There were very few people in the world I felt sorry for.

Madara was not one of them.

Insecure, was my first thought as I interacted with him. But then, as I kept walking next to him as he showed me the kitchen...

No... No, insecure is not it.

Something had happened to him, something that made him crave time alone that he had not been given. He was, I believed, too polite to ask for it but soldiered on, and he tried to push people away to protect himself from something.

The cafe had closed just before Christmas, and I had started working in Tobirama's kitchen just after New Year's. I had contacted the number on the job advertisement with almost no hope at all, certain it would lead to some sort of manager that would tell me the place was already filled. To my great surprise, however, the number had led directly to Tobirama (he was world-famous, and his number was there, directly in the newspaper) who had accepted me for an interview.

"I know exactly who you are", he had said as soon as we met. "You're overqualified. You could run your own kitchen. I only have a spot as a kitchen porter."

"I'll take it."

Tobirama had refused me at first, but I had been adamant.

"I want to do it. I'm not that fuzzed. I just want to keep working in Paris."

It had taken me half an hour to convince him.

I dried my hands after washing them, looked curiously at the man with the long, black hair. I had never seen anyone with hair like that. I tried to pinpoint his nationality but was unable to; his facial features were as unique as his hair, and strong and sharp. He clearly worked out by weightlifting, and he was slightly taller than me which was impressive on its own.

And he was constantly aware of where I was. I didn't think he noticed that I noticed, but I definitely did. I felt incredibly intimidated and judged; the hostility he radiated was unmistakeable.

But there was another dynamic I was interested in as well, and it was the one between Madara and Tobirama. They clearly loved one another. In what way, I could not tell, but it was clear to me that despite the dislike that went back and forth between the surface of Tobirama and the surface of Madara, they would both die for the other without even blinking. It was definitely Madara who caused the friction between them; in Tobirama's eyes was only the hurt and frustration of dismissal. I wondered what was going on between the two men, or if the roughness between them was just the effect of whatever it was that made Madara the way he was. Lightning bolts of all sorts of colours shot between them in the kitchen, causing the rest to quaver, but me to only observe.

I wished I could have what they had.

I sighed, slung the towel I had used for my hands over my shoulder as if I owned it, went back to work.

After having said goodnight to Madara, who was the last person leaving, I went out through the back door which led to a quite murky alleyway. Just around the corner of it was a grocery shop that didn't look much for the world; it was worn down, greasy and filled to the brim with people who spoke all sorts of colourful languages, but to me, it was heaven. Years of trying different grocery shops had taught me that the ones selling the best foods were exactly like that one; messy, chaotic even, but filled with love. Their fruits were sweeter, their vegetables meatier, their fish fresher. And, not to forget, the staff friendlier. I bought some zucchini and fish alongside other fresh vegetables. I also bought some chickpea flour and almond milk and sesame seeds. I believed they had sesame oil back in the kitchen, but for the life of me that could cost thousands upon thousands of euros for a spoonful, so I bought a cheap one. I paid, thanked the lady behind the counter who smiled at me, then walked back to the back door of the restaurant. Putting the bags down, I picked up my key that Tobirama had given me and opened the door.

It was time for me to cook.

I had asked Tobirama if I was allowed to use the kitchen after hours, deeming it safe seeing he already knew who I was, of course also telling him I'd buy my own ingredients, and he'd said yes. I had bitten my lip a little, thinking.

"Spill the beans", he'd said, noticing I had something on my mind.

"Please don't tell anyone I cook."

He had looked at me for a long time then, considering whether he should ask me about it, but then decided against it.

"Okay. I won't tell anybody." He was silent for a while. "And Chef Senju." I'd jerked at the title. "Don't worry. You can grab bits and pieces from the kitchen. We're a three star Michelin restaurant. We're loaded."

Her smirked, but he hadn't been able to hide the pride in his voice entirely.

I smiled, but I knew he only tried to make me feel more comfortable by changing the subject, clearly having been able to discern I was nervous. But how could I explain? How could I explain I was frightened to show these people my true potential? Especially if I worked with them for a while and developed a friendship with them all, which I hoped I would. The work as a porter was fine. But cooking on my own, doing my best... For the moment that was for my eyes, and my eyes alone. I couldn't risk what Merlin had put me through happening again.

I went to the hooks where our white chef's robes hung; even if my job did not involve cooking, I'd gotten the same robe as everyone else. I took mine down, put it over my shoulders, buttoned it up. I collected my hair, fastened it with a clip I had in my pocket. Then, I took the grocery bags and went to the kitchen.

I walked between the stations, pulled my fingertips over the counters. It was a long time ago I'd cooked in a professional kitchen, and I could feel my fingertips itch to begin. Which was exactly why I forced myself to slow down. I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth, letting the air in my lungs caress my lips on its way out. I went from station to station, then stood still in front of...

Madara's station.

I took another deep breath, took down a deep pan from the hanger above the oven, and got to work.

I put the oven on its grill function, took the fresh fish out, skinned and boned it before putting it in aluminium foil. I put flake salt and cracked pepper on it, squeezed some lemon to drench it. I halved the garlic and put it next to the fish in the aluminium foil; this way the garlic would not only become its own entity, but it would also give flavour to the fish. I put it in the oven to cook, then went back to my chopping board. I cut asparagus length-wise, heated some sesame oil in a pan and flash-fried them so they were crispy on the outside but also on the inside, not giving them enough time in the pan to soften. With the same oil tinged with the mild asparagus flavour, I roasted peanuts and then mixed it to my infamous homemade peanut sauce. Usually I had lemon in it, but as the fish already had lemon on, I sweetened the peanut sauce with maple syrup to strike a balance. I took and boiled some potatoes from the kitchen as I'd forgotten to buy some myself, made a vegan mayonnaise having learned the value of knowing how to cook vegan foods to the point I could probably start an entirely vegan restaurant and earn myself, let's say, two Michelin stars, and then used the cooked, boiled potatoes and mayonnaise to make a potato salad with raw tomato and squash. I dished up the potato salad and asparagus, took the fish from the oven and cut a piece and plated it as well. Then, I took a step back and inspected my work.

It looked amazing. Nothing extra, nothing flashy. It wasn't exactly comfort food, but it was welcoming, fresh, a perfect combination of cold potato salad and hot grilled fish.

I took my plate and walked out of the kitchen. It was my first time in the actual restaurant; it had been Madara's job to show me the salon, but he hadn't bothered. I suspected it wasn't because he was rude but rather because he didn't find that part particularly important. He seemed to be a man who never did anything extra for enjoyment, ever. The thought should have made me sad, but instead, I smiled as I walked with my plate over the beautiful wooden floors of the ginormous restaurants, trying to imagine him going to the amusement park for pure enjoyment, getting his well-endowed ass on a rollercoaster. Wait, when had I inspected his ass close enough to know is was well-endowed?

Earning a Michelin star was not only about the food. It was about everything; the interior, the staff, the whole experience. And seeing the place where our guests ate, I understood why Tobirama had earned himself four stars.

The place was like the most expensive hotel in the world, high in ceiling with a ginormous crystal crown that wasn't at all tacky, the crystals big and rectangular with a princess cut instead of the traditional rose cut. The whole atmosphere made such an impressive impact that you didn't take it in detail for detail but rather as a whole; if you'd asked the guest afterwards, they probably wouldn't have been able to say the walls were a soft dark dove grey, or that the tables were of the purest mahogany. The lights were perfect to make the place seem even bigger than it was, despite the dark colours. It was all so skilfully made, it took my breath away, and I had seen many, many beautiful restaurants including the five Michelin star one of the Dean of my cooking school.

None of them were quite like this.

Incredibly happy and my heart full to the brim, I took my plate to a table where I ate my dinner in peace.

Finding myself fantasising about that black-haired, bitter chef sitting opposite me, complimenting me without any resentment.

Trusting me enough to tell me what had made him the way he was.