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"Oh wow, what are the odds!" Tawan exclaims.
The cute waiter – last Friday’s mark, Kant’s not boyfriend – blinks down at him.
"Indeed," he says, and there’s something there, something behind his tone or his eyes… understandable, though, the coincidence crazy enough to put anyone on the back foot.
"Bison, right? So you work here?" He obviously does, but it’s an easy conversation starter. Besides, when your interlocutor is feeling defensive, giving them an opening for gentle mockery is never a bad idea.
The guy only hums. He truly is pretty.
If Kant hasn’t locked that sweet ass down yet, then what’s a little competition between friends?
"Sorry," Tawan picks up where he left off, "stupid question. I’m smoother when I’m not starving, I swear." That does win him a small smile. "What’s your signature dish?"
Cutie appears surprised again, for a split-second, but he shakes his head slightly and it’s gone. The smile remains, tinted with amusement. "Everything we serve here is delicious, sir."
"It certainly looks great," Tawan grins back, menu unread in front of him. The coy lip bite he’s offered in return seems about as unrehearsed as Tawan’s line, which is to say not at all, which is to say: great, they’re on the same page. Checking out this new burger joint is the best decision he’s made in a while. "I’ll let you pick for me, if you can promise that your boyfriend won’t materialize here to feed me kitchen knives."
"Who, Kant? Kant isn't my boyfriend."
Not entirely convincing, what with the delight around this last word, coyness turned inward and not directed at Tawan anymore – not really. That’s fine, nothing he can’t work around.
"He sure acts like he is."
"Hmm."
"So you’re not looking for one?"
"Let’s say I’m undecided."
He bends closer, and Tawan is shifting through several possible responses at lightning speed when the restaurant’s door opens behind him. The little guy straightens.
Damn.
"Hellooooo B-initial!" The voice sounds… familiar. "How’s your awful brother and does he miss me so?"
"Hi Style!" Wait. Style? "Grumpy as always, but I’m sure he does." Style, as in Style? "He’s in the kitchen."
"Well then that’s where I’ll – oh, hey Tawan! Man, what are the odds!"
Tawan waves at him, trying to convey I need you to shut up without being too obvious about it.
Judging by the extreme interest on his waiter’s face, though, it’s too little too late. "You guys know each other?"
"Yeah," Tawan answers, still trying. "We –"
"We go bowling sometimes! I used to kick his ass, then Kant taught him his tricks. Honestly, is that what friends do? You should scold him for me." He sighs. "But I talk, I talk, and I’ve got a hot thundercloud to seduce. Wish me luck!"
He strolls into the kitchens like he owns the place.
Tawan swallows.
Logically, he has no reason to be afraid. The moment is awkward, sure, but he's done nothing illegal for once, and there's no threat in sight in this colorful and welcoming, if a bit too empty, dinner. Style’s harassing someone in the next room, for fuck’s sake. Everything’s fine. It’s a beautiful day.
Yet when the cute waiter – last Friday’s mark, Kant’s not boyfriend – sits down on the other side of the booth, hand coming down on top of Tawan’s, he finds himself unable to move.
"So Kant taught you a lot, hm?" Bison smiles. "You know, Tawan, I think we should talk."