of truth (and it had turned out to be so, literally, but that was another story altogether).
The first time he’d seen Colette smile it had been almost unremarkable, among the rush and bustle of the kitchen, and he had almost missed it; the faint, pleased curve of her lips, natural as breathing for him, natural as cooking had become for her.
The first time he’d seen Anton smile, a real, genuine smile, it had been like sunshine spilling through dark storm clouds. It had been like… like a gift. Like something that makes you feel lucky to have seen it, because you had seen something really, really unique and special. If he’d have to decide on a when it began, he would say it had been then, with that smile. That had been the beginning. But, of course he hadn’t known that then. He’d been lost within Colette’s embrace, within their young love.
What had changed? He couldn’t really tell. It hadn’t been sudden, but it hadn’t seem slow either. It felt as if nothing had changed in them but it had, and he just couldn’t say how.
It began with distance. That was his best guess; with her in the kitchen, and he spending most of his time tending to the clientele. They had drifted apart, both of them. Colette started spending more time with Little Chef, and he had started spending more time with Anton.
Why Anton? At first, because he was the closest person to them, the only one that knew about Little Chef and accepted it as it was. He was their number one investor and was way better with numbers than Alfredo would ever be. He had known his father and he had the kind of confidence that put him at ease instead of making him feel like a blithering, bumbling, self-conscious idiot.
Colette was ambitious and driven and capable of accomplishing anything, and Alfred was holding her back. So he let her go. He had been happy to see her fly, soaring high without him dragging her back. She moved on and so did he.
What was different now? He had loved Colette, but not like this. Not the same way; never the same, because everything was different, even himself.
Kissing Colette for the first time had been a gamble, a risk he had not taken on his own; abrupt and dangerous as she was dangerous herself. Kissing Anton had been less of a gamble and more of a must. It had been sudden but slow, and sweet like the red wine Anton had been drinking. Alfredo had seen that look again that night: Anton wide eyed and full of wonder, like something inexplicably marvelous had occurred.
Being with Colette Alfredo had felt lucky and elated and incredulous; like he was not good enough for her and he was so, so… fortunate. Being with Anton he felt… he felt cherished. Like Anton was the one thinking he was the lucky one; like he thought Alfredo was much more than just good enough.
When Alfredo had tried to cook for her without help she had, choked, and they had smiled and laughed and she had tried to fix what he had done. When he had cooked for Anton, at his prompting, he had savored the food and had said, solemn but for the sparkle in his eyes that dining out would be for the best.
Alfredo couldn’t explain why those words had made such deep impact inside him. It might have been the way Anton refrained from lashing him with his sharp tongue. Maybe it had been he didn’t expect him to be a culinary genius like his father. Maybe the way he smiled, maybe the spark of humor in his eyes. They went out and they dined and Alfredo kissed him to taste the wine and the Ratatouille on Anton’s lips.
Anton drove him to his apartment, the ride in complete silence. He had fidgeted in front of his door, fumbling with his keys and looking in fascination at his restless feet. There had been long fingers curling around one side of his face and under his chin; gentle pressure made him look up, made him close his eyes tight and take a deep shaky breath. Smooth, low voice cajoled him into opening his eyes, meeting Anton’s ones with trepidation coiling in his gut and a vivid flush burning across his cheeks.
The second kiss was sweeter, and the third was almost scorching.
But that was all they did that night. Anton had stopped with the third kiss, and he had whispered a soft good night against his lips.
He… Colette and him… they had done… things. Just a few, never all the way. Alfredo had never done anything of the sort, and sometimes he felt… useless. Clumsy and… But Colette had never said anything about it, and she had done just as she always had done in regards to him: she guided him and told him how to do them, the things she liked and things he might like too. It had always been a little surreal, like they had never left the kitchen and she was still telling him the ins and outs of being a chef and, sometimes, Alfredo couldn’t help imagining them doing the things they did while in the kitchen, against the table of the salads.
It hadn’t bided well, having those thoughts while going in and out the kitchen while on work hours.
The thing was… doing those things with Anton, things had been… better. Or, maybe a more appropriate word would be easier.
Making… making love with Anton was… He didn’t know how to call it.
The feeling of his hands on him, long fingers prying him open, sinking into him for what felt like eternity and touching that place inside him that made him burn. His darkened eyes boring into his, drinking him up like the most sublime of dishes placed before him on the table. Anton’s skin under his hands, under his sinking nails; Anton’s thin lips and his wide mouth and his merciless teeth upon his flesh; Anton slowly sliding inside him, his hands caressing his face and hair, griping and gently tugging and making Alfredo’s back arch in abrupt delight, in burning pleasure and almost painful ecstasy.
Resting against his lean, elegant frame; sliding damp fingertips upon sweat slicked skin and humming in satisfaction. Feeling gentle kisses upon his hair, the covers gently pulled over their entwined nakedness.
Alfredo didn’t know how to describe it. He didn’t know what to call what they had.
It was just love.
“She would have loved you,” Alfredo had whispered once.
“What I did to your father…” Anton had trailed off, knowing whom Alfredo had meant.
“She would have been mad at you at first,” Alfredo had said, “But you didn’t kill my father, and she would have come to love you anyway,” he paused, letting his eyes fall to the floor and feeling his face aflame. He whispered, “Just like me.”
And when he raised his eyes he had seen the storm clouds parting just for him.