Disclaimer: I own only the plot, all characters are copyright to Beyblade
Title: Legend Tells Unicorns Run To The Sea
Main Pairing: Sergei/Oliver
Summary: "You're becoming very real and you're not good for him, just like he isn't good for you." Growling, the man made sure he understood.Oliver found himself smiling… Sergei(Spencer)/Oliver a surprising pair, an interesting story, little randomness in places, tiny bit of angst and of course…lemon. You have been warned and invited.
Hi guys :) this is my first yaoi publication…you don't like don't read! It started off as a silly idea while I was stuck with writer's block on an entirely different story but when I began I couldn't stop writing.
I was hoping to be the first to claim this odd couple but there have been some ambitious scribblers who beat me to the punch :p good for them :D
Please give this pairing and my creative genius ( ;) XD) a chance!
PLEASE REVIEW!
He was sitting on the café terrace. Leaning back in the iron wrought chair with the big white cushions. A café noisette was steaming from the cup and a chocolate croissant was served on the elegant porcelain plate beside it. It was a sunny day, a real summer morning with a bright blue sky and perfect white clouds. Oliver sighed opening the daily newspaper. He was always rather lonely during the summer and, on that beautiful morning, he again had no one to join him.
Working as a chef in his star restaurant had always been an honour, however, sometimes during hot summer days he wished to be carefree like Giancarlo. He flipped through columns and colourful pictures before coming to the centrefold add of his L'étalon blanc. Tonight, he would be cooking with his father, a rare and greatly attended feast. Tables had been booked months in advance and with all the French from the north storming the Riviera they would be booked for the rest of August and September. Oliver sighed at the prospect of having morning coffee alone while his friends slept from nights of pleasure and entertainment…he sigh at the prospect of cooking for 8 to 10 hours straight and staying behind to lock up when the employees were going home.
He took a sip of the dark liquid and savoured the taste while looking down at the crossword puzzle on the back of the newspaper. The curls of his green hair fell down his chest, tied together and falling over his left shoulder; he had decided to let it grow and by that summer it reached his middle back. Despite the wishes of his mother he still insisted on dying it green. His silver pen glided over the paper. Oliver found some pleasure in a lazy morning; in rituals he had repeated for years and sweet croissants he never got tired of.
The sound of his phone ringing la Gloria snapped him out of the puzzle and Oliver's shiny silver eyes focused on the number. It was his father.
Yes?
Don't forget you have to meet the new chef at lunch.
He had forgotten and frowned rolling his eyes. Of course, I'll meet you at the restaurant?
Yes, Leone is just picking him up from the airport. They should be arriving in a couple of hours.
Oliver covered the microphone with a hand and cursed under his breath. He could forget taking a dip at the seaside today.
I'll be there.
Excellent.
There were no goodbyes as his father cut off the call. Considering the preparations for their star L'étalon blanc and the management of the other restaurants they were on the phone all the time so formalities died out. Oliver finished his breakfast and his coffee, leaving the daily paper on the chair beside him. He left the Euros by the cup and looked around. Lots of tourists crowded the beautiful square and the narrow alleyways, more and more Americans were coming to the Riviera and the beautiful man didn't like it. Most Americans ate in fast food restaurants and most Americans were ignorant and rude. He sighed again at his predicament. American's weren't to blame…his overworked and tired brain was.
The walk to the restaurant was uneventful and he took the longer route to enjoy the beautiful seaside. The smell of salt in the wind and the sound of waves hitting against the walkway soothed all stress. Quicksilver eyes watched beautiful white sailboats in the distance, glittering with the sunlight on the surface of the sea. There was one summer when he didn't cook…when Giancarlo and he got a few friends together and spent a month sailing around the Mediterranean… He closed his eyes to the memory of the open sea and the sound of wind snapping at the sail, to the giggles, the champagne (from Champagne) and the small cook's galley. A nervous beep from his phone snapped him out of his holiday again. It was a text message from his mother, she always made sure he didn't forget his responsibilities and that there was peace between him and his perfectionist father.
The new cook is arriving in 20 minutes. Where are you?
The beautiful man quickened his step, the restaurant wasn't far but he should arrive before their new employee not after. This was the first time in the last three years that his father hired someone whose food he hadn't tasted. The green haired chef was on needles at this newest addition to the team…even more so because he would be starting out in their most prominent restaurant…where fuckups aren't tolerated… He remembered his father's words and his slap very vividly…it being the one and only time he heard his father swear. Oliver never over-seasoned the food again.
The elegant doors opened and he smiled in greeting to his beautiful and always fashionably dressed mother. His father was in his cooking garments and had his arms crossed.
"I thought you weren't coming at all." He simply stated, it was custom to speak English in their restaurant because they had a lot of foreign chefs and servers. This was something the other restaurateurs scorned at first…but the Bollinger chain ate them up for their pig-headedness.
"Apologies. Luckily I have arrived on time." His honest smile calmed his father and Oliver nodded to the military lined kitchen staff. They smiled or nodded in answer, the silver eyed man always tried to be on good terms with their employees. It didn't always work out. "Could we speak for a moment father?"
The stern man nodded and they went to the side.
"This chef…who is he? You've been rather secretive?" He tried to ask it the finest way possible, so it wouldn't appear he was second guessing his father's choice.
"Sergei Petrov, a somewhat peculiar cook but his food…his food is symphony." Oliver arched an eyebrow…he heard that name somewhere but he couldn't remember.
"Where did you try his food?" The silver eyed men starred each other down and Oliver's arms were crossed on his chest in a somewhat defensive manner.
"Russia; it took a while to persuade him to come to France." In bored tone his father answered.
It was obvious from the name to Oliver that the man was Russian but the horrible itch of not remembering something he should know was driving him crazy.
They heard the front doors open and turned their attention. His father walked toward the newcomer to greet him. Oliver lagged behind, peeking over his father's shoulder. Silver eyes caught the corner of a chest, a very muscular chest rippling beneath a broad white button-down. As he stepped closer his mouth opened in recognition and surprise. It made sense the name would be familiar…it was Sergei Petrov the world championships finalist...a Demolition boy. Well, he sure isn't a boy any longer…Oliver decided. Curls of semi-short blond hair fell around the Russian's face and his sharp cerulean eyes rested on Bollinger senior. There was a faint smile on his thick lips and Oliver felt heat rummage around his abdomen out of fear and something else.
"A pleasure to meet you." The tall man bowed his head gently as he shook hands with the petite Frenchwoman. His deep voice grumbled as he spoke in a heavy Russian accent.
"This is my son and the head chef in L'étalon blanc, Oliver." Sergei moved the focus of his vision from the woman to the green haired man. They shook hands in something that seemed a standstill. It took Sergei a few moments to remember why the green hair struck a nerve. He focused on the large quicksilver eyes and the perky feminine nose and the well defined pouty lips. The little boy had grown but he still looked like a weak little boy…like a model; the fairy and his unicorn as Brian put it. A small smirk rose to his lips as he remembered the barrel of laughter they had when they saw his horn, poking out of the helmet.
"You were with the Majestics." In a well-voice the strong man stated.
"Oh? You know about it?" Oliver blushed as his mother laughed at her son's odd hobby.
"Yes mother… Sergei Petrov was a world finalist." Oliver added in a pigeony voice; unsure weather his mother would be in awe or in laughter.
"Well, I'm sure you'll have plenty to talk about than…besides cooking of course." She stated through a giggle. Oliver wanted the earth to shatter. His mother had no idea of Sergei's reputation or the reputation of his team.
"I am certain we will manage, mother." Oliver hoped the smile he gave Sergei in apology would be enough.
"Sergei, I am aware you have a long trip behind you however I am certain my son would love to taste something you can throw together." Throw together meant impress us with in his father's dictionary and Oliver kept his large silver eyes on the Russian.
"A light lunch would be in order, without doubt." The blond smirked as he said it. Oliver noticed his father's smile stretch as he went to introduce his new chef to the kitchen staff and then allow him free reign in their kitchen.
Oliver looked to his amused mother who crossed her arms on her chest in her lavender Kenzo dress.
"Mother, I would be grateful if you didn't mock the sport I care so much for." The elegant man was trying his best to sound formal.
"Oh darling, don't be so common. We put up with your playtime; give me at least the satisfaction of some amusement from it for myself." He closed his eyes for a moment. She can be so frustrating.
"Of course" He answered meekly turning back to the tall Russian. How did a soldier blader become a chef?
Oliver couldn't remain still on his chair. He squirmed and switched sides, crossed his legs and uncrossed them, leaned over the table, leaned away.
"Would you please stop?" Briskly his father asked. "What's gotten into you?"
"Can't I just go into the kitchen?" He pleaded, like he never pleaded with his father before. His mother raised an eyebrow but allowed her husband to make the decision.
"Why?" Was a legitimate question and Oliver knew it. He just didn't have an answer. He couldn't very well say…because Sergei was a soldier…because from what Max told me he's a monster…because the world fears him?
"We've never let any chef unattended in the L'étalon blanc." Oliver smirked inwardly. There was nothing his father could say against such a claim.
The older man though for a while. "If it will calm your spirits, go."
Oliver was on his way to the kitchen before his father even finished the sentence. His mother smiled at Bollinger senior.
"A chef that makes him run for the kitchen…I must say, a good find love." She giggled to her internal joke. Oliver's father still didn't know about his…preferences…but mother knew and she laughed like it was the funniest she'd heard in a while.
He listened to his footsteps on the tiled floor, there was little holding him back from turning to a run. The beautiful man pushed the doors to the kitchen open. The midday sun was bursting into the kitchen and Oliver smelled chicken roasted on garlic, black pepper, lemon and rosemary. The sunlight fell upon the larger man and shimmered off his knife as he sliced and diced the olives, the zucchini, the green lettuce and the red chicory. It would be a salad Oliver concluded, however the recipe itself seemed rather too plain…he knew his father always sought extreme new things in his chefs and Oliver wondered if Sergei could deliver.
The blond blader had his back turned to Oliver and silver eyes dragged over his features again. Petrov had always been tall, he nearly reached a full two meters which was almost a head and a half taller than Oliver, who could expect no more from his short parents. The man had hard and well trained muscles that outlined even through the broad white shirt; he wasn't awkwardly bulky however, rather built like a gymnast with strong limbs and a rippled chest. Oliver stopped himself from further analyzing the Russian's body.
"Come to check up on me?" Oliver blinked at the man's question and smiled while leaning down on the counter, so his head was perched up by his hands.
"Someone had to," Oliver chuckled, "Wouldn't you rather it was I?" Oliver twirled a lock of green hair around his finger. Why did I say that? What does he care who came?...embarrassing. He felt a blush crawl to his face; he certainly wasn't being professional…
"Is there a reason I should be especially happy it is you?" The tall man muttered through his work, not having the time to look over his shoulder at the younger man. I should watch my tong if he's going to be my boss…
"I'm sweet to the eyes?" Did I just flirt with him? Oliver closed his eyes fending off a blush. This wasn't how one greeted new employees. Then again he had never had an employee with a body like that.
Sergei burst out laughing, even though he tried to prevent it. Oliver stood upright, shock evident on his face, he felt somewhat offended.
"If you're that sweet on the tong with all your guests, no wonder people keep coming back." The Russian answered when the chuckle had died down completely. The unicorn really was girly he concluded. Perhaps I shouldn't have laid it on that thick…He mixed up the salad and began seasoning while turning around to flip the meat on the open fire. He noticed the flabbergasted way Oliver watched him handle the stove.
The green haired man needed a moment to think of a witty reply. He was distracted by Sergei's expert handling of their stove, most chefs flinch from the large flames at first and some even outright decline working the Bollinger fires.
"A good chef is always sweet but the best are actually spicy." His lips pulled to a smirk as he shifted weight to one leg and put his hand on his hip. Let's see how far this Demolition boy can follow…
The Russian chuckled, Oliver was distracting him. Perhaps that was his intention. "When you say spicy, do you mean hot or just salty?" Sergei answered with a smirk and he noticed Oliver's features lighten up.
The Bollinger heir was having fun, more fun than he'd had in weeks. A continual smirk was now plastered to his lips and he found he couldn't stop smiling. "A good chef should know spicy is more than just hot and salty…there is an entire range of other sensations."
Sergei was laughing again, he was surprised at the green haired man's wit and his brash attitude. The Russian had never encountered anyone who spoke his mind that amusingly. He wondered just how far he could push their little game.
"Would you mean the ticklish range of tastes that spill over your tong as you savour? When it begins with the heat of a mouthful succulently grinded, to reveal its first offerings of taste and texture? Then hidden aromas release themselves with the roll of a tong and cumulate eventually into a completely different aftertaste when they are swallowed." Valkov would have whipped me with a gaze for that... Cerulean eyes watched the heir with a sharp amusement.
Oliver remained frozen for a few moments, his mouth watering at the blonde's words. No one ever made him that aroused with a statement…OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod… there was a distinct period he couldn't think. Sergei was nothing like the heartless, silent, mass murderer Max had once led him to believe. He was…quite…different. Or was he just pretending? Is he humouring me? So much uncertainty in a thought and silver eyes searched the Russian's expression for reassurance.
"That's exactly what I meant." He managed to answer the smiling blond. Silver eyes focused to Sergei's face. Cerulean eyes were vibrant, emphasized by fine ash blond eyebrows. Sergei's nose was somewhat crooked as if it had been badly broken once but it gave such a savage flavour to his features and such a soldier's profile Oliver couldn't imagine it being better any other way. The smirk on the Russian's lips was faint, defined by a deep crease at the corner of his full lips. The unassuming and inconspicuous teenager Oliver remembered turned into an attractive and rugged man. Considering the age difference between them Sergei must have been around 22…but Oliver couldn't be certain.
"I will be finished soon." The deep voice snapped Oliver from his assessment and he nodded, still dazed somewhat.
"I hope your food is as good as your smug retorts." Oliver stated leaving the kitchen, he pushed the light doors not waiting for a reply. I want him to be hired…
Petrov was mixing up the chestnut honey dressing and frying up peanuts, flipping around the kitchen like he had no care in the world. So…unicorn boy likes my comebacks…this job could be a lot more fun than I imagined. I can't wait to tell Brian who my boss is…or…wait…should I?
Quicksilver eyes darted from, Sergei bringing the food, to his parents. He hadn't been that nervous since he cooked for them the first time when he was 9 and when father said his pasta was excellent but he served the wrong utensils. The food smelled divine as the honey dressing dripped gold down the leafy tri-coloured salad and quick-fried well seasoned chicken. Fried baguettes with little seasoning were served with the dish and Oliver closed his eyes when he saw his father take a forkful. Please be good. Please be good. Please be good. Oliver opened his eyes when he thought his father would have swallowed. His mother also looked to her husband first for a verdict.
"Oliver?" His father questioned and long pale fingers took the fork finely. The young Frenchman took his time to take what he thought was an optimal mouthful. The Russian watched him swallow far more intently. If he likes it…I would cook for him again. Sergei was somewhat surprised at the trail of thought that gripped him.
Like Sergei had explained earlier, the heat of the chicken contrasted with the cold of the salad and the sour/bitter taste of lemon chicken and olives first tickled his pallet, seasoned well with pepper and just a dash of olive oil. He than experienced the texture of soft chicken and crispy salad enriched with a crunchy peanut drawing in the sweet yet bitter chestnut honey dressing. He took a small bite of the sesame seasoned baguette that tipped of the fabulous taste… After he swallowed a sweet and salty taste remained calling for a drink of fine white wine. It was good…It was very good. A smile stretched on his lips before he even said anything.
"I loved it. I really loved it." He said exasperated and his mother chuckled before eating. His father nodded with an I-told-you-so smirk. He shook hands with Sergei.
"Welcome to the L'étalon blanc!" Both his parents had said and Sergei nodded with a smile in agreement.
When he finished eating Oliver noticed it was already 4 p.m. he frowned. The big feast would begin in four hours. He and his father had made many of the preparations a days ahead but there was a lot that had to be prepared fresh and even more that would have to be cooked just in the nick of time to remain a delicacy.
"You're free for the rest of the day, rest and get accustomed to the climate. Leone will show you to the apartment we've prepared for you. If the situation were different I would give Oliver a free day to introduce you to the city and the local customs, however we have a big night ahead of us and I will need my son in the kitchen." When his father finished explaining Oliver gave a polite smile to Sergei to excuse this strange predicament. The large Russian only nodded.
"Of course; I wish you a successful evening." Sergei knew the world required you to be polite he knew money was a necessity and a good job meant everything. Tala had also understood that freedom meant responsibility and received a Beyblade scholarship to study psychology…Tala wanted to learn how the brain works…so he could fix himself…I thought, if he managed, he just might be more than capable of fixing others…
Brian and Ian accused them of being sell-outs and traitors…until they couldn't pay the bills and crawled back in search of a helping hand. Sometimes we have to learn the hard way… The large man mused, shaking the hand of his new employer, his wife and his son.