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Antonio started to wipe down one of the last few tables on what had been his side of the restaurant for the evening, humming along to the bar radio.
It had been a simultaneously long and fast shift; the pressures of opening night had been both very intense yet very motivating—he found he worked fairly well under pressure, after all. But now it was eleven o’clock. All of their customers had left and the team (Antonio, Feliciano and Heracles in the front, and Francis, Lorenzo and Sadiq in the back of house) had quickly gotten to work on cleaning up ready to do it all again tomorrow.
He couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it. Cleaning tables, running around balancing plates, pouring drinks—it may not have seemed like a glamorous lifestyle, but it was not glamour Antonio had dreamed of since his adolescence. He thrived around people. He adored the hustle and bustle of strangers’ conversations filling a warm room. He found joy in bringing others a happiness and comfort that only food could provide (even if all he was doing was carrying plates from kitchen to table and not actually cooking).
At twenty-nine years old, owning a restaurant was a dream come true. The dream was only made better in that the person he shared ownership with was one of the most caring, gentle, lovable idiots he knew—a man he could call his own.
(Well, sort of. They’d skipped the marriage step but neither had fancied the ceremony, so they just… wore the rings, and had had a private and unofficial ceremony of their own in the back garden (and dear Gilbert had been both bestman and ‘priest’, of course). It had been a pleasant day in the summer. They had gone out for dinner afterwards, and had honeymooned on the settee watching bad romance films, eating ice-cream and maybe… having a little extra fun under a blanket. What more did a wedding need?)
Antonio finished his last table, still humming along to the distant music of the bar. A glance around showed that Heracles was replacing the glasses on the shelves and the hangers, whilst Feliciano was neatening up some of the chairs, putting them back in their original places (a lot of tables had been moved around to accommodate bigger groups that had shown up—but at least they had booked!). They were due to go home now. If anything, they should have done so five minutes ago, exactly at eleven o’clock, but it was always reassuring to have staff around who didn’t mind helping out. The extra tips from the evening were no doubt worth it.
Antonio would be sure to not ask anyone to come in earlier than scheduled tomorrow.
He busied himself with the till in the meantime, counting the night’s takings and making sure both Heracles and Feliciano had all their tips before eventually telling them they could clock out. Feliciano said he would hang around until Lorenzo was done and had some lemonade, sitting down at the bar, and Heracles bid them both a good night before heading on his way, apparently quite keen to get back to his cat as she had recently had an operation. He would see them tomorrow evening.
Making conversation with Feliciano was always an easy thing; Antonio found they were quite alike, and it was nice that the other still had energy at such a time of day to talk as animatedly as he did. Or maybe that was just the sudden sugar rush talking. Lorenzo will kill me. Or at least, fake-threaten to… Still, as they spoke—mostly about Feliciano’s studies (he was an art student, who also took up animation on the side)—Antonio continued to sort out the night’s intakes, being sure to leave some aside as a float for the following service.
He was nodding along as Feliciano was explaining his current project to him, half-intrigued by terms such as ‘impressionism’ and ‘Macchiaioli’ (whatever that meant) and half-zoned out as he tried to multitask. His brain was beginning to hurt (maybe I need some lemonade, too) and his focus was waning. Antonio looked at Feliciano as he was asked a question about his thoughts on landscape paintings, and just as he went to say ‘landscape orientation or landscape subject?’, he instead was met by a sudden shock as foreign fingers tickled at his sides and he jumped, quite ungraciously, forward into the wooden bar with an alarmed (and strangled) cry of fright.
Consequently, the Spaniard gave a light groan and stepped back away from the jutting-out bar top he had slammed into (thank God it isn’t marble or stone) and threw his gaze to the side—to his assailant.
Francis looked both apologetic and amused. Antonio tried and failed to not smile at him. “Pardonne-moi, Toni,” the blonde said, “I didn't mean to startle you like that.”
“Mmm, sure, lo que digas,” Antonio responded, shaking his head at him. "You are so mean to me sometimes."
Francis apologised again and offered a hug as a peace offering. Antonio, feeling suddenly quite stubborn, rejected the offer. Instead, he replied to Feliciano’s previous question—’I prefer paintings of places to paintings of people’—and left Francis hanging, the money from the register going into a caddy so it could be taken back home with them.
As predicted, however, Francis was not going to take that lying down. While Feliciano and Antonio continued to converse, the Frenchman tried a different approach to this predicament he found himself in and Antonio soon felt arms around his waist, a body leaning against his back. Feliciano laughed against the straw of his drink and Antonio turned his head to acknowledge his partner who loomed expectantly over his shoulder.
“Can I help you?” Antonio asked.
“I don’t need your help, minou,” Francis told him; “just your forgiveness.”
“Ahh, then, how much are you willing to pay for it?” he enquired, his smile growing and gaining a slight cheek to it. He wouldn’t actually hold Francis to whatever it was—not unless he wanted to—but where was the fun in not teasing him so?
Francis hummed and thought to himself for a few seconds, before making his first and final offer: “Breakfast in bed, whatever you fancy.”
Now that was a sound way into Antonio’s heart. He leaned a bit closer in and kissed the other’s cheek, which was often used as a substitute for the word ‘yes’ in their relationship, and moved his arms over Francis’—a way to return the embrace. As expected (and hoped) Francis got the message and Antonio soon felt a kiss (or two) just behind his ear, gentle and slow, before Francis leaned his head against Antonio’s.
Their one-man audience gave a brief applause. “You two are being adorable—stop it,” Feliciano said with a soft laugh, shaking his head (probably in disbelief that they were being all cuddly and affectionate around other people). “You make us single people too jealous, it’s not fair!”
“One day, Feli, you’ll find someone to make other people jealous with,” Francis reassured the young Italian. “Don’t worry—there’s no rush to find the right person. But you’ll know when you do; love at first sight is no mere myth.”
Says the man who just wanted to be my friend, when I first hinted at my feeli—
“Hey, you guys had better not be fucking each other behind that bar! That’s my brother you’re corrupting!”
“If anyone has corrupted me, it’s you, fratello,” Feliciano told his brother with a tut as he walked around from the kitchen doors, out of his whites and back in casual clothes, a small frown on his face. (Lorenzo was in truth harmless—a misunderstood pitbull). But the accusation against him was not taken well, especially when Feliciano elaborated in front of everyone: “You and your boyfriend go at it every other night, and you know the walls between our rooms are thin!”
Lorenzo was quite naturally flustered by that, and no doubt offended that such a thing had been said in front of his bosses. Yikes, Feli does not hold back.
“Sei incredibile,” Lorenzo said to his brother.
“E tu sei incredibilmente rumoroso,” Feliciano threw right back.
Antonio wished at moments like this that the Romance languages were not so similar.
Before anything more took place and Lorenzo could retaliate, he thanked them both for their work that day as a sort of diversion, and told them to go home, get some rest, and they would see them tomorrow. It seemed to nip that argument in the bud. Both Italians agreed to follow the advice and wished both Antonio and Francis a good night—one with a smile, the other with a half-hearted scowl. Either way, they were soon out of their hair and the couple could relax.
For all of ten seconds.
“I’ll see you both tomorrow morning, yeah?”
What was it with people making him jump? The Spaniard swallowed down a curse and a huff and let Francis handle the sous chef: “At ten o’clock, if that’s still okay. And you will bring those recipes for me to look at?” Francis said.
“‘Course, don’t you worry,” Sadiq promised with a nod. His bag was slung over his shoulder and he walked past the bar towards the restaurant’s front entrance. Before he passed through the doors he turned to both owners and said: “Don’t drink too much tonight, both of you; you need to not be hungover for tomorrow. Got it?”
“Yeah, we got it,” Antonio assured him, rolling his eyes. “Any other advice for us, dad? ”
Sadiq grinned and opened the door with his back, calling to them as he slipped out: “Use protection!” and he soon disappeared into the dimly lit waterfront streets, having graced them with such wisdom, just as he always did.
Frankly, Antonio was quite glad to see the back of him.
“So,” Francis said as they were finally left alone, completely unsupervised and unfiltered. He let go of Antonio, who turned around to get a good look at the other. He looked rather well put together considering he’d been suffering in a hot kitchen for several hours… but he had changed clothes, so perhaps he had freshened up too. Lucky me. “Did you want to celebrate a successful opening night together?” he asked. “I know Sadiq told us not to drink too much, but I think a bottle of bubbles is fine, right?”
“Well, if you’re offering, I won’t say no to a glass. Or two.”
Francis smiled at him and Antonio smiled back. While the former went to collect a bottle (just some prosecco, because champagne was expensive and even though it was a big occasion, both agreed it was too soon to risk their finances), Antonio took two glasses down from the hangers above the bar for the other to use, and then he sat himself down on top of the clean bar-top itself. The cork was popped, bubbles began to spew, and Francis poured them both a drink. Chin-chin! They tapped glasses and enjoyed that first spritely sip of prosecco.
In hindsight, maybe they should have saved it for when they were back home. But then nothing beat celebrating it in the moment, did it?
“When we get home,” Antonio began to suggest, “I vote straight for bed.”
“Is that with or without heeding Sadiq’s other piece of advice?”
“Do you think you’d even have the energy for that?”
“With a bit more bubbly, I don’t see why not, cher,” Francis replied with a look both coy and smug that was not a very attractive expression on the other, but evidently, it was just part of the theatrics that made them both chuckle. Francis moved and stood in front of the bar-perching Spaniard and tapped his nose (boop). “Only if you want to. I am also quite happy to just… sleep.”
Antonio set down his glass and encouraged the other closer with his hands (quite the easy task), then taking Francis’ drink and putting it down next to his. “How about,” he said as he snaked his arms around his partner’s neck, “we just see how it goes?”
Francis did not give him an immediate answer. Instead, his arms went around Antonio again as he pulled him closer (he was more than happy to oblige), a slow and tender kiss being shared between them. "I like that idea," he said when they parted.
"Then that’s what we'll do, hm? But before that…"
Their lips met again—not so much a rough collision but a meeting by design—and, well… Maybe there was no rush to get home. Driving under the influence was illegal after all, and it seemed much cosier to be there at the bar, wrapped up safe and warm with Francis, than outside under the cold and dark night sky.