Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You could do this.

Shuffling awkwardly, you hoped in vain that you were giving off an air of confident impatience instead of the frayed nerves for being first in line. This was your night. You had been mentally preparing for it for literal decades in the sense that time was unrelenting. With your 30s approaching as an end to the supposed fun era, it felt like a race to pack in the life you had yet to live.

If that life was eating an endless amount of pasta.

The business you were currently occupying, to some, was something that could be easily sold at a fast casual dining establishment. For you, the space was one you dreamed about and never had the courage to attend for its intended purpose. Unlike the mass produced images of endless salad and bread sticks, this place held a certain notoriety. From your online research, it also happened to be a chain of sorts, but you couldn’t fault it for that. It embellished each of its handful of locations with local culture. Each was wholly unique when it came to its eateries and, in fact, the only thing they shared in common was their grocery section.

A sort of one-stop-shop in that sense, it was an indoor Italian marketplace settled down nicely right in New York. A place already known for such things, it refined that quality as it was forced too by catering to the roots of its clientele. You could get goods shipped straight from their mother country here without excessive fees. 

Along one wall there was a never ending cold case of delicacies that transformed into a butcher and then an entire café. It was along here, on your first and only other trip here, that you’d failed to launch. You’d been skittish after not being able to tell which of the four registers you were supposed to approach to order a pastry. Each stretching on a mile, but none actually near the sweets case, you’d given up flaky delights on that alone. 

If you couldn’t manage to buy a bombolone, how were you going to order at one of the restaurants?

Making a mockey of the supposedly confusing counter, the dining area was an open floor plan. As far as your one trip had taken you, the seats were scattered and you still had no idea which actually correspond with the five unique food stalls to choose from. What you did know was the multitude of nightmares laid out. If you asked to be seated, you’d waffle about where to choose. If you sat yourself, who’s to say you didn’t pick the wrong place. There were then a number of conversations to be had with the waiter and you were always a sucker when they started pedaling specials. Even when you didn’t want them, it was so hard to say no when you knew it was their task for the evening to sell, sell, sell. You’d be stuck with something you didn’t want to eat, but you couldn’t be wasteful which meant you’d have to come up with an excuse all while also somehow gathering a to-go box without knowing if they actually stocked those. Even if that wasn’t the case, there was still a menu to navigate and eat what was sure to be a messy dish without making yourself out to be some toddler that never learned how to hold a fork right; the chances were abysmal. It was all too much.

Too imposing.

Too taxing.

Too overwhelming.

There was supposed to be a saying.

With age comes wisdom…

Except no one else ever remembered what else Oscar Wilde said.

… but sometimes age comes alone.

Words written specifically for you. You refused to hit that milestone with nothing to show for it. You weren’t living your life, so you had a life yet lived. You weren’t dead, so you could keep going. You would continue to stalk places on social media, never quite ready to brave the crowds, until a targeted ad had come your way.

Pasta fest.

It was being held here, at the hub you had run from early one Saturday morning. The moment you saw the copy, you had bolted upright in bed. Your roommates being the only reason why you hadn’t cried out, you immediately dove into research. It had been held many times before and was something you looked over like a widow pressed to wet window panes. That meant there was a trail. Following the breadcrumbs brought reviews and more social media of smiling people yammering on in electronic voice dubs about how much cacio e pepe they had consumed. You looked long and hard, but all the evidence said this event was doable if you came at the right time.

You planned to be here twice as early as that as there were rumbling mentions of a free pasta making class. Purchasing the modestly priced ticket considering the offer, you nearly immediately were struck with a panic attack. The momentary euphoria of being the first to buy up the usually sold out tickets robbed you of your excuse. You usually wrote these things off because you allowed the chance to be robbed from you. Now you’d turned that chance into a sure thing and trapped yourself.

What if you had to leave early?

What if they all watched you?

What if you slurped pasta and a noodle slapped you in the face?

What if you knocked over the big tub of marinara and it soaked a rich woman’s white dress?

You’d never be able to pay off that kind of debt with your administrator’s salary.

Cowering down and not able to sleep for hours after, you had the gloom of several weeks until the event proper. It gave you enough time to go through all seven stages of grief amongst a few new ones you wanted to write in to someone to add to the list. They always did neglect anxiety and you were tired of the erasure.

Though you wished often you could erase it yourself.

All in all, you’d almost backed out right up until the moment you walked through the double doors. Now here, they’d come to a close and the smells of Italian cooking told your hungry stomach that you should stay. Able to give in to a basal emotion like that, you followed the little printed signs to a check-in desk. There you found, to your horror, two employees who opened with how new they were and how they had no idea what they were doing. Not thankful at all for their honesty, you watched on hopelessly as the many short form videos you watched meant you were more familiar with the process than them.

With no way of conveying this or that they simply needed to print out the class signup sheet and give you a wristband so you could go find a dark corner to hide out in until the event started proper, you simply waited, shuffling off to the side for the pair to figure that out themselves. Listening to them field calls and then more guests that walked up, you silently mourned your first place spot as a unit of off-duty mothers cut right in front of you. You didn’t blame them; there was no way they could have known. You did act as a wallflower next to a display of capers. You were a little salty nugget yourself, not that they’d ever know. They were too busy going on about Bishop this and Coxin that. 

Out of order, the wristbands were located first. Passing them out as you were now at least ninth in line and wondering if you’d get into the pasta making class, you got one to slip on and rubbed at the dull powder coating it. The sign of new rubber, the store’s name was emblazoned on the colors of the Italian flag. A cute trinket that said you were there, you tugged on its loose hang until you heard a printer going. Perking up, but not moving, the workers chatted with a young couple. They seemed to have misplaced their ticket so you deemed them not a threat.

Waiting with more of a dancing shuffle, you imagined you probably looked like you had to go to the bathroom. In reality, several people had trailed off, so your only competition for the sign-up sheet was that group of moms who were prowling right in front of you. They were the lions and you were the scavenger. You could only pick clean the bones they’d leave behind. A miserable role and one you wished you were strong enough to circumvent, your arrival time hadn’t mattered in the slightest.

Eyes widening at the thought, you felt your heart sink.

What were you doing?

This wasn’t brave.

This wasn’t the new you.

This was accepting what you always had.

You had merely taken one step forward before retreating ten back.

Across from you in what felt like an entire sea, the two girls set out the sign-up sheet before turning to grab a pen.

In slow motion, you saw the alpha mother step forward to claim the juiciest bite.

Trapped no matter your thoughts, you resigned yourself.

You would still get pasta. There was no reason to give up on the entire night. Little comforts blinked a flashlight on in the darkness of your mind. You’d still done it. You were here. You were going to get that pasta. While the restaurants were closed for the event, the grocer was still operating at normal hours. Crowds were pulled simply because this was a trendy place to go. You were here at peak hours and not currently having a panic attack. You hadn’t given into a single one of those meddling thoughts about giving up.

“Excuse me…”

You’d opened the doors and entered which was something you couldn’t say about other outings. There was that hand pulled noodle place that you walked up to just last week. They didn’t have delivery which meant dining in was your only option. It had taken months in general and hours of prep for you to take the subway over. Once in the vicinity, the battle down the packed street had been treacherous, so when you finally saw the sign, you kept walking.  

“Um.”

With tears in your eyes, you had passed by the line and the front door. You couldn’t bear the thought of traversing anything else. You wouldn’t survive waiting that close to others. The thought of loitering and then being called upon was your worst nightmare. If you by some miracle made it inside, there would then be the biting guilt. There was no way you’d be able to peruse the menu knowing so many people were waiting. Each second you ate up was another someone else could have used for their order.

“You!”

Heart leaping straight into your throat, you crashed back into the pasta shop and stared as one of the employees fended off the moms by laying her whole hand on top of the sign up sheet.

She was pointing a pen in your direction.

You looked over your shoulder.

She laughed.

Looking back, you could only muster the barest raise of your hand to point at yourself.

“Yes, you! You were here first, come on over!” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand.

If they sent you an online survey, you were going to recommend her for employee of the month. 

Bestowing upon her the highest honors, you scarcely heard her titter some details. Seeing the calculated amount of lines for two separate classes, you reached out and realized the pen had somehow gotten into your hand. Not remembering taking it, it had its own power as you led it towards the first line. Triple checking to make sure you didn’t write down anything wrong. You marked your first name in the first column, followed by your last name in the second. All that was required, you did two final examinations before placing the pen delicately to the side and all, but running away.

The mom’s clicked their tongues as they moved to sign-up next and you mourned that you’d never actually gotten to thank the goddesses that worked here. Planning now your goodbye with an extra little thanks peppered onto it, you were given free roam of the store until the festivities started. Folding your hands behind your back and thumbing your wristband that you kept in some view at all times, you walked around the dry goods. Between shelves you got a glimpse of the closest station where someone in a chef’s coat was sautéing with a pan three times the size of a wok.

It reminded you that there was a map you didn’t have and you cursed yourself to backtrack and get it. Thinking a little too late that this might be the opportunity to thank the employees, they were blessedly busy as you looked over the area anew. Amongst the other leaflets you had dismissed when looking for the signup sheet, you soon found the little card specifically for this event. Waiting long enough to look around in case you weren’t supposed to take one, there was no one to scold you so you chanced sticking your hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

An actual adult, no scorn came and you scampered back to the safety of dried pastas before looking over your prize. Just as described, it had today’s date embezzled on it and you wanted to squeeze the thing to your chest. Another marking of this milestone, you fished around for the pen you had brought just for this occasion. A simple, but sturdy one, you’d already written off borrowing another as you couldn’t face the shame of perhaps nicking it. Instead you slid the clip over the card in a way you imagined a journalist might. Ready to take notes at a moment’s notice, you turned the card over to find a scenic map of the store on the other side.

Nearly weeping at the first sign of forethought, you spent the next 15 minutes comparing that to the landscape. Finding it quite accurate, you logged the information about the station order and decided to do them as their numbers supposedly intended. Time coming up, you measured your steps on the way to the first stop in hopes of reaching it exactly on time. Imagining you looked very silly walking in slow motion, there was thankfully no one else around you as you hit the table one exactly one minute before the dinner bell rang.

The chef there was dolling out easy to grab portions and passed you half a glance. “Go on. It’s fresh!”

Bowing your head as words wouldn’t form, you caught a boat and ran with it. Finding safety in a little nook beside a deli case, you appreciate the little wooden fork it came with. Stabbing the first pasta, you melted dreamily over the flavor and the joy of this moment. A culmination of many things, your next few bites were taken with a surprising furiosity. Then came a thoughtful pause, before you finally finished up your dish. Thinking long on how you’d notate this, you trashed the container and returned to write it up. Taking your time so as not to ruin your precious mapped artifact, you smiled proudly at your quaint review before moving to the next station.

Knocking out five in this way and at your leisure, you were in your own little parmesan slice of heaven. Not everything was perfect, but in a way it was. Finding a whole medley of flavors, even the overcooked gnocchi had a charm to it. It falling apart showed that not even these seasoned chefs were perfect and it made you curious about the logistics of making large batches. Probably not how their recipes intended, you spent a long time watching one chef from a safe distance as they simmered their sauce. The couple you had seen earlier were standing nearby in clear irritation that he hadn’t finished on time, but you found it delightful.

He knew what it took to do it right and he didn’t care what anyone else thought.

Wishing that very much for yourself, you felt a little blip from your phone and went to unearth it. One you’d made before this night started, it showed a notification that you could safely head towards the pasta making station if you got in and you mentally thanked past you. Turning the alarm off, you checked your map before finding the class was on the far end of the store you had not yet explored. Sneaking over there even though you were leaving the crowd, you soon found a giant glass door that encased what looked like a studio.

A floor to ceiling affair, it took all your body weight to get the door open.

Straining in silence, you made enough of a hole to get through before you rushed in. Immediately spinning around to catch the thing, you found the door was on a closer and its mechanism saved the weight from slamming. Watching it drift closed, you had a momentary panic that it might have been tough to open because you weren’t actually allowed in here yet. Spinning around to send your apologies somewhere, you were taken aback by the space.

Clean and looking very much like a movie set kitchen, there were 4 huge butcher block tables all flanked by multiple manual pasta makers. Each station was then marked off with two deli containers and a fork. Obvious that it was two people to a machine and eight people to a table, the plastic tubs held the ingredients. With one a mix of flour and the other a lonely egg, the latter appeared to be contained so it wouldn’t roll away.

Unconsciously moving forward at the care placed into each setting, you heard a pan move at the back of the room. There, behind a gorgeous counter where multiple cameras were proudly taking paparazzi photos from its angles, moved a telltale white chef’s coat. The hump of a back rolled before a bright orange bow appeared keeping hair out of their face. They rounded a turn and you were blinded by a huge grin.

“Welcome! You’re the first so sit tight while everyone else gets here!”

Sunshine.

This man was the embodiment of sunshine if you ever saw it.

He was sheer radiance.

A glowing magnificence that was moving kitchenware around.

Setting a tub with the telltale powdering that said it once contained all the flour now doled out, every move he made embodied a warm confidence you could barely comprehend.

In the few seconds you’d been staring, he was the most poised person you’d ever seen.

Feeling your gaze, he looked at you properly.

His grin then fell.

Eyes going huge at the sight, you scrambled mentally for the cause.

He was looking right at it.

You’d messed up. 

“Ah…” His voice held a solemn note.

Disappointment struck you like a tide. It caught your feet and dragged you under. Suffocating on it, you could feel the whirlpool contort your face. Ugly features falling with a water’s rush to muffle any sound, you simply gaped at him with ever growing misery.

He took that in a similar way. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

You inhaled sharply and the sound thudded as it slashed your ear drums.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” He exhaled a little heavier with the memory. “If you changed your mind about the class I understand. You can go. It doesn’t have to be a thing, but I can get my manager on the phone if it is.”

The worst part was even though he hadn’t said it; you knew exactly what he was referring to.

You wanted to sob, but you’d filled your tear ducts mistakenly with air.

Ballooned, the gas was also the only thing keeping your head afloat as you continued to gape.

Your jaw ached from the force of you resisting to scream.

You couldn’t manage a peep.

All you wanted to convey was that your reaction had nothing to do with him.

You didn’t care that he was a mutant.

In fact, you hardly noticed.

How could he not know?

The way he carried himself was something that must be praised.

You imagined everyone who came into his orbit had to stop and stare. 

You wanted to grovel in appreciation at the mere glimpse you’d been offered.

Instead, you’d mistakenly painted yourself mutantphobic.

You should have known you wouldn’t be allowed happiness.

There was no night of glory for you.

Only this.

“You’re still here so… you should know-” He looked wistful as he opened a cupboard and pulled out a new, filled flour bin “-I adore cooking.” With grace, he placed the container onto the table along with a scale. “It’s an art. You can do it with thought or by feeling. Both are so great, but you know what I love most?”

Teary eyed only from not blinking, you tried to shake your head.

“I love the joy it brings.” With a few fluffy scoops, he got out what he needed into a bowl.

Joy?

This being brought joy simply by existing and he had the audacity to want to give more?

Who was he?

Who had you stumbled upon?

Glancing back at the large doors, you came to realize just how quiet the space was. Their large thick glass panes completely muffled the cacophony you knew was beyond them. In here, there was a silent symphony of mostly scents long soaked into the woods telling tasty tales. Away from the buzz of the establishment was a haven. It was a place of learning in a library-like sense and you thought you could spend a lifetime in here.

If only it were taught by him.

The thought carried you a few steps to face him fully.

In front of you, he had mounded his flour just so before carving out a well. “I started small, you know; inspired by my brothers. I have a big family, but for a long time it was just the four of us…” He adjusted, looking up at the camera mounted above his perfect powdery well. “Well excluding me… or including? Four kids!” He chuckled.

You hadn’t realized you reached the other side of the counter until your fingers brushed the wood; you were drawn to him. 

“Dad did his best to feed us, but he wasn’t much of a cook. I guess that’s the thing about how we grew up though. Living on scraps, you’ll never believe the stuff people throw away!” He gave a happy chuff before moving to turn on two large screens mounted on the wall. “Found a cookbook and I could say the rest was history, but it’s always more than that. You know how it goes, get trained under this big lineage to protect humanity, save the world a few times, then try to follow your cooking dreams and, oh yeah, you’re still a turtle!” He gave a sort of chuckle.

You looked on and watched as his flour mound appeared in triscopy.

“The amount of places I was banned from just because they thought I’d give the customers salmonella!” He waited for your eye so he could exaggerate a grimace.

It wiped you clean of sadness and primed the board for something new.

How was he doing this?

Your chest tightened as you refused to give up your distress. Not because he wanted it gone; he was doing a good job of that. Instead, you were faced with how badly you needed to rectify your wronging this situation. Him telling you his story was something you wanted to cherish, but you couldn’t focus. Not when knowing he was trying to absolve you of guilt. There was no way you could do that to this selfless man.

“My older bro… One of them I mean. I’m the youngest! Anyway, he ran some tests so I could be like, here’s proof, fool! No bacteria on this turtle!” He straightened and did a last review of his set up before remembering something and going to the fridge. “Was still tough. I couldn’t even find a dishwashing gig, so I stopped looking for a job and instead went to places that were mutant friendly just to be around food.” One of his wrists flapped out of the fridge in a way that signified he wanted something.

You looked around wondering if he wanted you to grab whatever it was.

“Took a class!” He emerged with a large egg carton. “Here, I mean. More than one too! T-o-o and not the number. I kinda took, more like… all of them!” He chirped, setting the container down.

You felt a premature noise sound in your throat and you pushed against the counter to hold yourself back.

“Got the cold shoulder still. Sometimes trendy places say they’re hip, but they aren’t. They’d ignore me, but they couldn’t ignore everyone so I just watched whatever they were doing over there.” He pointed to a far butcher block. “Then one night, same as all the others, I happened to get a different chef. He treated everyone equally and he noticed something in me.” Softening, he slowed. “I remember going up to him after and asking why? Why did he make my dish the focal point? Tell everyone what a good job I did! Wasn’t he worried?”

You hated that this man had to worry at all.

“He was a gruff guy! Not big, but like-” He squared his shoulders and made a stern expression with his chest thrown forward. “’Doesn’t matter who you are, son.I saw the spark. Just matters you wanna learn!’” He held the pose for a few seconds before breaking down into laughter. “Good times… Anyway, he fast tracked me into a position and I ate it up! I learned so much! I worked every single station in this place! I can make you a latte right now with the art and everything! Or…” He gave into another laugh, this one more dismissive. “Enough about me. I’ve just been going on and on. Sorry about that.”

You watched as he dusted his hands off from the flour he’d long formed and walked over to you.

“The name’s Michelangelo. I hope you’ll stay. Maybe I convinced you?” Puncturing his introduction with a wink, you stuttered.

“T-t-t-t-thank you!” Your head flew southward as you gave a bow. Your whole body screaming of humiliation for it, something else squeaked out of you. “I-I r-really w-wanted to t-take y-your c-class!!”

His following laughter was such a belly full that you felt warmed by it.

Coming back up, you found him resisting wiping an eye.

“Well, what’dya know?! Good!”

Staring hard at the floor your mind raged because that wasn’t what you wanted to say.

You were supposed to tell him that it didn’t matter that he was a mutant, but then you’d have to tell him how in awe you were of his person. 

That felt equally bad. 

Cursing your demeanor, you rose in a feeble attempt to try anything again.

The words falling out as you came up, you scrambled to catch them and say even a paltry portion of what you’d originally meant to say.

You didn’t hate mutants.

He was too kind.

You were a coward.

That felt like a safe set. 

None of those things emerged as you realized he’d peg you for a fraud.

He’d think he wasted all that time trying to convince you.

What did you know?

You told him you wanted to take his class. 

You didn’t know him. 

You’d only wanted to take the class because it sounded fun. 

The best extent of your knowledge was leaving cooking videos on while you did chores.

You didn’t know anything.

You were a waste of space.

Maybe those mom’s should have gotten the top spot.

Maybe you shouldn’t have arrived early to even bother.

You were greedy.

You should have taken your pasta and been happy with that.

Fizzling out as you were swallowed whole, you heard the volume in the room shift.

It was the telltale movement of the door opening, revealing the many sounds hidden away. Someone entered and Michelangelo moved to greet them with the same cheer he’d bestowed upon you. It seemed apropos as you feebly wobbled over to a station. The light he’d shined on you wasn’t one fine tailored. You hadn’t been that narcissistic, but for a small moment it felt like it could have been yours. That maybe, he could have seen that little spark of you trying to do better and wanted to encourage it.

Squashing that hopeful part of you into a paste under your shoe, more and more people started to filter in. Greetings and talk came with it and fell to a background noise that helped quell your thoughts. Not completely silent, but at least static, you heard a tinkling of glass that pulled your attention.

The moms had evolved into their next form: wine moms. In which they were already drunk, but thankfully took their spot at the back of the room. You knew the event ticket came with two free drinks and you wondered what glass these ladies were on. You knew it was judgemental, but a bitter part of you felt better at assuming their tolerance. They’d said it themselves: they were getting away from the stresses of their kids.

The guilt of your thoughts brought a weight down and you stared at your ingredients. Women’s laughter rose a little too loud through the space, but Michelangelo was not to be trifled with. A clap of his hands and a projection of his voice got the attention of the room with only minimal whispers about his mutant status. He seemed to either not hear or was a master at ignoring them as he ran through a speech that had to be a learned one. Introducing himself and the linguine you were going to be making today, he explained that you had enough to make two batches.

Following through, he asked that everyone get started and you moved, thankful for the distraction. Pouring out your flour and making a mound similar to the one he had. On the screens around you, he collapsed his to demonstrate how to create the final product again. Cupping your fingers in a way you’d seen a chef do it, you used the backs of your digits to create a little crater. Satisfied with your volcano, you looked back and forth between the model for scale.

An elderly woman across from you whispered to her husband that he should do it like you were.

Flushing dark over your work being perceived, you managed in a very quiet voice to say you were just following instructions.

The woman scoffed and started to go on about their recent trip to Sicily.

Thinking the pair cute, you listened with a lowered head.

“Now that you’ve got some high walls, we’re gonna crack that egg baby, right into the center!” Michelangelo’s voice sent out a new instruction and you followed suit.

He continued on, explaining that you would use the fork to slowly incorporate the flour into the egg and try to keep the yolk from spilling out. Doing so at a snail’s pace, you flicked little bits of semolina into the gooey center and stirred with great care.

Across the room a woman gave a shriek that was quickly chorused with drunken laughter.

It broke your concentration and part of your wall fell.

Nervously darting your fork to salvage the flood, you heard Michelangelo head toward the drunk women to correct their mistake. He said spillage was alright and we only wanted to try to keep from collapsing the well because it was easier to mix. Taking that to heart, you continued to listen as he walked the women through how to fix it. Following along, a shaggy dough forming on your part, you heard him repeat the last couple of steps with the patience of a preschool teacher. Not knowing how he dealt with rowdy people like this on a daily basis, you began to work your dough as he instructed those who had successfully incorporated.

Again, using what you’d seen online, you rolled your yellow ball with the palm of your hand against the work surface. Earning more interest from the elderly couple, you managed to help coax the husband through where he hadn’t been able to get his dough started. Only parroting what you’d heard Michelangelo explain, the pair tittered about your help. Nervously stumbling over some kind of laugh to brush it off, there came a degrading voice.

“You’re just the cutest kid. What are you, 20? That’s how old my oldest is!”

“You can’t say that, Sharon! Oh my gosh!”

“He’s just a boy!”

“Look at that baby face.”

“I’m flattered really.” Michelangelo paid them little mind and walked away to his post at the front of the class.

Mocking laughter chased him, but as much as you examined his expression, he didn’t seem irked by their demeaning attitudes.

For a moment, you were awash with awe that he could let those kinds of comments fall off of him.

Then a counter-current said he had years of practice.

Thinking over his introduction, the latter was the case and in spades.

You hated that and worked out your fury into the dough.

Michelangelo continued on saying something about working those arms out, but it didn’t reach you.

Even if he’d been forced to, you marveled at how cruelty hadn’t seemed to dull his shine. Nothing about his smile seemed fake and you thought yourself royalty when it came to projecting a veneer. Everything he did rang with a certain honesty and you felt a sort of envy at that. To live authentically was something you always tepidly dreamed of, but quickly squashed. The world wasn’t built for that and you were safest staying in your own lane.

Trying to do just that and follow instructions, another voice hit you.

“Come on, babe! You’re just going to sit there?”

Across from you the elderly couple whispered about how he hadn’t done anything the whole time they’d been there.

First stealing a glance with the older woman who gestured you to the right. You coveted another to see a couple at the table beside you. Seemingly a pair on a date, the man was standing with the most closed off posture possible. Arms folded tightly to his body, he even had a pair of sunglasses on even though it was teetering around 7:30 pm and indoors. In front of him sat the plastic tubs and fork, all with their unused ingredients still waiting to be made into pasta.

The star crossed lovers of flour and egg made you sad.

You also felt a sort of envy for the man.

He’d gotten a spot in the class and he didn’t even want to be here.

You’d wanted to attend and didn’t feel worthy even now.

What kind of gall did it take to live like that guy?

You weren’t sure you wanted to find out, but it still seemed attractive in a certain way.

You bet he didn’t care how others saw him.

It didn’t matter how wrong he was. 

He didn’t start the process so there was no way he could mess up. 

He was still being judged. 

That meant you were too. 

Were the wine mom’s mad that you’d taken a spot at the front of the class?

Did they think you got special treatment?

Did they hate you for it?

Did everyone know you were a fraud?

Were you worse off than that man who wouldn’t participate?

Were you going to pinch your fingers in the extruder?

Was the hand crank going to break off?

Were you going to drop it and make a noise so loud everyone would stare?

Were-?

“Your dough’s looking great! Feel free to let it rest!”

You blinked out of your spiral to see Michelangelo beaming you a gilded smile right beside you. Melting under it, you nodded with shiny eyes and he softened at the sight of you.

“You know you’re doing so good, would you mind doing something else for me?”

You felt your nerves rise, but you gave a single nod as there was no way you could refuse a request for him.

“There’s a second batch that needs making and I think you’re just the one to do it!”

Lightning struck you with honor and you felt your lips crinkle as you didn’t know what to say. Wanting to convey that you wouldn’t let him down, you watched as he walked away from you.

Seeing him going in the opposite way of his counter, you felt all the blood drain from you as he marched right over to the man who wasn’t participating. Ignoring the guy completely, Michelangelo gathered up the neglected ingredients without asking. He then carted them over to you where he delicately laid them out as you imagined a waiter would dish up your main course. Knowing several pairs of eyes were now on you, you begged him to reconsider when he punctuated off the move with something else.

“There ya go! My star pupil deserves doubles!” On the verge of tears and moving to grab the flour container solely because you were now trapped, he inhaled to project his voice and you wanted to tackle him clear into the ground. “Everyone who’s having any trouble with their dough, take a look at this station here!” He turned with his teacher’s authority and was exaggerated as he pushed a finger into your awaiting yellow oval. “See how it springs back! This is where you want to get it before letting it rest!”

You were under the table.

You were below the foundation.

You were in the sewers.

Anywhere rather than here, the center focus of this class.

Someone had a question and you were glad the sun turned its rays away from you. Making the second mound of the evening and surprised when you cracked an egg into it without thinking, you mixed up another shaggy dough as Michelangelo got the rest of the class to a similar point. Soon you were back to kneading and it was just the reprieve you craved. Rhythmic and easy to fall into, you imagined yourself massaging out your tear ducts. As if avoiding over taxing the pipes, it wiped the pressure of them away instead of causing them to leak.

It was within this rocking of your body that Michelangelo announced the next step. Going through how to send the dough through the crank and when to adjust the size, you sped up your kneading to get your second dough to rest. Michelangelo appeared with a container of semolina you had spied earlier and used a scoop to fill up one of your discarded deli containers. “I’m expecting big things from my second in command.”

The praise struck you similarly as the first time, but the elderly woman across from you gave a knowing little laugh as she was passed her flour.

Hating the spot you were put in, but you pushed yourself to cut your first dough into two portions and rolled the first half out into the assigned rectangle before beginning the feeding process. Another careful motion, cranking worked like kneading and kept you together as your dough got longer and longer. More instructions were tossed out and you tried to catch them between making sure your strip went through evenly each time. Others struggled a little more than you and it didn’t bolster your pride, but instead shared your commiseration.

Feeling vindicated, you hit the designated number mark before it was time to switch to cutting. Glancing around to find you were the first, you shuffled unsure if you should start or if the dough was alright in this form to wait. Unable to call out to Michelangelo, the older woman across from you sensed your troubles and did it for you. More tactful than your teacher, she mentioned she was the one who didn’t remember the numbers and for a moment you didn’t know if she had actually saved you or if she really didn’t remember.

Sharing a glance as she and her husband had become your safety net, she showered you with a wicked grin while Michelangelo examined her crank setting. He came up to tell her it was okay, along with the cutting step, and you were surely painted with dismay as he stuck a finger out to you and mentioned that she should only move forward when her dough looked like yours.

The full brunt of Michelangelo’s UV rays hit you as his eyes lit up. Once again he thrust you into the spotlight, calling the classes attention as he explained this was where you wanted to cut your dough. Going through live, now at your station how to do so, he asked if he could take over and you only wished it was appropriate for you to dismiss yourself entirely from this existence. All eyes on him and not you, you took a minor breather and tried to absorb how he got the freshly cut noodles nested. You thought his touch could make whirlpools. His steady hand was so even, he flipped the dough to his liking and created something even the most picky bird would die to have their eggs laid in. Ending the lesson saying he’d be passing out boxes next, he left you with little parting as several people needed his help.

You had the other half of your first dough batch to work so you repeated the motions with a fuming heat that you thought might cook your awaiting noodles. Body generating a fever from your overtaxed social battery alone, you feared you wouldn’t make it through the rest of the pasta stations before you had to rush home. Collapse seemingly eminent, it was your turn to nest and you fumbled in your wrist flick. It made your noodles a sorry set beside his, but you had an entire other batch of dough to get through.

Moving on to that one, you felt conversation pick back up as people reached the end of their lessons. Back at the cranking stage, the turning of the dial helped to give you a partial recharge. Nothing exciting, you imagined each rotation was one more pasta station you could survive. Getting through those you then marked the turns for getting you home. A pattern formed and in it you formed two more nests and felt a modicum of your sanity reclaimed.

Finding a box had been passed to you while you were recuperating, the old couple bid you farewell as you transferred your little nests into it. Closing up your four little delights, you said a goodbye to them for now while people trickled out. Not sure if it was because you had done twice the work, but no one else seemed as concerned with how dirty their hands were. A mixture of flour particulates and having massaged what was a raw egg, you looked around for a way to wash up.

Glancing for a source, you saw Michelangelo cleaning up after the wine mom’s messy station first. They’d even left their wine glasses behind which he picked up all in one three fingered hand. Marveling at how he threaded three glasses with ease, he caught a glimpse of you. “There’s a sink just behind that back counter.”

Wondering how he knew, you looked down to see you were holding your hands out for the dirty aura they seemed to hold. Ruminating on how absurd you were, you went and used your wrist to turn the tap as you’d seen chef’s do.

Suddenly beside you, you jumped out of your skin as he spoke. “Are you secretly a pro?”

Flicking water around which he didn’t seem to mind, he got hit with your sputter. “I-I d-don’t know a-anything!”

He laughed with a clear echo that made you realize the room had fully emptied out.

First to enter, last to leave, you couldn’t help but smile at how he threw his whole body into his chuckles.

It was like joy had to flood his entire system because there was an excess of it.

Washing your hands, you heard a snap of a towel and found him holding out one that he had kept on his person.

A restaurant quality cotton one, you mumbled a shy thanks as you dried your hands off.  

“Know what sauce you’ll pair with your noodles?” He asked, moving to throw trash out.

You bobbed, having not gotten anywhere near considering that. You were still trying to make it to the other stations so cooking sad nests was a far cry on your priority list.  

While you thought it over, Michelangelo returned to his station and you watched as he speedily laid out a whole new set of deli containers for the next class. It was plain as day that he fell into a rhythm and as he doled out measured amounts of flour. The act was second nature and he quickly started mentioning simple sauces a beginner chef could whip up. Taking into account all sorts of factors, he casually mentioned that even canned tomatoes could be easily whipped into something incredible with the right amount of care. That everyman’s approach warmed you and, even though you weren’t quite catching the intricacies of his recipes, it spoke volumes to his person.

Zeroing out his scale with one hand, his phone appeared in his other. “Want to see my website?”

“Y-yeah!” The determined sound of your voice was so strong it shook your whole body and you felt a flush come on out of embarrassment.

Offering you another of those gooey smiles, he tempered your sour as he casually passed his phone off into your possession before immediately walking away to prep the stations. Only a little concerned that you might somehow break it, the screen was on a beautifully curated site. Tabbing through recipes, you found he hadn’t fallen for the common trope of adding a long winded story to precede the proper notes. Instead each page was wholly dedicated to whatever you were making and walked you through the entire process with clear and concise pictures.  

Appreciative for it, you tried to memorize the URL before he returned to you. Giving back his device, you felt a little amazed bubble give you voice. “This is all so amazing…”

“Pssh, I had a vision is all. Quick and friendly cooking for everyone. Everyone deserves to eat great food.” He stepped away to start placing the deli containers at each station. “That brother I mentioned earlier whipped it up for me. I had these drawings and he brought them to life.”

Despite yourself, you felt a little frown pull your lips. “Look at all you’ve… a-accomplished…”

Stopping after setting down the last container, you watched as the comment caught him off guard. New worries tightened your chest, but his shoulders fell and he gawked at you like you were something totally new. Wondering if somehow he hadn’t ever actually looked at you, he gave a chuff that wrinkled his eyes.

Another bout of strength percolated because of it and the following silence he allowed gave you enough to offer more. “I…I lied… w-when I first came in… I said I-I really wanted to take… your class, and I did! But… not the way I told you… I’m sorry… It’s alright if you want to write me off now… knowing… I’m a… well… f-fraud?”

“You really get in your own head, huh?”

“H-huh!?”

This time his laugh had a bitter bright edge to it that made you feel a bit like a fool. Wanting to run after having not for a while made the fleeting desire feel all the worse.

“I-I’m sorry…” He wiped a tear from his eye. “It’s just, you’ve spiraled like a million times. All night long, it’s like everything freaks you out! You’re so scared!”

Feeling more miserable as he continued, you felt yourself reduced to ruins.

You had been right the whole time.

He had noticed.

He’d just kept it in.

You were a fraud.

You were a joke.

The tail end of a donkey.

Not even worth pinning.

In what felt like a rush of wind, Michelangelo appeared at your side. His hands out, you flinched as you thought he might touch you, but he instead moved them just so to ease you down. “Nope! Yeah! That was not the best thing I could have said! Sometimes I kept saying the same sentence over and over which is like, how does that help anyone? It makes everything way more awkward as I drive a stake through my own foot!” He looked away and smacked a palm to his head. “Is that even a saying? Oh man… What I meant to say was: I know what it’s like. Sometimes I’ll go through these crazy hoops for something, but other times I just act! It gets me in so much hot water… I just run, run, run my mouth!”

Though you weren’t the least bit put back together, the rubble he’d left you in both trapped you while the confusion as to where he was going kept your attention.

“Take cooking!” He gestured around the room. “There’s steps and variables that keep you on your toes. You got to account for all this stuff and it helps quiet my mind. That’s obviously how you were too!”

Misery not loving company because it didn’t seem possible he could know the lengths you’d gone to destroy your own spirit, you let something bitter leak out. “I’m a l-lost cause…”

“Why are you here?” He brought his hands down casually. “If you didn’t wanna take the class?”  

You could have blamed the embarrassment.

You could have blamed the humiliation.

You could even mention how introverted you were, but the fact of the matter was that you were depleted in a way that made your lips a little too loose. “I-I’m… not great… w-with anything. Not… other people… Not… going out… Not… anything. I just… I just finally… wanted to get out there. I’ve been… away so long… fearing the world. It… passed me by… I wanted to try to… finally do… something with my life…” Wrapping your arms around yourself, you waited for him to fall into another laughing stint, but nothing came.

Bringing your eye up, you found him watching you with an unreadable expression.

Something almost haunted, you squeezed yourself tighter to wring out a shred of comfort.

Not finding it, you watched him continue to take you in until he suddenly blurted out, “I’m taking a painting class next week and I bought two tickets because a friend slash family member was supposed to come with me, but her junior hockey league won’t stop winning. She says they need extra practice and doesn’t have time for the finger paints, so this is all a really long winded way to say I have an extra ticket and would you like to go with me?”

You couldn’t help the deep frown that appeared on your lips.

This man, despite being so soothing, had not a single shred of self awareness.

It was like he’d forgotten he’d made you his favorite right before humiliating you straight into the ground where you stood.

He also inexplicably had already earned your trust.

He had that air to him.

“A-as a friend! Ah! I always forget to tack that on! I just-!” He seemed embarrassed as he looked to the side. “You’re trying so hard; I want to spoil you.”

Eyes shooting to the size of dinner plates, he immediately screeched realizing he’d made another supposedly unintentional inference.

Quacking with stunted laughter, he smacked his head. “Ho-o-ly shit, I am a mess! It’s like when I start going I’m that bunny from those battery commercials. I just keep going and going and digging myself into a deeper hole, like Mikey, dude, shut up, why don’t ya!?”

He then proceeded to speed up whatever he was saying into something unintelligible.

Watching him openly spiral did something to you.

You drowned out his squeaky sounds with your laughter.

“Funny?” You sort of heard him scream with excitement. “You thought that was funny?!”

You had to clutch your stomach.

When was the last time you laughed like that?

Something genuine.

Something out in public.

Totally unencumbered.

Trying to reign yourself in, you scarcely heard Michelangelo impatiently rephrase his question over and over about his comedy.

Still bubbling with little titters, you managed something. “Y-You’re s-something… that’s for sure!”

He crouched down as you imagined a feral beast would. “That’s not enough! Explain! You have to explain!!”

Riding the odd high he’d gifted you, you opened it up. “I… h-have been eyeing… a craft class.”

He shut right up before excitedly snatching your hands. “You won’t regret it!!”

Staring down at the connection, you felt electricity shoot up from the spot which sizzled the edges of your expression.

“Whoops!!” Michelangelo released and threw his hands out like a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Yup! That’s a thing about me! I’m kinda terrible at personal space! Feel free to beat me back with a stick!”

Still gazing down at your appendages, you felt a lingering warmth there and held one in the other to bask in it.

“-and then my big bro didn’t even realize I was riding on his back the whole time!”

Blinking as you hadn’t even heard him start a story, you gaped at how whatever he said was possible.

“So yeah, let’s exchange info so I can send you the deets!” His phone appeared again and he held it up at the ready.

Fumbling a little for yours, you swapped numbers.

“Call me Mikey, by the way. Put that down in your phone or, you know, Chef, if you’re feeling it.” He wiggled his eyebrows and you couldn’t help but give a little giggle behind your phone screen.

Stars reflected in his eyes as he watched the mood and it was only cut short by a shift in sound. Both of you turned in time to find someone from the next class had entered.

Realizing how very much of this man’s busy time you had eaten up, you smashed your phone to your face in an attempt to hide.

Mikey returned to give you a curious once over before he welcomed the newcomer with the same heightened aura you felt you’d come to expect of him.