Work Text:
“Ham or chicken?”
“Hm?”
You were snapped out of your concentration by an annoying—well, not really annoying , but annoying to you—flat voice.
“Ham or chicken?” Asra asked, waving two sandwiches in front of you; one in each hand. Today they were wearing a boring black tee and boring acid washed pants. To make their boring tattoos pop.
Fucking Asra.
“Chicken,” you said as you raised your hand to take the sandwich in his left.
This was a regular morning for you two.
Every morning, from Asra it was:
“Hot or cold?”
“Apple or spinach?”
“Spicy or mild?”
What had started out as a friendly competition between you—who could make the better peach cobbler—had turned into a daily ritual at The Black Pearl’s Tattoos and Piercings.
You—a piercing artist—knew that your cobbler was superior to any other in the world. Asra—an annoying tattoo artist who stole all of your clients—begged to differ.
When Asra first started working at The Pearl, you quite liked him. Enjoyed him even. They were funky and fresh and brought a wonderful sense of life to the store.
That lasted all of two weeks.
Unfortunately for your shop, you were located in the very middle of the university district, meaning that your clients—broke college students—only had the money for one; a piercing or a tattoo. Not both.
And with all of their charisma and charm, even though clients came in specifically for piercings—to be administered by yours truly—Asra would steal them away and convince them that he had just been struck by a sense of genius when the patron walked in. That it was like nothing he had ever experienced. And that they had the perfect, special idea for a tattoo just for them.
It worked.
It always worked.
Asra had a remarkable way of making the patrons feel special—wanted—and he whisked them away to show them a few pre-drawn tattoos that he had prepared the night before.
Asra was a liar.
A dirty, boring, annoying liar.
And he was stealing all of your clients.
Usually, you wouldn't mind.
You weren't one to shy away from a little competition—see the cobbler.
However, less clients meant less tips.
And less tips meant... well. Less everything.
You were making just above minimum wage. You relied on those tips to make a living. To buy groceries and to buy cute enamel pins.
Asra was quite frankly ruining your life.
“Good choice,” they said as they unwrapped the faux-ham sandwich, sat next to you, and took a bite. After the cobbler exchange, the two of you both brought back each other’s tupperware back to work the next day each filled with a different treat for the other to try. A charged gesture masked with politeness to subtly let the other know that while you appreciated their food, you know that the other really wanted more of your treats to eat.
They had brought apple strudel. You had brought ube tarts.
So, it only made sense to do another swap. This time comparing strudel and tarts, and well... Now Asra brought you both breakfast every morning—or he bought it for the both of you depending how drunk he had gotten the night before—and you handled lunch—or you bought it for the two of you depending on how late your bedtime was the night before.
You took a bite of your own faux-chicken sandwich—Asra was vegan and made all of their meals accordingly—and you chewed. Tandoori , you thought to yourself.
“You put red onions,” you started. “With lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, chipotle Southwest sauce—”
“Garlic aioli, too,” Asra interrupted. You liked playing tennis with him. And they played right back, “And sweet peppers, spinach, and—”
“Mozzarella?”
“Provolone.”
“Mm.” You did your best attempt at an unimpressed grunt. Asra didn't believe you for a second.
“C’mon,” he said. Drawing out the vowel.
It was too early to tease—and you knew better to tease Asra with their quick wit—so you relented.
“Asra, this is the best sandwich I’ve ever had.”
“Oh, stop.”
“No, I’m being serious... The way you crisp up the tofu really makes it feel like chicken in your mouth. It’s really good.”
Asra studied you for a moment; waiting for a strike.
“... For a sandwich on wholewheat bread, that is. On a baguette this would be—”
“Oh, hush. Eat your breakfast.”
You smiled to yourself and took another bite. It really was a good sandwich, you'd give him that. Asra was an excellent cook. But, they didn't need to know you thought that. You didn't need to inflate their ego any more lest they more onto stealing your regulars.
“So, what are we having for lunch?” Asra asked. The stilted way in which he asked tipped you off. Something was off with them. You couldn't quite place it, but Asra’s always been easy for you to read. Something was bothering him.
“You know better than to ask,” you said with a wink. Asra rolled his eyes, smiled, and started on a sketch. You doodled a few penises on the corner of his page and you finished your sandwich.
“Good?” they asked when you gave him back the tupperware.
“Oh... Yeah.” You were a bit taken aback. Asra was usually so confident about their cooking. something was definitely off.
“Asra, you're an excellent cook, you know that,” you said. “Tattoos and haute cuisine. Your future spouse will be very lucky.”
As you stood up to go to your corner of the shop and prepare your station, you were about to ask Asra what was bothering him when he beat you to it.
“You know,” they started. You turned back to him and gave them your full attention. It wasn't often that Asra was serious. You knew it was a big deal.
“If you think my breakfasts are good, I make even better dinners...”
“Oh! Is that what you were freaking out about—?”
“I-I wasn't freaking out—”
“Asra, of course I’ll have dinner with you.”
As Asra met your gaze, you caught a glimpse of the person behind the cockiness. You saw a vulnerable, kind-hearted, earnest, shy artist.
You were curious to learn more about them.
“Is tonight too soon?” he asked.
“Tonight’s perfect.”
“Great.” As Asra set up his station—right next to yours—you had never seen him so unfocused. You decided to do something to help ease his nerves.
You passed them a note when he was in between clients.
What are you making? I’ll bring the wine and dessert to pair with it ☆
Asra passed it back to you:
Just bring yourself...
And a few ube tarts ♡