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.

I put on my best black coat over my olive green, long-sleeved sweatshirt and ripped, pitch-black jeans, my hair in a high ponytail, a couple of strands of hair framing my face on each side. The Parisian winter sun had made some freckles come forth on my nose which I loved. I couldn't wait to see my friends; it had been a long time.

We met at our favourite club called Sticky Fingers that was murkier than most which kept teenagers at bay but attracted older, richer people in their thirties or forties. We didn't belong, but were very good at pretending we did, so in a way, that made us belong.

We bought drinks, sat down at our favourite table and caught up. It was a long time ago I drank and I hadn't eaten in a few hours, making the alcohol get to my brain soothingly quickly.

"Shots?" I asked. "My round."

I went to the bar through the dim blue light, the strobe lights of the dancefloor pleasantly caressing my cheeks from afar. When I got to the bar, I ordered two shots of Fireball, feeling I needed some time on my own to just indulge in my thoughts. Or, honestly, to try and dim my thoughts. Even if I had avoided them as best I could, it had been impossible to do so completely. And it had hurt.

I closed my eyes momentarily; downing that second shot of liquid fire had caused the room to swim pleasantly, as if I was floating in lava. I opened my eyes and looked out over the crowd.

And immediately noticed someone was staring at me.

I squinted my eyes; I had forgotten to put my contacts in. Surely not.

But there was no mistake. It was Madara.

He wore a crisp, white shirt that was one size too big to then enable him to hold it together with a black harness that matched his black trousers. He held a glass of red wine in his hand, and when he saw I had seen him, he took a sip.

My friends' shot glasses forgotten, I left my empty shot glasses of fireball and went to him, impressed by how steady I was on my feet seeing the room was spinning around me. As I reached him, I grabbed his shoulders and simply straddled him.

"Oh, my", he said, sounding very happy to see me.

"Yes", I said stupidly.

"You're handsome, you know that?" he asked, tucking one of the hair strands framing my face behind my ear, then pulling playfully at my ponytail.

"I know", I said.

"So humble", he said.

"The most humble man you've ever met", I said, pulling at his harness.

He started tracing light lines between my freckles with a long finger nail. I closed my eyes, enjoying it.

"Don't close your eyes", Madara murmured softly.

I looked at him, and it struck me how his eyes were the opposite of Merlin's; dark but cold, whereas my ex boyfriend's had been bright but warm. I wished suddenly to see the world through those dark, cold eyes.

It suddenly felt daring, brave enough to pull at his harness even more. I didn't know how much Madara had drunk, but his courage seemed to come from the situation, not the ruby liquid in his crystal glass. He put his hands on my back, helped me.

Our lips crashed.

I was surprised at how hungry the kiss was. It wasn't that hesitant searching for the other, to get to know the contours of each other's lips. He immediately ate me, playing with his tongue just at the tip of mine, just the way I liked it. He tasted delicious, of wine and skin and toothpaste and something spicy. His hands roamed beneath my sweatshirt, ate at my skin. I felt his breathing pour from his throat into my mouth.

I didn't know for how long we made out, but it must've been for a long time because when we parted lips we were gasping due to lack of air and something else I didn't quite dare to think about.

"You're so fucking hot", he complimented me.

"You're one to talk."

He smiled.

I went back to my friends who shouted and slapped my shoulders; they had seen everything and I hid my face in my hands in pure shame but also pride. I looked up in between my fingers to see Madara look at me, smirking, downing the last of his wine.

I turned my attention to my friends to play hard to get, something I could only do when I was drunk, as a game, otherwise I preferred to be honest and open about my feelings. I hung out with them for a while and, for a short time, in my drunk state, manage to lose myself in them; we had so much to talk about. But then, with a convulsion of pure happiness I remembered the black-haired sous chef at the other table and turned to him.

I wished I could say that the whole world stopped. That it just stopped spinning. That would have been far more dignified. But the world didn't stop spinning. The world crashed, head-first, right into the edge of the universe.

Madara was still at his table. His wine glass was empty. His loose hair was tumbling down his shoulder.

And his face was turned up.

His face was turned up to kiss a man in a black suit that was standing above his table, bending down to reach him, one hand in his pocket, the other in Madara's hair.

And that man was Tobirama the head chef.

Even I could see I was pale. I was white, all blood drained from my face. 

I turned on the tap in the men's bathroom, noticed my hands were trembling. The water splashed all over the place as I tried to wash my face, wetted my hair strands which would make them curl slightly. That would go nicely with my freckles, I thought in the madness of it all.

I grabbed the sink, bent forwards, my breaths coming out in ragged, forceful gusts of wind.

Of course, that was when the door opened.

I jerked, looked up, realising far too late that must've made me look like a deer caught in headlight.

It was Tobirama.

"Hashirama", he said, surprised to see me.

I didn't feel any anger towards him. Only a deep longing.

"Chef Senju", I said, looking down.

"Not here", he said mildly, but he wasn't smiling; he'd noticed something was wrong. "Here, I am only Tobirama."

He was dead sober. He took two steps towards me, put his finger beneath my chin, tried to force my face up to his but I struggled against it; I wasn't in the mood.

"Look at me", he demanded but I didn't obey. "Hashirama, seriously, I'm not flirting with you. You're badly off."

I looked at him, and suddenly staggered. Tobirama was right; I was comprehensively drunk. I had done a lot of shots after I saw them kissing. A lot.

"You're coming home with me", Tobirama said simply.

I was in no condition to decline.

Not that I would have, had I been in any other condition than the one I was currently in.