'Are you ready to order?'
At the sound of the familiar words, Bahorel looked up from his coffee menu at the waitress. On the other side of the table, sprawled lustrously over the tattered old chair, Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him.
Are you ready to order? What god-awful, dumb as shit words. They'd appeared, in spiky, tall handwriting, on his shoulder when he turned twenty-one. Grantaire thought it was hilarious. With such common words, how was he ever supposed to find his soulmate? Grantaire, smugly, seemed to think his own chances were much better. When his words had finally appeared, wound artistically around his wrist (everything in R's life managed to be somehow artistic) they were in such scrawled, illegible handwriting that it had taken them almost a week to decipher them. You drunk, ignorant, simple-minded fuckwit, what do you know?
'I'll only hear that once in my life,' R had said confidently. 'At least, once in those exact words.'
Despite this, he was yet to find his soulmate, though he didn't seem bothered. Bahorel, on the other hand, being a romantic at heart, was desperate to find his soulmate. He had taken to spending his weekend visiting all the restaurants and cafe's in the vicinity, hoping to find the waiter or waitress who was destined to be with him for life. R was happy to come along for the ride- as long as Bahorel paid.
The waitress was pretty, quite spunky- short and skinny, with blonde hair cropped short, the ends died pink, and overly-shadowed eyelids. At this hipster-orientated cafe R had suggested the staff were allowed to wear their own clothes (though Bahorel suspected there was some kind of 'alternative as possible' guideline) with their aprons, and the girl was wearing a Smiths band t-shirt. Bahorel liked the Smiths.
The only way to tell was by reaction. Smiling up at the girl, he replied brightly, 'Double shot Americano, with hot milk, please.'
The waitress just nodded, scribbled something on her pad, and turned to Grantaire. 'And for you?'
He ordered some kind of obnoxious chai latte, and sipped it slowly while passionately sketching an elaborate side-profile of a handsome customer sat opposite them. Bahorel slumped back in his own chair, dejectedly sipping his coffee and wondering how many waiters it would take.
'Are you ready to order?'
It was Wednesday night, and Bahorel had spent the majority of the day cooped up in the library slaving over a paper that had been due that Monday. All he wanted to do was get back to his flat, and in stopping at the nearest pizza joint to get takeout on the way home, the words hadn't even crossed his mind.
Hearing them always bought them back in to his head, though- he saw them every single day, he knew them better than anything in the world- and he looked up at the person asking in interest.
His breath hitched.
The waiter was tall, but shorter than him- most people were- with a messy head of hair somewhere between mousy brown and red, and scruffy stubble of the same colour. His skin was light olive, smattered with freckles, and deep green eyes were framed by long lashes and strong, dark eyebrows.
Shit. This guy had him waxing lyrical like a poet.
He continued on as cool as he could.
'I'd like a large pepperoni pizza, and...'
'I'd like a large pepperoni pizza, and...'
Please be him. Oh please, please, if there is a God out there, let his soulmate be the man in front of him.
Feuilly had gotten the job at the shitty pizza joint when he was sixteen. It had meant to be just to fill time, a start-out job to start bringing some money in. Somewhere around the time of his 21st birthday he'd got the mechanic job at the local garage- his first college-free step towards engineering- and had planned, after spending his last pay check on a worthy birthday celebration, to throw his apron down and storm out of there.
Then the words had appeared, on his ankle of all places. In orderly, calculated cursive- 'I'd like a large pepperoni pizza, and your number.'
After that, he had to keep the pizza job. Just on evenings and weekends. Otherwise how would he ever find his soulmate? Every time someone asked for a large pepperoni pizza, his heart stopped. It probably wasn't good for his health.
The man in front of him was tall, and muscular- but not in an overwhelming way, in a lean and fit kind of way. His skin was deep tan, he had dark hair slightly shorter at the sides, and was wearing a tight button-down rolled up over his elbows revealing swirls of black ink all over his tanned forearms.
The man paused thoughtfully, and looked over the menu again. Fuck, Feuilly thought, he's actually going to ask for something else off the actual menu. Fuck that.
Still, he used the man's momentary distraction as a chance to appreciate the aesthetically pleasing sight before him in a totally unsubtle way.
'And... Your number.'
The waiter dropped his pen on the floor.
'Shit- are you alright?' Bahorel asked. Damn, he fucked up. He presumed, just because he had so, so wanted this pizza guy to be the one. 'Are you straight or something? Cause man, I'm sorry-'
'No, I just- holy fucking shit, it's you.' The waiter, who had retrieved his pen, was staring at him with those green eyes, a mixture of excitement and shock.
'Wait- you're- you fucker!' Bahorel cried, laughing. 'You have no fucking idea- absolute joke, those words, 'are you ready to order'-'
'I work in a pizza restaurant.' The waiter replied, grinning. 'Do you know how often I hear 'I'd like a large pepperoni pizza'?
Bahorel couldn't stop the elated laughter from escaping him. 'Wait, so- in all seriousness- you've honestly got a tattoo of what I just said?'
'Yep. 'I'd like a large pepperoni pizza, and your number.' On my fucking foot as well. Nice line, you suave motherfucker.'
'Well, can I?'
'The pizza, or the number?' The waiter grinned cheekily.
'Both.'
The waiter inputted his number into Bahorel's phone- his name was Feuilly- and as the place was pretty quiet, they chatted on and off while they waited for the pizza to cook. When it was ready, Feuilly boxed it up and approached him with a sharpie.
'What's your name?' He asked. 'You know, I need it for, um- it's part of my job…'
Bahorel rolled his eyes, but answered anyway, and watched with satisfied glee as Feuilly scribbled the name on top of the cardboard box in the exact handwriting he recognised from his tattoo.
The moment he left the shop, pizza under his arm, he took his phone from the pocket of his jeans and began composing a text to Feuilly.
'Hey,' it read. 'I just got some takeaway pizza in and I've rented a film I'd like to see. Want to come and share it when you get off? It's pretty nice pizza. Nice place. Alright waiters.'