Chapter Text
“Is fine dining usually this exciting?”
His pale eyes are bored and vacant when he turns to look at the source of the voice addressing him. “You’re not from around here.” It’s a statement that doesn’t require or expect a reply.
“Oh, I’m just visiting from the States.”
The argument raging on a few feet away from them increases in intensity as spittle flies from the bearded man’s mouth, and the speaker unconsciously moves closer to the strange man.
“I didn’t know that this restaurant had such a… reputation.”
The foreigner isn’t really dressed properly for the restaurant—they’re not wearing the same bright crimson as all the other patrons in the dining room, and their outfit is even rather conservative.
His fine suit has ostentatious ruffles at the wrists and collar, and his long red silk scarf highlights his pale, almost sickly skin. “You shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like foreigners.”
“Well, I’d hate to get on his bad side. I’ll head back to my table before he notices me.”
He reaches out and tugs on the lapel of the visitor’s jacket before they can turn away, feeling the smooth fabric between his fingers. His long brown bangs threaten to fall into his eyes as he inclines his head to get a closer look at the silver button pinned there. “I’ll walk you.” His thumb rubs over the shiny crow and he pulls the visitor behind him by the jacket.
“Hey, wait—I can walk on my own.” Their soft hand closes over his wrist as they laugh nervously, but he doesn’t let go until they reach the small table shoved in an inconvenient corner.
The foreigner sits down in the chair they had abandoned and sets their lapels to rights. “What did you say your name is? You’re welcome to join me for dinner if you like.”
“Mitchel.” He notes the single plate and wineglass and takes the open seat. Perhaps intimidating the foreigner will bring him back into Albert’s good graces, and, with how pissed he was at him earlier, the gang boss will probably be glad not to have to see him for a few minutes. And Albert even seems to be in a mood for getting his own hands dirty—Mitchel might well have the evening off.
“Do you come here often? Oh, I bet you have a plate getting cold somewhere else. Do you want to go get it, or…”
Mitchel hates this sort of conversation. If he’s hungry, he’ll eat. He reaches across the table, snatches up the cutlery, stabs the fork into the tender course in front of the foreigner, and cuts a generous portion. The American watches in shock as he brings the oversized hunk of meat up to his face and tears a too-large bite off with his mouth.
“Here, let me cut that for you.” The American reaches across the table to snatch the fork from his hand; he considers fighting them for it but allows them to take it back to their side. He might be a touch curious. People don’t usually put up any resistance to him. The American sets the meat on their bread plate and cuts a delicate bite.
“Smell it first and see if you’ll even like it.” The guest holds out the fork to him, and he goes to take it, but it’s drawn away again. The guest smiles at him. No one smiles at him. “No, come on, I said you should smell it first.” Light, playful.
Mitchel leans in and sniffs the morsel. “Chicken?” The foreigner looks like they’re about to respond, but he dives in before they can and takes the food off the fork, scraping his teeth along the tines.
They watch as he eats. It doesn’t matter any to him; he’s used to worse than that.
“Do you always chew with your mouth open?”
Mitchel scowls and makes a move at the remainder of the meal he’s appropriated. The foreigner scoots the plate away, and Mitchel jumps to his feet. Stupid fucking tourist making everything difficult…
“No, no, here, it’s okay; can I just—” He leans over the table, ready to crowd the goddamn American into their chair and make them regret coming here. The begging phase never changes anything. “Can we eat together and I can show you?”
Mitchel blinks, pauses. “You’re going to show me how to eat?” He sits down.
“I mean, you can eat however you want; I can’t stop you.” The visitor slices another bite from the chicken, spears a vegetable along with it, and offers it to him. “Sorry for being rude.”
I could do anything I like, and you couldn’t stop me. Mitchel accepts the attempt at placating him. It does taste good.
The American prepares a bite from their own remainder of the food, using the same fork that he had just had in his mouth. If they knew where he’d been, they probably wouldn’t dare. The American is such a strangely sweet, trusting thing. He’s still hungry.
“Sorry, I’ll get you another one.” The foreigner is setting up a fresh bite for him. Their face is lightly flushed, delicate red dusting their cheeks. They’re finally starting to look like they belong in the room.
The tip of the knife punctures the flesh, and a bead of moisture is pushed from the tender meat. There’s something about the gesture that’s almost sexual, and Mitchel finds that he’d rather sink his teeth into something else.
The American points the knife across the table at him, and he maintains eye contact the entire time as he parts his lips and ignores the murmured “Be careful.” He tips his head up as he tugs the morsel free with his sharp teeth, allowing the blade to score a thin line on his lower lip.