A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews for the last chapter. I'm glad you all seem to be on board with shorter parts, even if it means less 'happens'. Here's another one! I've been ill this week and really felt like this chapter was just getting away from me in terms of plot and character and...everything, really, so apologies if that comes across. There will be one more part to their night, and then I swear the story will pick up a little pace. As always, I hope you enjoy it! I love hearing what you think, even if you just want to tell me off for being a self-indulgent tease, so please leave a review :)
Chapter 10: Sushi
Dave blinks at the sight in front of him. It's every bit as beautifully presented and deliciously intimidating as he'd expected it to be.
The sushi, that is.
They'd ordered the itamae's choice – the chef's specially selected sushi picks of the day – and, when the little wooden platter is placed down in front of him, Dave finds his eyes drawn willingly away from Kurt for the first time tonight, towards the twelve perfectly constructed stacks of rice and fish and nori and he's not sure what else yet, saliva pooling in his mouth as he realises he's about to find out.
His first instinct is to reach for his phone and snap a picture before he's struck with the dizzying realization that there's no need; that the person he'd normally share that picture with is sitting opposite him, thanking the server as she pours soy sauce into the two small, round dipping dishes she's just placed on the table, each already dotted with a pea-sized splodge of bright green wasabi paste. He smiles as the server departs and Kurt catches his eye.
"Little light on the old wasabi, huh?" he whispers, almost conspiratorially, as he lifts his chopsticks and starts to mix.
"It is?" Dave asks, studying Kurt's actions.
"It is if you like wasabi," he says, shoulders rising and falling briefly as he speaks, "and I, for one, love it."
"Well, this'll be my first time, so..." Dave says, mildly self-conscious as he mimics Kurt's actions, gently prodding the surface of the thick paste with the end of a chopstick.
"In that case, we'd better make it memorable," Kurt tells him, still swirling his own helping through a dark pool of soy sauce, "Try a little on its own before mixing it with the soy. Be careful, though," Kurt warns, raising a glossy red chopstick to his mouth and sucking the tip briefly between his lips to test it before going on, "It's hot."
Dave swallows thickly, temporarily dumbstruck by the sight of Kurt's cheeks hollowing, his lips pursing because yeah, that's hot. "I like a little heat," he assures him, eventually regaining the power of speech, and scoops up a quarter of the wasabi on the end of both chopsticks.
"Good," Kurt says simply as his eyes fall to Dave's mouth and he watches with amused interest as he takes his first taste.
Dave tries his best to concentrate on the task at hand. The flavor of the wasabi is instantly bright on his tongue; enough to steal his attention momentarily away from the subtle, upward curve of Kurt's lips. There's a light tingle on his palate, a subtle flash of vibrant flavor and peppery heat before he feels his nostrils flare from the slight burning sensation as it touches the back of his throat. "It's good," he coughs a little, trying to mask it as a laugh, and sputters, "I like it."
Kurt giggles and shakes his head. "And that's just the beginning," he tells him.
Dave takes a sip of his coke and nods, not sure if the tingling in his chest is a result if the slow-burn of the wasabi or from the promise in the warm, velvety tone of Kurt's voice.
Despite his neophyte status and the nerves, the lingering uncertaintyabout just what tonight is, if anything, that won't allow him to fully relax despite the increasingly easy flow of conversation, Dave thinks he's managed not to embarrass himself too much up to now. He's thankful that he's eaten enough Chinese take-out in his day to be at least decent with a pair of chopsticks (even if tackling the delicately moulded blocks of rice and expertly sliced fish proves a little more tricky than the average carton of mu-shu pork), and he's following Kurt's lead closely, imitating his actions and listening intently as he teaches him the Japanese names for everything (and really, Dave knows nothing about the Japanese language, but he's pretty sure that Kurt's pronunciations are tinged with a slight French-accented flair that he finds ridiculously, inexplicably endearing) as they work their way unhurriedly around their getas – the proper, Japanese name for the little wooden platter their sushi is served on – eating each bite in unison.
So far, they've had the chutoro nigiri (a rectangular block of rice draped in a slice of milky-pink belly tuna that melted deliciously on his tongue), a spicy maguro gunkan (a battleship roll topped with diced, lean akami tuna mixed with punchy shichimi chilli powder and finely sliced green onion), shinko and kappa makis (thin rolls filled simply with refreshing pickled daikon and cucumber) and the unagi futomaki (a round, smoked eel filled sushi roll topped with charred sesame seeds and a smoky eel sauce), each piece a little more delicious than the last and all accompanied by little 'hmms' of satisfaction and tidbits of trivia from Kurt that Dave drinks in, stores away in his memory for future professional, and private, use.
"They used to make itamaes train for ten years before they were allowed to actually work. Could you imagine staying at the CIA for that long?"
Dave swallows a piece of gari – a sweet, juicy, wafer-thin sliced pickled ginger served to cleanse the palate between different bites – and shakes his head, "I'd be almost thirty. I don't think my dad would pay my rent for that long. I'd have to give up the dream."
"Or get a part time job on the side and pay your own rent," Kurt offers cheekily as he grabs a bit of gari for himself.
"Says the guy who just used his dad's emergency credit card to buy knitwear."
"Hey!" He scolds, chopsticks in mid-air, brandished forward like a weapon, "How do you even know that?"
"You told me, I have the text message to prove it."
Kurt smiles ruefully, "Well, a sale at Macy's absolutely counts as an emergency."
"Right..."
"And it is winter, David. How else am I supposed to keep warm in my icebox apartment?"
"I'm sure you could think of some other way that doesn't involve clothing," Dave proposes, the retort honestly, completely innocent until he sees Kurt's eyes widen slightly at the broader implication.
"Shut up and eat," Kurt says, cheeks faintly pink as he reaches for the next piece sushi, gesturing for Dave to do the same, "the tako nigiri is next."
More than happy to get his mind back to food, Dave picks up the oblong block of rice that hosts a white piece of flesh tinged faintly purple at the edge, attached to the top with a thin belt of green nori, and awaits further instruction.
"Tako is octopus," Kurt says and angles his chopsticks for a three-sixty view before lowering it to his shoya dish and swiping it, flesh first, through the soy and wasabi dip, "although it isn't raw, like you'd think, but gently poached in a dashi broth to enhance both the flavor and texture."
Dave watches, impressed and then some, as Kurt opens his mouth wide and the whole glistening nigiri disappears inside.
"How do you...?" he starts to ask, words failing him a little as he almost drops his own block of rice, struggling to do anything but just watch and listen and enjoy, "Uh, how do you know so much about this...stuff?"
"I like—" he starts around a retreating mouthful, tongue peeking out between his lips for the briefest of seconds, before he chews some more, jaw working rhythmically, entrancingly, before he swallows and replies with a not-quite shy smile, "I'm just interested, I guess. Am I being a bore?"
"No, not at all," Dave protests and shoves his own near-forgotten piece of sushi into his mouth with as much finesse as he can manage, tearing his eyes away from slight sheen on Kurt's lips. He's trying to forget that this might be a date, to act as normally as he ever does around Kurt, to just have fun and let go without thinking about what he wants to happen next. "I'm interested, too," he says with a smile, although that's officially the understatement of the century.
Kurt grins in response and Dave tries to concentrate on the firm yet tender texture on his tongue rather than the jelly in his legs as he pushes away those thoughts. Whatever will be will be, right? Que sera sera, he tells himself, like in that song. He feels momentarily better before wincing at his subconscious for outgaying even his libido by conjuring up a fucking Doris Day song in an attempt to quell his internal anxiety.
"What's next?" He asks, seeking distraction, as he takes a much-needed sip of his ice cold soda.
"Let's go for the sake uromaki," Kurt suggests, dipping his head to survey what's left on his geta, "it's one of my favorites."
They each reach for the fat inside out roll, generously filled with salmon and sliced avocado and wrapped in nori first, then rice, and finished with tobiko. "That's flying fish roe," Kurt tells him as he examines the tiny, vivid orange pearls that coat the outside of the roll, "which, I learned during my first foray into sushi making at home, is surprisingly hard to find in Lima."
"Shocking," Dave deadpans and dips the loaded uromaki into his shoya dish with care.
"I know, right?" he replies as he catches up to Dave, dipping his roll as Dave makes short work of his own.
He can instantly tell why it's a favorite of Kurt's: each of the flavors is individually pronounced – the sweet, clean taste of the salmon; the buttery softness of the avocado; the satisfyingly salty crunch of the roe – yet they meld perfectly together, layers of unified texture and taste complimented by the faintly fiery soy dip.
"I think this one's my favorite so far, too," he says when he catches Kurt watching him, gaze quietly enquiring.
Kurt smirks around a slightly muffled, "Told you," and finishes chewing before going on. "I love salmon and avocado together in almost any form."
"Me too. My mom used to make this amazing salad with smoked salmon and avocado," his unwitting mention of his estranged mother pulls him up short – it's the first time he's thought of her fondly, even by association, in long time – and he knows Kurt catches the sudden tension in his pause; he looks across at him, chewing silently on a piece of gari, eyes soft with concern. Dave pokes at his own pile of gari with his chopsticks for a minute before deciding to go on, "I remember this one time in fifth grade, I think, when we had to stand up in class and talk about our favorite meal. All the kids chose burgers and pizza and mac and cheese and I chose this stupid salmon and avocado salad my mom made when my Aunt Patricia had come to visit. And I remember talking about how awesome this chilli-lime vinaigrette was and being, like, surprised when I got so much shit from the other kids about it – including Hudson, by the way – even the teacher looked at me like I was..." he trails off, the fond memory souring as it comes into sharper focus.
"...different?" Kurt offers.
He nods back, frowning. "Yeah. I guess it was one of the things back then that made me realise that I didn't want to be different."
Kurt gives him that sad but genuine smile he's seen too many times. He used to think it was borne of pity, but now he thinks there's a chance that it comes more from understanding. At least this time. Still, he feels like he's fucked up, sobered the moment.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Don't be," Kurt stops him mid apology and holds his gaze for what feels like forever before he speaks again, smile gone but tone pointedly lighter. "Did your mom cook a lot when you were growing up?"
"Yeah, she was...she's a really good cook," he says, and it feels vaguely cathartic to be talking about his mom like this to anyone but his therapist, to acknowledge that he at least still has one, even if she feels like she no longer has a son. "She wouldn't let me near the kitchen, though. Like, not even to make a sandwich. I guess that's why it was only when she left, and I could, that I really, seriously, started taking an interest in cooking."
"Me too," Kurt smiles again, eyes still locked on Dave's, "Kind of. I mean, it's different, obviously, but...I remember baking cookies with my mom when I was too young to really learn anything, but it wasn't until after..." he laughs lightly, tilting his head back, before he sighs and continues, gently shifting away from the weighty subject of their missing mothers, "My dad is no use at all in the kitchen. He could burn water."
Dave's smiles, breathes, again, the newfound tension cracked if not quite broken, "If he's anything like mine, cooking is a necessity rather than a luxury."
"My dad would have Slim Jims with coke three times a day if he could get away with it."
"Like you'd ever let him away with that."
"Exactly," Kurt beams, "which is why he's only has one heart attack so far."
They laugh at that and fall silent, Dave following Kurt's lead yet again as he reaches for the next piece of sushi – inari this time, a fried soy bean pouch filled with sushi rice and chopped tomago, cucumber and pickled radish – which they eat in strangely comfortable silence. It's deliciously different from everything else they've tried tonight; sweet and almost familiar.
"It's not so bad, is it?" Kurt asks, fingers tracing an invisible pattern on the side of water glass as he speaks.
"The inari pocket?"
Kurt shakes his head, and his lips quirk but not enough to form a full blown smile. "Being different," he clarifies.
"Oh," Dave smiles and huffs out a little breath of subdued laughter, suddenly coy under Kurt's open gaze, feeling exposed by the frank turn of their discussion. He doesn't let himself look away, though, as he answers, honestly, "It got me here, so...no, it's not so bad at all."
A/N 2: Also, you may have noticed that I tweaked the chapter numbers (I got rid of Chapter 6a/6b and made them simply Chapters 6 and 7) on the chapter index, but haven't had time to edit these in the actual text, so apologies for any confusion if you're reading each chapter in sequence.