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It had been six long weeks since the end of Pahkitew Island.
As Chef, sitting alone on a bed big enough for three, stared dejectedly at a wall kept dark by blackout curtains, he thought about the vacation he and Chris were supposed to have left for more than a month ago, the vacation they were supposed to be on right this second, and sighed deeply.
Obviously, it wasn’t going to happen— he’d accepted that some time ago, yet almost every morning, it was the first thing on his mind, albeit briefly, like an interrupted dream he couldn’t return to no matter how long he laid there in silence and tried to fall back asleep.
The plan had become something of a vacuous arrangement— not explicitly canceled, just forgotten, and every morning while Chef shambled out of bed and apathetically dressed himself, the burden of knowing that the reason behind it all was obvious, just not easily explainable, sunk from his heart into his stomach like a heavy stone… as it had done every single morning for a long two years.
The truth was, nothing about this was an accident— Chris was not well. He hadn’t been for a long time, in fact, and although the viewing world was indeed aware that something crucial had changed at some point, that the host’s propensity for cruelty, the equally idolized and feared crux of his persona, seemed like it was somewhat getting out of hand, no one but Chef knew how bad things really were, how bad things had gotten.
However, Chef, the only one who was close enough to Chris to know about it, could not place its cause— it wasn’t always this way. In the beginning of their relationship, strictly professional at first, Chris’s practices were defined by nothing more than a healthy amount of showbiz nastiness— the standard obnoxious host schtick. His behavior was the sort that the viewers wanted and the network insisted on, and nobody, including Chef, thought anything of it.
In fact, before they really knew each other, laughing at the teenagers and their misfortunes was the the first thing he and Chris had in common— it was what sparked their first off-camera conversations, talks that went later and later into the night and, ironically, it was how Chef came to find that Chris was actually more human than he looked when he was in front of the cameras.
But by season four, the host’s conduct had worsened as though it were something rotten that had been left alone for too long, and his practices started to cross the line. As Chris pushed and prodded at the bounds of what he could get away with on his show, his methods only got crueler and more vicious, while he himself reflected them as though he were their shadow. He became meaner, more difficult to be around, and although Chef found himself becoming more frustrated with Chris’s new attitude almost every day that passed and seriously considered dumping him to spare himself the trouble, he also found that he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.
Despite his insufferable behavior, the way his narcissism had graduated to unabashed self-obsession and his attempts on the lives of the contestants became unscripted, it was more than obvious to Chef that there was something stressing the host hidden behind that award-winning smile— something more complex than the pressures of his job making him so intolerable and irritable, but no matter how close Chef thought he and Chris were, he was apparently forbidden to know about it.
There were many attempts made over the span of three years to help the man who so vehemently insisted that he didn’t need help, but all Chef’s efforts to carefully coax the problem out and crush it led only to dead ends and arguments. It seemed that Chris was perfectly content pretending that the shadow looming over him trying to swallow him whole wasn’t really there and the restlessness that had started governing his behavior didn’t exist.
So when season four ended calamitously with Chris’s arrest, Chef remembered feeling a sort of liberation that made him hope he’d never have to feel something so vile ever again, yet at the same time he thought that time apart might make things better, because after all, there was no way things could possibly get worse than Revenge of the Island, the season where he and Chris had more fights than they ever had in a single year.
But even after twelve months of not seeing or speaking to Chris at all, All-Stars and Pahkitew demonstrated so kindly that things could always get worse, beginning fervently with Chris’s return as if nothing at all had happened, and Chef came to realize with lasting dread that Chris’s arrest hadn’t been the climax, it had only been the catalyst.
Season five, defined by prolonged episodes of inexplicable mania and an unabashed addiction to causing suffering, became Chris’s final pirouette.
Chef found it unnerving, the way the teenage contestants and all the ways they could be hurt or humiliated turned into the only thing Chris cared about, and he was nothing but encouraged to get worse as they suffered eagerly through whatever dangerous, degrading trials he’d engineered, all while Chef suffered through Chris’s newly developed mood swings, his volatility and perhaps worst of all, his detachment, as his relationship with Chef had apparently fallen out of his realm of interest entirely.
Chef had previously gotten himself used to Chris being too busy and not having time for him, but this was something different entirely— it wasn’t that he couldn’t make time for Chef, he didn’t seem as though he wanted to. Making season five as miserable as possible for everyone involved other than himself was his only priority, and behind closed doors, Chris acted as though Chef was an intangible presence in his life that served only to distract him.
Things never did get better, despite Chef’s hopes, not even when season five was finally over, the contestants at home and the studio closed for hiatus.
With his methods of amusement gone or otherwise out of reach, Chris, not knowing what to do with himself and apparently uninterested in his tradition of going on vacation after every season for the first time in his Total Drama career, found substitutes to supplement his lack of occupation alarmingly fast.
Within a week of the finale, Chris, already high-strung and now incredibly bored, started hemorrhaging enormous amounts of money on frivolous indulgences, staying up incredibly late and filling great portions of his free time with acts of self-vandalism, some vague and others severe. Without seeming to know or care what he was doing, he would go out alone almost every night, drink far beyond his limits and, perhaps out of some subconscious need for attention, frequently pick fights he couldn’t possibly win.
Between all those nights Chef was forced to go to bed alone, the constant, uncomfortable tension and all the clothes soiled by blood or vomit he found in the hamper, it was glaringly obvious that Chris was self-destructing.
Even so, the subject had gone untouched, for it didn’t seem like there was anything left for Chef to try. Despite everything they’d been through together, Chris had always acted like everything he did was intentional, despite all the negative effects that trailed behind his irrational behaviors. Now, the sad truth was that Chef had finally come to the end of his patience and endurance after a long three years of grief.
He was exhausted , for God’s sake, and as he realized that there had been two hours between him waking up, dressing himself and sitting on the bed to do nothing but allow his reality to entirely occupy his mind, he felt a sudden, rare and certainly unwelcome sting of angry tears at the inner corners of his eyes, threatening to make his morning harder than it already was, and he quickly jerked his head down as if to hide his face from some hidden onlooker.
Pinning his eyes under a thumb and forefinger and exhaling a shaking, frustrated breath through his nose, Chef gritted his teeth and quickly resolved himself— with intense foreboding, he realized immediately that everything he’d managed to keep sealed behind gruff indifference thus far was at last beginning to break free.
This couldn’t go on any longer.
Chef had been thinking that for a long time, but to feel it this intensely meant only that he could apparently not run from it anymore. As he took his hand away from his face and looked up, he took a deep breath and left the room, somewhat dragging his feet.
Contrary to the depressing darkness of the bedroom, bright, eleven AM sunshine streamed in through the many windows of his and Chris’s villa, forcing Chef to squint as he made his way down the stairs and to the lounge where he immediately noticed Chris, dressed in the same jeans and gray hoodie he’d worn the day prior, slumped face-down on the sofa. His hair, normally well-groomed, was a mess, sticking out in every direction.
It wasn’t the worst place or state Chef had found him in, but he couldn’t help but sigh and shake his head as he approached and gave Chris’s shoulder a light shake.
“Chris. Get up, man. We gotta talk.”
Chris didn’t immediately move. There were a long few seconds of tense silence, Chef standing there rather awkwardly, before Chris shifted, albeit only barely.
“Raincheck.” The man’s voice was muffled almost entirely by the upholstery when he finally spoke.
“No, this can’t wait.”
“I feel like shit, go away.”
“I’m serious, Chris, this is important.” Chef reached down to shake his shoulder again, only to have his hand halfheartedly swatted away.
Gritting his teeth to hold in an annoyed grunt, instead of trying to shake him again, he impulsively grabbed Chris by the back of his hoodie and yanked him quickly to a standing position, which ultimately forced him to stumble to his feet.
“Dude, come on, ” Chris’s voice was somewhat hoarse as he whined in protest, quickly putting a hand over his eyes. “Can’t you just leave me alone right now?”
“No. I ain’t fucking around.” Chef released his grip on Chris’s hoodie with a small jerk, as though trying to shake the stubbornness out of him.
“Neither am I.” Chris huffed impatiently as he caught himself mid-stumble, rubbing slow, careful circles against his eyelids. “I have a killer headache. I don’t get why this can’t wait until later when I’m—”
“—Because Chris, this has been waiting for months. ” Chef quickly cut him off. “We’re gonna talk now. ”
Fixing Chef with a stare equal parts irritated and weary for a moment or two, Chris swayed slightly as if trying to decide whether or not to just walk away before sighing dramatically and throwing himself back down onto the couch behind him, looking rather defeated.
“Fine.”
“Great.” Chef found a seat in a nearby recliner and crossed his arms. Across from him, Chris was pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut.
“I want you to listen, and then answer me honestly— why ain’t we on vacation right now?”
The question itself was plain, specifically thought of and chosen for that reason— yet it still hung heavily in the air as though it were much more complex or perhaps even offensive. Chris didn’t answer immediately— Chef saw his brow furrow as he processed what he’d just heard, and when he looked up again, he fixed Chef with an incredulous, narrow-eyed stare, as though what he’d just heard was said in a foreign language.
“What?” He scoffed. “What kind of question is that?”
“Does it matter? I want an answer.”
“You seriously woke me up to ask me that? I didn’t feel like going, so I didn’t go. Sue me.”
Pinning him under a hard, unamused stare, Chef said nothing in reply. He’d previously hoped that opening the conversation with something simple and shallow would lead to less difficulty from Chris, but the universe seemed to love proving him wrong.
“What? What exactly am I supposed to say here?” Chris shifted in place as though uncomfortable. “I mean, why do you even care? You could have gone if you wanted to so fucking bad.”
“That’s not what this is about.” Chef asserted coolly. “We always go on vacation together after a season gets done. This is the first time in our entire relationship that we haven’t.”
“And?”
“ And? It ain’t right.”
“What about it isn’t right?” Chris sat up and crossed his arms, trying to communicate his growing annoyance. Still, though, he avoided eye contact and sat tensed, as if Chef’s gaze was physically pressing down on him. “Just say what you need to say, for Christ’s sake, Chef, I don’t have time for this.”
“Fine.” Chef almost growled. “You wanna know what I need to say? I’ll say it. Something’s fucked up with you.”
“With me? ” Chris balked immediately. “What the Hell is that supposed to mean?”
“How much clearer do you need it made?”
“Kay, so, I’m fucked up because I didn’t want to go on vacation with you, have I got that right, dude? Jesus , if I knew you’d get this bent out of shape over it, I would have—”
“I already told you this ain’t about the goddamned vacation.” Chef interrupted, hoping to steer away from a pointless argument. “It’s about us. The vacation is just a part of it. To tell you the full truth, something is up— you’ve been acting like you don’t want to keep up our relationship anymore.”
“Oh, please , as if.” Chris dismissively swatted at the air. “You and I make an awesome piece and I tell you that all the time.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Chris. You’re never around, you never talk to me. Hell, it’s rare that you even notice when I’m in the same room with you these days.”
“Oh, so, what, you’re not getting enough attention?”
“What? No, I—”
“Christ, dude.” As he leaned slightly back, shaking his head, Chris’s tone melted seamlessly into something far more condescending, and if Chef didn’t know him as well as he did, it would have seemed as though he was trying to provoke something wrathful. However, even despite knowing better, Chef felt his face grow hot.
“Don’t you dare pull that bullshit with me right now.” Chef snapped at him, perhaps a bit more harshly than he intended, and Chris gaped at him as though the man had just reached out and slapped him. “You ain’t listening to me, goddamn it. You always act like you know what everyone’s goin’ to say before they say it and like what they’re sayin’ isn’t important, and that ain’t the fuckin’ case this time. So please, for once, shut up and listen .”
Initially, Chris had opened his mouth to speak, to maybe defend himself, but after a few very long seconds of apparently not knowing how exactly to respond, he slowly closed it again and eyed Chef warily, now sitting tipped slightly forward with his arms resting on his thighs. He was listening, which was all Chef could really ask for, but he was very obviously not happy about it— the energy between them was much more heated now, and it was written all over Chris’s face that Chef didn’t have his attention for much longer.
Chef could feel himself not doing well in the way of patience either, but the last thing he wanted was for this to turn into a fight, so he took a moment to compose himself before he dared to speak again.
“Look. I ain’t trying to be an asshole. This was never meant to be some kind of personal attack on you. What I’m tryin’ to get at is that something is wrong. Really wrong. It’s like… you’re not really you anymore.”
“Yeah?” Chris tsked indifferently, cocking a brow. “Like how?”
“I think all of this is rooted in something nasty in you. The fact that you say we’re good together and still act like you don’t care basically proves it. It’s like you ain’t in control anymore and you’re tearin’ yourself up over it. You’ve been doin’ for years, and recently, it’s only been gettin’ worse. I know you won’t talk to me about this stuff, but something’s gotta give because I’m not the only one noticing it anymore and you can’t keep pretending like everything is fine.”
“So, what, do people think I’m going crazy or something? Big whoop, all that is is more publicity for me.”
“And that right there is exactly what I’m talking about.”
Chris tossed his head back with a loud and exasperated sigh.
“Chef, you’re making a big deal out of nothing . I’ve always been like this, so if you’re just now starting to hate it, I’ve got bad news for you.”
“No, you ain’t always been like this.” Chef shot Chris a glare, and Chris quickly looked away, rolling his eyes. “That’s just what you love tellin’ yourself. I need you to trust me when I say you’re sick , Chris, really sick, and if you don’t get some help for it or at least talk to me—”
“Then I’ll die, oh fuck!” Chris blurted sarcastically, throwing forward his arms in an exaggerated movement, the momentum from which he used to stand.
“What— Where are you goin’?” Chef jumped to his feet and found himself needing to call after the other man, who was already well on his way out of earshot.
“I’m gonna go find something better to do than be bitched at.”
“What happened to listening?”
“Dude, you’re not saying anything.” Chris turned to face Chef just as he caught up, his stinging words accompanied by indignant gestures. “I already told you— this is how I am. This is how I’ve always been, this is how I always will be and if you do not like that, the door can be found right over there, don’t let it hit you on your way the fuck out.”
“Fuck, Chris, why do you always do this— why can’t you see that I’m trying to help your ungrateful ass!”
“Why can’t you see that I don’t want or need your help, nor anyone else’s?” Chris took a small step forward, needing to slightly angle his fiery glare up at Chef. “The way I am is why I’m one of the most famous motherfuckers that’s ever been on TV. What makes you think I wanna change that?”
“Because it’s fucking killing you! ” Chef had been trying not to shout, but his desperation and frustration was showing more and more as seconds went by.
“No, Chef, what’s killing me is this bitching! You’re always fucking bitching, so maybe this problem you think I have isn’t me, it’s you! And you know what, I’m honestly kind of fed up with it right about now, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of here.”
Chef was dumbfounded— this situation had taken such a steep dive so quickly, and as his mind raced to find something to say, something to stop Chris as he stomped brusquely to the front door without making the situation any worse, the world around him passed by in slow motion. There was no telling what would become of things if he let Chris leave now, he knew that for a fact, and was acutely aware that he had to say something, anything to stop it from reaching a point of no return— but what he actually ended up saying was something he regretted almost before the words had left his lips, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to say.
“You know what, fine— if you’re not gonna hear me out, why don’t we just break up?”
Immediately, Chris’s stride halted as though he had collided with an invisible wall, just as he was reaching for the doorknob.
“Dude.” Was all he said at first, before he whipped himself around to face Chef with a glare sharp as daggers. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re gonna go there? ”
“Go where?”
“You are a fucking asshole.” Chris glowered, ignoring the question. “You think that is what I need to hear right now? You think saying that is gonna help?”
“No, it ain’t about—”
“Then what is it about, Chef?” Chris’s voice suddenly jumped several octaves, straight to a livid shout. “Tell me, I wanna know! If this was all just about you wanting to break up then fine, we can break up, fuck it! Though I gotta say, it’s been a real blast, wasting the last five fucking years with you!”
“I wasn’t—”
“You really had me going with that one, dude! For a second there it looked like you cared about me, but turns out, our relationship made for a pretty fuckin’ awesome joke! In fact, why don’tcha head down to Toronto and do standup, take that one to the fuckin’ stage!” Chris interrupted through a wavering bout of agitated chuckles, his body jerking with exasperated movements as he swayed vaguely from side to side. “ Those motherfuckers’ll love it!”
“Chris, you ain’t hearing me!”
“Maybe I don’t want to!” Chris quickly spat back, his voice slightly cracking as he beat his palms against Chef in a small bout of forceful shoves which, while Chef was mostly unmoved by them, gave his emotions a terrible physical form. “Maybe I don’t want to hear your bullshit anymore! Maybe I’m sick of your goddamned jokes!”
“Nothin’ about this is a joke, Chris, I’ve been serious this whole time!”
“Yeah? Fine! Fine, then! We’re done, we’re fucking over since that’s what you want so bad! Go pack your shit and get— get the fuck out of my house!”
“No, I—” Chef interrupted himself with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t wanna break up, Chris, what I want is for you to get better because I ain’t gonna put up with this anymore! I can’t! ”
“You’re such a dickhead, Chef, fuck! ” Chris cursed through a seething, tense laugh. “All you’re doing is coming up with new ways to say you’re done with me, and honestly, if you hated me so bad I would’ve liked to find out a little earlier so I could fucking cheat on you! ”
“Chris—”
“I never cheated on you by the way, you know that? I definitely could have, believe me, many times, but I never did! Worst fucking mistake of my life! I turned down tens because of you, you prick—”
“ CHRIS! ”
Chris jumped at the sudden volume of Chef’s voice, his train of thought derailing and the last few words of whatever he was trying to say tumbling ineffectively out of his mouth. He was still glaring at Chef as fiercely as he could, his face a swirling storm of bewilderment and indignation, but it was like his voice had just been paralyzed— he didn’t dare speak.
Now, there was no sound between them other than their faint, angry breathing, as neither of them knew exactly what to say.
Chef, with a gaze firm as stone, regarded the other man for a short eternity, grief and anger churning in his gut. This was not the first time this had happened— an attempt at talking the problem out ending in a violent shouting match— but Chef was tired, and he knew Chris was tired, too. This had to be the last time, regardless of the outcome, and it was clear that more words weren’t the answer.
There was one last thing Chef thought to try some time ago, something he thought was cliché and perhaps even a little risky, as despite all his careful planning, he truly had no idea how Chris would react. But it was the very last option.
So without saying anything at all, Chef reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
Chris did not have time to ask what he was doing— he opened his mouth and sucked in a breath, but it fell quickly out of his lungs when Chef’s hand pulled something small out of the flaps and held it out in front of him for Chris to see.
Standing out brilliantly against the rough pads of Chef’s thumb and forefinger, cast in shiny platinum, pavé set with ten small diamonds and boasting one large diamond centerpiece, was a ring.
Chris froze immediately, as though time around him had all at once stopped, and anger slid away from his face like water on glass. It was gorgeous— the smaller stones twinkled like stars while the centerpiece caught the room’s natural light and cast tiny rainbows onto nearby surfaces. It was obviously chosen with Chris in mind, as he unashamedly loved things that were overly lavish and expensive.
“Now, please listen to me.” Chef said after a while, his tone firm but not without a faded degree of anguish, as Chris stood there in dumbfounded silence. “I’ve been carryin’ this damn thing in my wallet for three years, Chris. Three fuckin’ years of waiting on you, waiting for things to get better, only to watch them get worse. Do you know how that feels? Do you have any idea? ”
He wasn’t expecting an answer— Chris’s gaze had become vacuous, as though he was incredibly far away. It wasn’t clear whether he was hearing anything anymore.
Even so, Chef put the ring back in his wallet, took a deep breath and continued, letting everything spill straight from his heart.
“Look, I know that you know why you ain’t got a call from the network for talks about a sixth season. I know you know what people are saying about you in interviews and in magazines. Everyone can see what’s happening to you, everyone can see that this sickness, this screwy thing living in your brain is eating you alive because just about every day, you’d get your ass up in front of those cameras and show the whole goddamned world that you have been fucking spiraling .
“I mean, you can’t let a day go by where something awful doesn’t happen to you because you have some fucked up addiction to negative attention and you’ve gotten so sick that it ain’t even fuckin’ funny. You’ve let yourself get so obsessed with your goddamned stupid show that you’re blind to what you’re doing to yourself.
“And Chris, what busts me the fuckin’ most is that I’ve been telling you this. I’ve told you to get your tendencies looked at. I’ve told you to stop being so compulsive. And now, even when the rest of the world starts saying what I’ve been saying for the last three years, you still push it all off and ignore the fact that it’s been goddamned hard for me to be made to just sit here and watch you tear yourself to pieces and lose your grip on everything in your life, including me, because you won’t fucking listen or get help and I’m tired of it.
“I’ve spent way too long carryin’ this ring around knowin’ that I’ll probably never get to put it on your damn finger because you won’t trust me when I tell you over and over and over that you need help, and I don’t think I can fucking do it anymore.”
He broke off rather abruptly with something he hoped he’d never have to say, and the silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable. Like the feeling which comes in the first few moments after being told that someone you love has passed away, the ultimatum loitered like a ghost, dragging its cold fingers against the most sensitive of heartstrings.
Chef was looking forcefully at Chris now, waiting for him to say or do something, anything, but Chris was still staring vacuously at some nullity beside Chef’s head, arms limp at his sides.
Then there was nothing. Between them was a short eternity of stillness that was almost painful as Chef tried to come to terms with what he might’ve just done to his relationship with Chris, while he realized that he’d finally said the majority of what he’d been wanting to say for a very long time, feeling simultaneously relieved and miserable.
Now, he wasn’t at all sure what he was waiting for— he wasn’t even sure that Chris had heard even a word of anything he’d just said, but after a few moments more, his eyes caught something, something that made his heart tighten with guilt.
Though Chris hadn’t moved or made even the smallest sound, as though he were reading the other’s mind, Chef could see clear as day that Chris was giving it his all to choke back tears.
“Oh, Christ,” Was all Chef could say at first as he moved slightly forward without thinking, hesitantly extending his arms as if unsure whether he was allowed to actually touch him. “I’m sorry, Chris, I didn’t… I didn’t mean…”
His words fell off— he did mean it, he meant everything he said. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be apologizing for, but it was what some part of his heart was telling him to do because after all, Chris was not a person Chef would describe as fragile— not even a little.
He was sensitive about certain things, absolutely, but in five years, Chef had only ever seen him cry a small handful of times, during moments of outstanding weakness, because crying was simply something the man did not do, at least not where anyone could see.
Now was one of those rare occurrences as Chris, with his eyes vaguely misted over, stared intensely at nothing and did not move or speak, not even to resist when Chef carefully guided him into his arms and held him. He was present in the room, but for the moment withdrawn— Chef wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he found himself feeling hopeful, of all things.
“... It needed to be said.” Chef murmured after a while. “I’ve been needin’ to let that out for a long, long time. But, y’know… part of me thinks you always knew how I felt. You just… didn’t know what to do about it. So you let it be.”
“...Yeah.” Chris’s reply, when it eventually came, was impossibly quiet. “I did.”
“If you knew,” Chef released him from his arms and held him by the shoulders. “Then why’d you let it get so bad?”
“I don’t know.” Chris muttered, looking down. “I didn’t mean to fuck things up like this, I just… I don’t know.”
“Why did you never talk to me about it?”
Chris didn’t answer. Shuffling vaguely, he merely looked somewhere off to the side, pursing his lips.
“... I can’t understand why you’re so afraid of being helped. I just want you to get better.”
“I want to get better, too.” Chris suddenly met Chef’s gaze, and was obviously adjusting the volume of his voice to hide any cracking. “Do you think I’m enjoying the way things are right now?”
“No, and it’s obvious, so let me help you. Please.”
Chris swallowed hard, his throat becoming increasingly dry. He hadn’t been this anxious in an incredibly long time, and part of him was hoping Chef could recognize that.
“I just, ah… I don’t know if it can be helped at this point, dude, I mean… I-I think I’m fucked.”
“You ain’t—”
“No, I think I am, so I mean…” A quiet, cracked chuckle slipped between Chris’s words as he spoke. “I hope you can get a good resale price on that ring, Chef.”
“Ain’t no way. I’m not givin’ up that easy. Look, Chris,” Chef hesitated, sighing, before he shook his head as though trying to physically shake away his own nervousness. “I love you. I do. You know how hard it is for me to say that, and I know it’s hard for you to hear.
“Thing is, I’ve known you for a long time— I know you’re scared of this kind of shit, and I know that’s why you don’t talk about it with anyone. But you have to do something. You know you do. You can’t go on like this anymore, neither of us can. I don’t wanna have to let you go like that, but this has gotta end, one way or another. You understand?”
“I—” Chris nearly choked on his own words as he replied. “I think so.”
“Then promise me you’ll let me get you some help.”
The words alone were heavy, but the grave stare Chef placed on Chris was so much heavier. So heavy that Chris had to look away, as if hoping that breaking eye contact would ease the tension around them.
If anything, doing so made things worse— although Chef was silent now, Chris could almost feel him pleading with his presence alone, making the correct choice more obvious than it already was, but no easier to say yes to.
After all, Chef couldn’t be more correct— Chris was terrified. It was written all over his body language, and while Chef knew that what he was asking for was a lot, either way, the stress of this situation would finally come to an end.
So Chef waited for what felt like forever, watching as Chris anxiously shifted his weight back and forth between his two legs and swallowed shallow, nervous breaths until Chris at once halted all movement, meeting Chef’s stare with eyes that were curiously uncertain and resolved at the same time.
“Okay. I promise.”