Author's Note: I…. this isn't…. don't read this.
One does not work in a bakery without becoming something of a connoisseur.
A true banquet must allow the ability to partake in every sense. He's learned this from his own experience. Everything from fire-warmed air to a wooden desk can be used as garnish to the perfect meal.
There's much to be said for the texture of a meal. The first nibble, a question, testing the waters. The taunt outer casing—a shell, protecting the softness within—easily spread, perfect size for the average hand. Smooth on the tongue, with a hint of salt for taste. Creamy, fawn—the colors don't matter, nor do any flaws in their broad expanses. Like precious rubies, every imperfection is only further proof of the real deal, something to be cherished.
The first scent is a tang, not unpleasant and barely noticeable. Uncommon, not found in day to day life. A delicacy. It invites further study. It demands to be tasted on more than just the air.
So he does.
Sharp, at first. Warm. Musky. It becomes diluted, and he strives to taste its full potency again. It's in vain, but there are other parts of the banquet to enjoy as well.
Here the texture is different. It's the same, essentially, yet the change is… exquisite. A soft-ripened dish instead of a wash-rind. And there's a fiery energy of sorts, just beneath the surface. A new sense entirely, yet he picks up on it readily. It can be stroked to a raging inferno with the right sort of tasting. Nipping, not chomping—such things as these are best savored in small bites.
He is, quite vaguely, aware of his lesser senses. He hears the pop and hiss of the oven fire, the sputtering of candles in their sconces, the creak of the floorboards beneath him. His own name, a growing whisper. He ignores it all.
Some things are better after time. Aged, they call it. It alludes to effort, striving long hours and the bliss of having one's input turned to enjoyment. It's rare that a real venture goes unrewarded, if hard work and effort are put in. This is no exception. All the time waiting, watching, preparing and coaxing into life are nothing compared to the endless moments of relishing the final meal. It only makes the sweet sweeter, the subtle subtler.
There comes a time, quicker than expected yet not unwelcome, when the meal becomes too much on its own. He must drink, and does so eagerly. There is a tightness in him as well, a quieter storm of need that is almost instinctive. Every inch of this banquet is necessary for his survival. Without it, he would—will—die.
His teeth scrape against the outer shell again, tasting the slight sweat of the quivering rind. A palate cleanser, though he doesn't need one.
He's been neglecting his last sense, and after a moment's pause opens his eyes to the stark, dull reality of the bakery he's called home for years now. His tongue works inside his jaw, catching every last bit of that strange, delightful flavor before turning his head up to the fingers once clutching, now stroking his scalp. To the hair falling just above his upturned nose, veiling and framing the red face. To the eyes. He would gladly feast forever, but there is never a time where he can ignore any summons from those eyes. He's been on his knees in supplication, but rises to meet the beauty above him. His ears revel in the sound of her hitched breath.
He goes for the mouth, another part of the banquet—often an appetizer, sometimes dessert. She avoids his lips.
"Espella and Mrs. Eclaire will be back soon," she pants. Not a rejection entirely, as her damp forehead presses against his equally damp chin. He looks over her head to the clock just as the bell tower begins to chime the lateness of the hour. She's right, as always. Their time is always short, but lately it seems more nonexistent than ever. He stays quiet, thinking of the money slowly growing in a box upstairs, money to start his own business, for a house, for her. If she'll accept it. But he won't tell her, not until it's time.
Looking forward to a meal is its own reward.