Ivan Braginsky must've opened his mouth to say something, because his mouth was already agape when first he tasted Francis Bonnefoy's lips. Through the entirely new tastes on his palette, Ivan clung to Francis's hair and shut his eyes - blocking out the wet noises and low groans, ignoring the bite of the counter digging into his spine and the press of canting hips against his groin - so he could just focus all his senses on taste, trying to remember whether the bittersweet flavor of the Parisian's tongue was Cabernet Sauvignon or Chateau Haut Brion.

And when the tastes of red wine faded into a muted flavor Ivan could no longer attach a name to, he found the sensation of taste fading out as well, and then his mind started buzzing when touch became too impossible to ignore.

This was Francis Bonnefoy, his boss (as of twenty-seven minutes earlier) who selected Ivan on a whim, out of countless other candidates who had months (if not years) of experience weighing tables and could actually tell the difference between Chateau Haut Brion and Cabernet Sauvignon without having to suck on the tongue of the Sous Chef.

But that did not matter so long as Francis assumed Ivan had experience in other divisions.

It was a wonder why the Russian with no French lineage stood with the demeanor of a tearing-at-the-seams rag doll in front of the gold-plated French restaurant with the name that reminded Ivan of a species of bacteria. The Russian bore a heavy weight on his shoulders with his landlord breathing down his neck, which in perspective was a lot more discomforting than having your sister filing for marriage certificates at the dinner table.

The sun winked its last bit of light out from behind the ocean layer and a wave of cobalt rushed over the night sky. With the luminosity of the nearby streetlights, it gave Ivan just enough light to see his hollow figure reflecting from the darkened windows of the bacterial French restaurant. His black slacks faded in with the unlit windows, white pinstripes peered out from his legs when angled towards the streetlight. His collared shirt rubbed at the wrong places, though the more sensitive regions of his disfigured neck took asylum under the familiar layer of cloth.

What troubled him wasn't his wardrobe or how neatly his hair framed his ears, but the darkness inhabiting that restaurant. What troubled him more was the fact that darkness wasn't the only thing inhabiting that restaurant. The epitome of all French Bon Séjour bacteria, with his wrinkle-less apron draping across his Freudian driving force, black rounded tray held at mid-arm's length, balancing overpriced French wines, and brandishing smiles that would make Hannibal Lector have second thoughts on his next meal, would be sitting with a shiver-suggesting smile at one of the clothed tables with the Muscovite's résumé held tightly in his fingers ().

For now, Ivan's – clean – fingers brushed against the gaudy handle and wrenched it open. The light through the rounded kitchen window at the opposite end of the room provided enough light to keep Ivan from bumping into tables, but when a natural flickering light danced across the ends of his eyelashes, he took a ninety degree turn to find the perfect embodiment of his recent musings sitting at a candlelit table with a single empty red velvet chair kicked out just enough for Ivan to insert himself into.

The unfortunate circumstances of the meeting – as if the red table were the string in the legends Yao told him at university that bound Francis and Ivan together – was that this wasn't the first time he'd sat across Francis in such romantic lighting. Ivan's lips were chapped to the point of unbearable ache, but he dare not run his tongue over them while Francis was watching.

It was a job interview for a position as a waiter, not as the Parisian's next bedmate.

But as Francis Bonnefoy popped the first three buttons on his collar and raised an inch of skin just shy of his sternum, Ivan (and Francis) was beginning to convince him(self) that it was the latter.

And as Francis leaned up to press his lips to his waiter's again, his blue eyes, veiled by light brown thick eyelashes, locked with Ivan's wide, owlish violet ones. "Dites-moi, Monsieur Braginsky, which wine is it?"

"C-cabernet Sauvigno-"

But he hadn't the chance to finish, for the second word escaped openly into Francis's mouth. He mistakenly took that as a reward for the correct answer, but the hands against his shoulders, flattening his spine out on the counter so Ivan's head was digging into the metal frame of the stove top. He believed for a second that the stove was on, because his face was flushing red and his entire being was heating up.

"Non, Monsieur Braginsky-" there was something about the way that accent caught on the vowels that made Ivan's skin heat up even after he felt his shirt open and the cool kitchen air rush over it "-It was our house Merlot, Cabernet Franc." In the corner of his eye, Ivan caught Francis's vague movements, the light reflecting off the curve of a wine glass when it met the Parisian's lips, and then he felt the full force of lips on his and the taste of wine on his tongue. "And you will do well to remember it, because we have several more wines to test."