Mike worked at a pub nestled in the heart of downtown Vancouver called the Ship and Anchor. At first, the prospect of eating in a pub—a place that would still be closed to him for the next four years—had excited Matt; he found soon after walking through the front doors that it was nothing more than a restaurant with an older crowd, and he felt horribly young and out of place.
Weaving his way through the closely crowded chairs and tables that were already filling up with people, Mike led him towards a table at the back, close to the bar and the kitchen doors.
"So I can keep an eye on you," Mike said with a grin and he gestured for Matt to take a seat. "I have to go to the back to get changed and let my boss know why you're here, but I can get one of my coworkers to bring you a menu and anything else you want."
He turned and was gone before Matt could protest, not that he would have known what to say. Swallowing hard, he sank back in his seat and tried to act casual, tried to act like he didn't stick out like a sore thumb in a place like this.
Only a couple of minutes passed before a waiter approached him. Although not overly tall he was lanky, about Mike's age, and had a head of curls that weren't quite as rampant as Mike's.
"Hey, squirt," he said cheerfully, tossing a menu onto the table. "Mike says to let you know that you can have anything you want on the menu. It's on the house. Anything else I can get you?"
"Uh...just some water, please."
"Oh, I'm Ian, by the way," the waiter said, sticking out a hand. "I'm not very good at this whole serving thing—usually I work behind the bar, with Mike. But he asked me to keep an eye on you tonight."
"I don't need to have an eye kept on me!" Matt said indignantly, ignoring the hand that was proffered to him.
"Sure," Ian said with a sly wink. "And then you'll have no one to make sure you don't get drunk off of two beers. You know, if you really wanted, I could probably—"
"Water's fine," Matt said, unsure of whether to be amused or irritated by this friend of Mike's, by the fact that Mike had to send someone to keep an eye on him.
"Whatever," Ian shrugged. "I'll be back in a minute. Try to find something you feel like eating."
Opening the menu, Matt found there wasn't anything he didn't feel like eating; he still hadn't had anything other than half of a ham sandwich that day and his stomach was cramping up with hunger.
"Is there a limit to what I can order?" he asked Ian when he returned with his glass of water.
"It's free, dude. I'd take that as an opportunity to order whatever the hell you want."
Still, when Matt told him what he wanted, Ian's eyes widened. "You sure you can eat all that?"
"I'm hungry," Matt said defensively.
"I can see that," Ian said, raising his eyebrows. "But hey, I'm not judging. I'm not the one who has to cook it. I'm going back to my real job—just give a shout if you need anything."
Bemused, Matt watched as he walked away, before sitting back in his chair and sipping at his water. The liquid did nothing but make the hunger pains in his stomach worse.
It seemed to take forever for his food to arrive; he was practically salivating when the doors to the kitchen swung open and two waiters—one of them was Ian—came out, carrying platters laden down with plates of food.
"Is this all for you?" asked the one Matt didn't recognize as he put down his load on the table: a large steak, a baked potato, and a side of vegetables, and a bowl of Caesar salad.
"I know, he doesn't seem big enough for it to all fit," Ian said as he placed down a plate with a hamburger and fries on it, a side of breadsticks, and a bowl of tomato soup.
"I'll manage," Matt said, wishing they would leave so he could eat his meal in peace.
"Well, if you need any help...," Ian offered over his shoulder as they walked away. Matt spared enough time to snort at their retreating backs before digging in vigorously to the pile of food in front of him.
He felt like he hadn't eaten in years. And while that might have been an exaggeration, he realized with a shock just how long it had been since he'd had a full meal: there'd been half a sandwich earlier that afternoon, and nothing at all on the day of the funeral; and in the week before that he'd hardly eaten at all, because the news of Josh's death had hit him harder than a bus and left him broken and full of disbelief and grief, with no room left over for something as meaningless as food.
Vaguely, he wondered why that was; why now he fell so ravenously upon food that two days ago would have seemed unappetizing and unneeded. Maybe it was because his body was last succumbing to the needs that sustained it. Maybe it was because the grief was draining out of him, slowly, leaving him empty, leaving his heart and his stomach not so knotted up within him.
He decided not to think about it any longer, because the food tasted heavenly—although, in his state, a plate of old socks would have tasted good.
And he did finish it all, every last bite, even though by the end he felt full enough to burst. Almost instantly he was overcome with drowsiness, and he pushed his empty plates away and resisted the urge to rest his head on the table.
But it wasn't yet seven-thirty and there was hours to go before Mike's shift would be over and he had nothing to occupy himself with, and soon enough he had his elbow propped on the arm of his chair and his head resting in his hand, and despite the music and general noise in the pub, he found his eyes fluttering shut.
Some time passed before someone shook him awake by the shoulder, and he opened his eyes to see Mike standing in front of him.
"I'm on my break and I thought I'd come check on you," he said with a small smile. "You doing alright?"
"Yeah," Matt yawned, blinking sleepily.
"Anything I can get you? I have another fifteen minutes still."
"Um, actually..." Oddly enough, impossibly enough, now that the food had digested a little, Matt was still hungry. "Do you have any cake? Chocolate, preferably."
Mike laughed. "You're kidding, right? I heard about what you ate for dinner. I saw what was left of it, too—not that there was much. How do you have room for dessert after that?"
"There's always room for dessert." It was a policy Matt had always lived by.
"True enough. It's just...when I said you could eat whatever and however much you want, I wasn't really picturing you eating the restaurant into the ground."
"Sorry."
Mike chuckled and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I was just kidding. Eat what you'd like—just save me a bite."
"Cake, then," Matt said decisively. "With ice cream, please. And maybe I'll leave some for you."
The piece of cake Mike delivered in front of him five minutes later was huge and decadent, chocolate sauce drizzled over chocolate icing over the chocolate brownie-like cake itself. A scoop of vanilla ice cream had been placed on top.
"Sure you have room for all that still?" Mike teased.
Matt did—he hadn't been joking when he said he always had room for dessert—and it was somewhat regretfully that he said, "Maybe not. Here, have some." Taking the fork, he cut the piece of cake in half and shoved the plate towards Mike.
"I only have five minutes..." Mike said, looking uncertain.
Matt shrugged. "Eat fast." It was pretty pathetic, he figured, if he couldn't even give Mike half a slice of cake, after all he'd done for him.
Not needing any more urging, Mike pulled out the chair across from Matt and sat down, shovelling the cake in his mouth.
"Now it seems like you're the one who hasn't had a good meal in days," Matt noted.
"That," Mike said in between bites, "and my boss would be unimpressed with me if he saw me eating the cake I made him make you, especially after what I told him about you." Finishing the last bite, he stood and pushed the plate back towards Matt.
"Wait, what did you tell him about me?"
Mike only smiled. "Break's over," he said, uninformative. "I'll be off at two. Are you sure you're good until then?"
Not really waiting for an answer, he turned with a wave to retreat behind the swinging kitchen doors.
"I'll be fine, I guess," Matt told his back, before turning his attention to the cake that sat in front of him.
It tasted, if that was possible, even more delicious than it looked.
He watched the last of the baseball game on the TV that hung in the corner above his table; after that, he watched sports highlights of the hockey game that had been played the night before. Once, he would have been fascinated in the Stanley Cup Playoffs; he had been completely immersed not that long ago. But it was hard to care about something as trivial as hockey when his best friend was dead, and soon his attention wandered.
Gradually, the pub emptied around him; it was a Sunday night, and people had work the next morning. The roar of noise slowed to a murmur, and he could actually hear the soft strains of music in the background.
He was still so tired, and the pub was dimly lit, and the music in the background almost sounded like a lullaby. When he had been younger, he used to need music to fall asleep. He had outgrown the habit, but now the sound of it—something folksy, something he thought didn't belong in a place like a pub, but then again, what did he know about pubs?—was enough to make it impossible for him to keep his eyes open.
How long had it been since he'd eaten a full meal? It been at least that long, perhaps longer, since he'd had a full night's sleep; and now, when it was late and his stomach was full and his grief seemed just a little bit more removed, it seemed like the exhaustion he'd been holding at bay caught up to him all at once.
He slept with his head pillowed on his arm, collapsed on the table, and he dreamed of Josh and his guitar, and it wasn't sad at all.
He slept deeply, with the music in the background and the music in his head carrying him away.
The next morning, he would vaguely remember Mike shaking him awake at the end of his shift, and leading him out into the cold night air; hazily, he would remember leaning his head against the glass and sleeping again to the sound of the radio; distantly, he would remember allowing Mike to take him by the arm and lead him upstairs and into the apartment and over to the couch.
And the moment he touched the couch he was falling into sleep, falling into dreams, and he wouldn't have been awake to remember Mike standing over him with a soft, sad, protective smile on his face, or Mike tossing a blanket over him and making sure it covered his feet, or Mike softly leaving the room for his own, flicking off the lights as he went.