Chapter Text
It's not bad, Marco, it's just... missing something. That one thing that makes it really a Marco creation...
It's just not the same as your original work
Just not the same
Not as special....
Marco Bodt always thought that 'tasting defeat' was a metaphor.
He's just proven himself wrong.
Failure, he decides, tastes like bread on the wrong side of 'just moldy', cheap red wine, and frozen, microwavable mac and cheese. He's nauseated at it. Taste is Marco's thing. Whatever psychosomatic event is happening to his taste buds right now is just cruel, considering the panic that's going on at the same time in his head. He's going to throw up.
Instead, he grabs a glass of something off a tray at the bar and throws it back in one gulp.
Defeat doesn't taste better mixed with expensive champagne. Maybe he needs more. Maybe he's still going to throw up. Who can say.
Most of Marco Bodt's team are still there when he stumbles through the kitchen doors. His patisseries, Ymir and Christa, are alternating between scrubbing at their counter and drinking large glasses of red wine. Armin is going through the wine list once again with Eren, Berhodlt is shining a pile of knives, and Levi is up to his elbows in dish water and rubber gloves.
Don't make eye contact, Marco thinks, Of all the people to disappoint, Levi - master chef Levi - would be the worst.
Christa sees him first, but when she sees his face her hopeful expression falls. Marco trudges over to the apron hooks and has his back turned, trying to untie the knots he always makes too tight, when he hears both of them come up behind him.
"Marco...?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
Ymir leans on the wall beside him, "That bad, huh?"
He turns his eyes to the ceiling, because the ceiling is less judgmental and won't mock him if it sees water in the corners of his eyes. Neither will Christa, perhaps, but the ceiling also doesn't pity his weak self.
"It just didn't...'have that Marco taste'," he quotes mournfully.
Ymir smirks, "They probably could have put that a better way."
"Ymir," Christa hisses, and shoots her a look before putting a hand on Marco's shoulders, "You shouldn't worry, Marco. One meal that maybe doesn't go so great isn't the end."
He looks at her, a whole foot smaller than he is, and radiating encouragement from her half-smile and big blue eyes, "Yeah," he says quietly.
In his head he asks, And what if it is? What if this is it?
"Bodt!"
Marco winces. Levi, from his place on the stool in front of the sink, is glaring.
"Stop moping about one mediocre dinner. It's pathetic," He crashes one of the industrial-sized pots into the drying rack, "Now go home before you infect anyone else with your negativity."
If negativity was actually an infection, Marco thinks, Levi would have died long ago from it.
"He's right," Mikasa says, arriving from the dining room with the last of the dinner plates from their regulars, "Take the rest of the night off and get some rest for tomorrow."
Ymir reaches up to ruffle his hair, "Yeah, Freckles. Come back tomorrow and make more of your bammin'-slammin' booty-licious cuisine."
Christa shakes her head. Only Ymir would call a 150$-a-plate meal "booty-licious".
Marco attempts a smile. From their reactions, the attempt fails.
Marco loves 104. He does. He loves the beautiful, gleaming kitchen, the heat, the energy. He loves the constantly stocked walk-in fridge and the dim glow of the cellar light as it reflects off dark bottles of wine. He loves that, during the rush, when he suggests something the kitchen team yells yes, Chef! and then they do what he asks, no questions asked. He loves that after the rush they're his friends again. 104 is his restaurant - maybe not with his signature on the deed, but it's his domain all the same.
A kitchen like this is a sign for anyone in Marco's field that they've Made It. Capitals necessary.
And the two Michelin stars outside the door of 104 speak louder than any clamor in his kitchen or guests in the dining room.
"'Night, Armin," he says when Armin waves from a chair near the door, after he's gone and changed back into regular clothes.
"Goodnight, Marco."
Levi's head pops out of the office in the corner, "You're on vegetable pick up tomorrow, Bodt. Don't forget."
That's a four AM start to his day, but Marco's gone numb now, and he only nods. He won't be asleep, anyways.
He's 23. At 16 he was a prodigy.
Marco wonders when he started using past tense before that word. Prodigy.
Probably about the time when his regulars started giving kind (and indulgent) smiles, like he'd drawn a mediocre picture for the first time and no one wanted to tell him how bad it really was. When his food started to be boring. When he started loving 104 on principle, rather than in practice.
So Marco Bodt leaves 104 and heads out to his electric car, which he drives halfway out of the city until he reaches to McDonalds on the edge of the ravine. He orders two cheeseburgers and a chocolate milkshake and a ten-pack of chicken nuggets with sweet and sour sauce and then he sits on the trunk of his car and eats every bit of them while he sits and watches the world from the parking lot. It's cold tonight. Cold enough that he has to get the plaid fleece blanket from the backseat and cold enough that after the first burger his nose has gone numb.
I'm about to become a failure.
There's no light in the ravine. Plenty of light from the cars driving down the bridge, but none in the trees along the river. Marco perches on his car for so long at all the world becomes nothing but the slope down into that darkness, with him at the top of it all. He still feels sick. The burgers probably didn't help.
Better get used to the view, Bodt. It's all downhill from here.
Jean Kirschtein is 22. He wonders, though, if somehow he found himself a time machine and has ended up in those days back when he was 15 and working on the farm in the summer like usual. When his dad would wake him up in the mornings before the sun came up and he'd grumble and eventually pull himself out of bed and get to work.
Because he's pretty sure he's 22 and his dad is waking him up and there's no way the sun's up yet. It's too damn cold. Those four years at university seem like a dream he's just woken up from. Back to reality. Back to his childhood. Degree be damned.
"Jean, wake up. I need your help."
Jean groans, "What time is it?"
"Just before four."
He groans again.
"Come on, bud, I'm in need of a driver.
With the comforter wrapped around his shoulders he sits up, and digs a hand from the blankets to swipe across his eyes, "A driver for what?"
His dad isn't even looking at him. He's on his phone with the light from the screen highlighting his definitive nose. The hallway is leaking light into Jean's comfortable haven of sleep and he wants more than anything to go back.
"Deliveries. The usual. I've got to go to a Farmer's Association Meeting, I'm the only one with the minutes and I forgot all about it."
Deliveries aren't usual. Jean's never done them before, it's something new his parents started after he left for school.
"I've got a list for you - addresses, stock, names," His father reads his mind sometimes, "You'll be fine. The truck's packed."
"What?"
"The truck, Jean, pay attention," Mr. Kirschtein slaps the list against Jean's blanket-covered chest, "First drop-offs at 5 in the city. You gonna be alright?"
Jean rubs his eyes again, "Yeah. Yeah, get going. I'll do it."
"Thanks, Jean. I owe you one."
Add it to the tally Jean thinks. He stays quiet.
When his dad leaves, Jean gets dressed in the dark in layers for this goddam cold. He never remembers fall being this cold. Europe has changed his temperature tolerance.
The farm is awake, the workers already heading to the fields and the greenhouses, and a few that Jean knows fairly well after a summer back-to-back with them packing up the truck the Kirschtein's have always used for Market. As Jean is waking over with a travel mug of coffee and a piece of peanut butter toast in hand, the back is latched closed by Thomas.
"Ready to go, Jean?" Thomas asks, cheerily.
Jean shudders, "As long as there's heat in the truck."
Thomas laughs, "It'll warm up. Just wait for that sun."
Jean wants to wait for the sun in bed, like a normal person. Like a non-farmer. He gets in the van and Thomas waves goodbye. Jean would wave, but his hands are switching the heat on in the cabin as fast as possible and besides, he doesn't want to be nice to these people. He should be nice, it's not their fault, but the fewer connections right now, the better. He's lucky they're good people. They leave him alone to grieve, he thinks. And he's alright with that.
The farm may be awake, but the city isn't. Trost is asleep and the roads are empty. It makes the traffic lights look overly enthusiastic without any cars cursing at them, too bright, too colourful. The fog that was settling into the hills in the outskirts of town is in the alleys between building and in the ravine, Jean sees as he drives by. He taps his fingers on the wheel and sings under his breath to whatever dated nineties song they're playing. The truck is old. It's got his family's logo in peeling paint on the side. The radio refuses to play anything but that single soft rock station, and it has for as long as Jean can remember. When his mother used to sing along to the familiar songs in falsetto voices with him tucked into the backseat, not old enough to sit in the front. When she would turn around to wink at him at stoplights. He remembers her profile, the dark hair, the French accent saying his name. All those old memories in this older town.
Jean thought he'd left this damn place behind.
The first location on the list only says 104, like Jean is supposed to know what that is. He almost misses the storefront driving by and has to nearly topple the truck to turn into the alley in time. There's a small courtyard in the building, big enough for a few parking spaces or one large van. The signs say "Staff Parking Only" but Jean doubts there's anyone around here awake to ticket him.
When he shivers and jumps out of the van he wonders if there's anyone around, at all, to pick up their delivery.
His watch says five to five, so he hunches on the back bumper and pulls his sleeves over his hands and breathes into them. He probably looks unprofessional. He probably looks like shit: he ignored the brush and the sweater he chose is worn from a long time of loving it too much to take it off, but he figures that whatever prissy restaurant owner shows up is used to his father, anyways. They're a family of farmers. So what if grass stains and grimy fingernails is part of the job description.
104, Jean assumes, is a restaurant, but the windows were too dark to see anything, driving past. Certainly they're picky about produce, whoever owns it.
The alley is remarkably spotless, too. He's sitting so still the sensor light has shut off, and the darkness closes in. It's full of mist, but the sun's starting to shuffle on the horizon like it might shake off its covers soon and start the day, but maybe five more minutes, like come on, its tired.
So Jean sighs and watches the cloud of breath dissipate into the mist. All mist is breath, he decides, collected from around the world tenfold and settling into the sleepy corners of the pre-dawn city.
And he hears someone coming. Footsteps on stone paving.
Jean stands, the light comes back on, and it shines on a man coming out of the mist, running.
Or maybe not a man, per say. He's younger, Jean's age, but he's taller, and he's in sweats and a blue zipper hoodie and bright orange running shoes, breathing heavily. He pulls up short seeing Jean and pulls the ear buds from his ears.
He's close enough now all Jean thinks is my God that's a lot of freckles for one person.
"I'm late?"
Jean checks his watch but it's only 5:01 and he can't exactly fault this guy for a single minute of tardiness, not after his track record.
"...are you here for the delivery?" Jean says slowly.
The guy smiles in a way that suggests he does it a lot and without much thought. He's got the smile for it, though. All bright teeth and cheekbones and dimples and those wrinkly lines around his eyes from practice.
Jean likes to scowl. Smiling is for suckers.
And people with better smiles.
"Yeah. I should have gotten here ages ago to unlock the place and, you know," he gestures to his clothes, "Look like a presentable business partner."
Jean doesn't mind.
"Uh, don't worry about it," Jean shrugs, ""s not like I'm wearing a suit here."
The guy smiles again, and heads to the door, pulling out a key ring, "Are you new? I've met most of the delivery people from Kirschtien Produce before."
Jean crosses his arms, "I am a Kirschtein."
The guy pokes his head through the now open door with his eyebrows raised, "Oh?"
"Just came back from university, I've been helping out at the farm again for the summer."
Freckles ducks back into the restaurant, and then appears a moment later with a piece of paper in hand and the bulge of a wallet in his pocket.
"Welcome back to Trost then, Mr. Kirschtein," he says.
"Jean. It's Jean."
"Marco Bodt," says Marco, holding out a hand to shake. Jean takes it, "Sorry about the sweaty palms. Running, and all that."
Jean shrugs, "It happens." He's used to sweat. Summer on a farm isn't daisy fresh all the time.
Jean pulls open the back, searching his own list for the numbered crates he needs to pull out. They're all lined up at the back, a whole slew of them, and he checks them off in his head one by one.
Jean turns back to Marco, "Do you want me to carry them inside, or...?"
Marco shakes his head, "No, you can leave them out here. I'll carry them in myself," he smirks, "You ever done this before?"
Jean tenses, but Marco seems to mean it in a curious sort of way, "No. My dad didn't start doing deliveries until after I left. I just got stuck with the job this morning." He climbs up and starts carting the produce down.
"Exciting. Meeting new people and driving all over the city," Goody, this Marco is excited about the prospect of meeting new people. Enthusiasm this bright wasn't made for 5 AM.
Jean scoffs, "Yeah, at 5 in the bloody morning."
Marco laughs, and Jean realizes that Marco's stuck in the same place he is. Must be a grunt to have to be here so early. Lower rung on the ladder, earlier wake up call, Jean thinks.
"You seem to be awake enough to handle it," Marco says.
"Barely."
"If you keel over, I'll try to catch you before you hit the ground."
"I'd appreciate it."
Jean only notices when the last crate hits the pile, but the food his just dropped off is the good stuff. He can tell. All the fruit is unmarked and perfectly sized, the stuff that buyers pay extra for, even though Seconds are almost always just as good for half the price. What's one or two extra little imperfections? But Marco is looking over it meticulously, nodding at most of it and scratching at flecks of dirt to make sure they aren't dents or bruises. With the alley growing lighter, he can see more freckles across his medium-toned skin. He's hunched over, eyes focused, with dark circles, Jean notes, that mirror his own.
Jean crosses his arms again, "Are you inspecting my produce?"
Marco raises his eyebrows and Jean tries to imagine that what he just said didn't sound like such a euphemism. He tries to keep his cheeks flush-free through willpower alone.
"Of course," Marco says simply, "Though I've never had any problems with the Kirschtein crop. You always bring the best."
Jean feels a little swell of pride. Of course they do. It's his family, after all.
"Oh. Thanks."
"Sure."
Marco reaches for his wallet, double checking over his list while he does, and when he's satisfied, he tucks it into a pocket and opens the wallet with both hands.
"As agreed upon," he says, pulling out a cheque first, and then once Jean has it in his hands, following up with a stack of twenties.
Jean takes a single look at the cheque and nearly rips it in half out of shock, "This cannot be the right amount," he chokes.
Marco's eyes widen. And then, like it's nothing at all, he reaches into the wallet and pulls out a few more bills, for good measure.
"Better?"
Jean takes the offered money slowly, "I meant, like - this is too much."
Marco folds the wallet and slips it back into his pocket, "I'm sure it isn't. That's no more than what we usually pay."
Jean's pretty sure that this is a confusion, because that is a lot of money to pay for vegetables. And why half of it comes in cash, he isn't sure.
"But-"
"Jean, there's a reason why we're the first stop on your list," Marco says, prompting him to make the connection with a tilt of his head.
And Jean shuts his mouth with a snap. It's a bribe. They pay extra so his father gives them the absolute best. By bribing him. Better than any other delivery in the whole city. That's....something.
"Oh," he stammers, "Right."
"Are you upset?"
"No, I just...wasn't expecting..."
Marco shrugs, "This business is sort of a tricky thing," he offers, "Don't let it bother you."
"Right." Jean tucks the money away, and then he stands there a little awkwardly for a moment.
Marco looks at him expectantly, "Is there anything..."
"Oh, no. Sorry. Sorry, I'll go."
"You don't have to rush," Marco says kindly, "I'm not chasing you away."
Jean does blush this time, "No, I need to... I have other deliveries."
"Of course."
He turns to the truck, but then spins back around, "You're sure you're ok with carrying those in?"
Marco holds out his arms, "What, you don't believe in my strength?" he asks, jokingly offended.
Jean hesitates, "No..."
And Marco laughs, "I'm kidding. I'll be fine. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Kirschtein."
Jean pauses once more, and then gives a half sort of wave, "Yeah. You too."
Then he gets in his truck, and wants to crawl into a hole and die because he's the most awkward individual ever and how the hell does social interaction even work because normal people can't possibly find that easy-
He's got his foot on the gas when he hears Marco yell, "Wait!" and Jean (and his heart) slams on the brakes. The window rolls down, and he leans out to see behind him.
"What?"
Marco is standing at the corner of the truck, looking like he's trying not to laugh.
"You've left the truck open."
Jean. Hole. Die.Now.
He pulls away from the now mist-emptied alley late for his next delivery, his face feeling like its sun burnt to hell, and a laughing, freckled guy waving in his rearview mirror. And Jean has a moment when he doesn't regret being awake before the dawn. Just a split second, mind you. And it has nothing to do with orange shoes and a dark undercut damp from running through the mist. Absolutely nothing at all.