On luminous days, the sun slowly collides into the headline of a glass and steel cupola on the south end of Paris, trickling an ocean of vibrant shades over the pedestrian sidewalks. Combined with the lustrous glow of bordering shopping malls and oscillating crowds of tourists, the crystalline bistro—suitably entitled something in French that no one can quite pronounce—is shimmering during daybreak and celestial in the moonlit sky. A fairly large sculpted rose perhaps, in a field of epoxy and concrete, lined with breath-taking sweet marvels and equivalently astonishing expense marks. Impeccable social venue for the filthy local and obnoxious rich.

But it is not for the phenomenal architecture that so many bookings are made at in contempt of the outrageous prices. It is for the man in charge Sehun, and his magnificent establishments: fractions of the human ego sculpted within an artist’s pupil, unforgettably saccharine and unapologetically bitter—not a little similar to shattered relationships.

However at this time of the day, there is no sign of sunlight or the regular buzzing crowd trying to sneak secret glances at the translucent kitchen. All the lights are flicked off and staffs are gone; what remains is an exercise of perpetual silence. Inside Sehun sits across from a guest in disheveled-torn jeans which seems to be in style nowadays, and a casual tee that seems comically childish barred between plush lavender cushions and auriferous chandeliers.

“Well,” The guest begins abruptly, looking over the rack of what must be a few countless gianduja and pralines, of every imaginable color and pattern possible.

“Have you ever heard of the finest authentic French meringues, Yixing-sshi?” Sehun questions almost inaudibly, dark eyes glinting as he picks up a silvery piece with knobby, thin fingers, and sets it down on the plate before Yixing, “Because see, I’m in the contour of making the most finest chocolate and desserts in all of Paris. It’s a tough business, especially with heavenly chocolate mousse, since the problem stems from the compound —no exquisite dark chocolate equals no luxuriance whip cream which leads to, no topping, nor mousse—it’s nearly impossible to find one without vice.”

“Um—”

“But all of these,” Sehun sweeps his arm over the meter-long arbor racked with varieties of mousse batter, “are made from the pure dark chocolate. And I’d like to share them with you. Don’t hesitate to try a sample.”

--

Sehun shows up to work about four hours and ten minutes late, not one second more or less, and with excellent consistency week after week, for no particular reason other than that he “can.” He also refuses to do orders on a daily basis; people only get what he is in the mood to make and if he isn’t in the mood to take up a specific command, then he sits back in relaxation and observes how Xiumin deals with public outrage.

It’s a Friday night this time when Sehun has noticed that something’s not quite in position.

“Come on Sehun, please,” Xiumin moans in a whiny tonality, as soon as he storms into the kitchen practically bawling, “This is the Belgium ambassador who has waited for almost four days for your macaroon assortments and can’t you just—”

“Sorry, I’m not in the mood today. Tell him to keep waiting if he gets lucky tomorrow,” Sehun shrugs carelessly, leaning back on his stool to flip through an arts magazine; avoiding his surroundings at once.

Jongdae, one of the baristas who worked there, always sends Xiumin a wry sneer, but no one dares to speak a word of it because that’s just how things happen to be. Kai has liberty to pull anything, even burn the entire kitchen down within a snap, and the management wouldn’t raise a finger against him because he is essentially the shop. No matter the number of star confectionary chefs they hire, internationally even, Sehun is irreplaceable.

He is irreplaceable because in the nights that everything is in slot, pieces of legendary art blossoms easily from his palms. Cacao beans, cocoa butter, milk, sugar, lecithin. Singular practices in the high point of human creativity, shaped in everything from elegant white-chocolate doves too beautiful to devour to modern champagne mousse adorned in delicate saffron ribbons. Quantities which redefine the palate with a mixture of the most recognizable couvertures and a touch of something beyond perfection.

A crowd often gathers behind the glass surface to observe Sehun whisk the ganache or mild viscosity, sculpting beauty into the refined chocolate. There is something astounding perhaps about the way he whips his spatula to produce striking and unyielding patterns, breaking identity into each batch. Fluidity blends into sharp contours; in a form of mercury molding steel, smoke emancipating sand, romance dissolving horror.

But frequently, as dust storms of atomized Lorraine hazelnuts blow across layers of tepid praline over scotch over apple blend, Sehun’s movements halt.

In complete hernia.

It’s a breathtaking sight when metal tongs fly across the room, creating a heavy splatter of brown over the glass barricade and rapid spider webs under. And it’s equally breathtaking to see the near-flawless creation, beaming with richness, tossed carelessly into the trash.

But what takes the cake is Sehun’s expressionless scowl—even if it’s a pretty familiar sight on the face of someone addicted to an ambiguous concept. One that is forever just a little out of reach. 

--

The food critic, Jung Daehyun, has something crossed between euphoria and shock as he savors the way Sehun’s chocolate éclairs modernly smears away on his tongue, leaving traces of something timidly luscious albeit scathingly spicy. A remarkably delicate balance of spices that would only be tasted in the final round of an international competition, and Sehun treats it like just another batch targeted for the garbage.

“Milled sugar, dutched cocoa, vanilla, cinnamon, cayenne pepper and—is this?”

“Ginger,” Sehun provides, barely looking up from his notepad, even if Daehyun’s probably the most influential critic on the entire continent. He continues chewing on his thumb annoyingly, a habit born of something between anxiety and frustration probably, and his gaze skittering across the rows of vague shorthand scribbles. 

“Ginger,” the critic squeaks eagerly, “That’s it, ginger. Of course. Gives off just the accurate sting but sophisticated, subtly done for an oriental touch. Excellent texture and presentation, Sehun you are a true genius—”

“I know.”

“Christ this tastes marvelous,” Daehyun repeats, already reaching for another fraction when eventually Sehun peels his eyes off the fraying pages and pauses him midair with a horrific glower.

All of the other kitchen hands catch their breath in sadistic glee as Sehun slaps his notebook close, and shoves the box of sweet assortments Daehyun had been fawning over into its original destination to where it belonged in—the garbage, muttering, “Marvelous? You ought to get your tongue checked fast.”

Almost everyone hears the critic sneering loudly about why are the most artistic chocolatiers such ing s on his way out, though no one is surprised to see a ten out of ten in next morning’s papers. After all, if Sehun isn’t perfect, then nobody is.

--

No one knew who the fresh customer, dressed in department store accessories and an obnoxiously curious stare, was. No one cared anyway. For all they know it’s probably just another flashy tourist, too poor to afford any of their goods and services, too unprofitable to be served even. Xiumin doesn’t even bother looking up from his phone as the boy works his way up daintily from the glass displays which contained all of Sehun’s sculptures. Ships, trains, tsunamis in shades of brown, black, white and other color schemes. His fingers swirled along the glass cases and every once in a while his whole face lights up like a streetlight.

And no one notices that there is someone examining the teen from afar just as focally as he studies the works of art, somewhere from the midst of chaos in the familiar kitchen. One straight contour of fatal tension from one pair of eyes to another.

“Why don’t you use any colors?” The flowerboy asks out of curiosity, as soon as he reaches the front desk.

Xiumin takes an extra second to roll his eyes moderately before looking up with scarcely cloaked provocation, “It’s our master chocolatier’s artistic assertion. Simplicity for elegance. Adding futile decorations may corrupt the taste.”

“But they look kind of lifeless that way.”

“Do they, now?” Xiumin nods, narrowed disbelieving brows for the sarcastic piquancy. Even the pickiest of chefs and cruelest of critics have never found a single lacking in Sehun’s work. It’s almost too bitter to see a poorly dressed commoner make an idiot out of himself. “So what can I help you with?”

“I’d like a box of…” the boy seemed to suddenly realize that he forgot to actually see the menu yet.

Xiumin jerks his thumb in the direction of the white names chalked over the glass surface, without bothering to add on because it’s not as if the boy can afford any of their products.

“What is in your—” the dazzled juvenile begins, and trails off when a current thick rack of chocolate mousse is slammed down over the counter abruptly.

Xiumin nearly flips out of his chair, phone clattering across the fountain floors, while Sehun smiles for what must be the first time in forever. It’s the most natural and genuine smile, not a hint of the usual mockery found, but Xiumin still can’t help feeling a little disturbed by the way Sehun’s mouth stretches upwards.

“I wouldn’t recommend the boxes, as they are,” Sehun mutters, “a shameful majority of leftovers.”

“Oh,” the young man stammers, blinking rapidly though it doesn’t seem to make him any less hazed. It’s quite a sight, his blatant perplexity up against Sehun’s crushing, inexplicably breathless excitement. And it’s just as amazing how he still manages to find his words, despite Sehun’s smoldering and unmoving stare, “Ah. Okay. Thank you. But my boyfriend doesn’t like caramel.”

“Wrap up one of each.”

“Each what?” Xiumin blinks, and cringes when Sehun turns his impatient stare on him.

“One of every single batch we have.”

So Xiumin ransacks more than five dozen boxes, and per Sehun’s orders, rings the package in for a stunning sum—which for some reason Sehun decides to pay out of his own wallet.

What follows after that, as Xiumin recalls to Jongdae with babbling mystification, is really history.

--

Miami in the summer is bustling full of life, colorful fireworks lit the sky and street-side music mixing between vibrancy and canopy screens on skyscrapers. Busy traffic at all hours and local bodies distributing or clustered in all directions. But none of it matters because as Sehun tears down the avenue in his pitch black convertible, looking to either collide or run over the boy carrying a box of sumptuously wrapped pastries over his rusty velocipede which was worth maybe quarter as much, and all that seems to exist in the world was just the two of them. No hues, no harmony, not a sign of azure in the sky or air or the nasty chorus of discontented taxi drivers who are more or less crammed out of the way by the speeding convertible.

“Hey,” Sehun squawks out at the adolescent, as soon as he catches up to him; who seems to be enduringly startled one way or another. Half lidded eyes and drifted lips, like a deer in the headlights.

He switches to the other lane to enclose the distance, elbow hanging out of the windowpane and inappropriately bright beamed over his cheeks, “Dead--or not Chocolate-boy!”

“Oh—”

“My name is Sehun,” he declares proudly, almost plunging into an incoming streetcar because he’s driving on the wrong side of the street which was best expected. Ignoring the discordant honk and a blaze of vulgarities, he proceeds to speak, “What’s your name, Chocolate boy?”

“Umm,” the man stutters , “Um, um——I don’t…” and heads straight into a tree, bike and chocolate and laughter tumbling all over the district.

“Well no, I usually remember my name—it’s not a memory loss problem so don’t find me crazy,” Luhan explains later on as they sat cross-legged and barefoot on the wooden floor of Sehun’s enormously oversized condominium, an endless expanse of pearly marmoreal tiles and dark shades of leather furniture here or there. Colorless and spotless in every corner. It’s supposed to be an alluring snapshot of modern art and human loneliness, which seems to warm with Luhan’s flushed cheeks and nervous chuckles.

Sehun places his hand gently onto Luhan’s, and clarifies “Your ice pack is falling again,” when Luhan nearly jumps out of his own haggard skin in surprise. Sehun’s slender fingers are colder than the ice pack, and sharp as chiseled diamonds.

“It’s just when I get awkward, I kind of drift off. Just so you know.”

“Are you indirectly stating that I make you nervous?” Sehun frowns, though his grip over Luhan’s hand doesn’t seem to loosen any further.

“You were kind of driving against approaching traffic,” Luhan responds in a lame mutter. Sehun essentially doesn’t respond, but when he does it’s a surprisingly adolescent grunt. The night sneaks away between strings of wholehearted laughter, and friendship between Luhan the agitated college student and Sehun the virtuoso French chocolatier becomes definite before dawn strikes.

Except maybe it’s not really a friendship. It’s more of an intrigue.

--

One day Sehun drags Luhan, stammering and protesting, into the kitchen. Xiumin nearly dropped his egg beater at the sight of an outlander in the forbidden kitchen and Chanyeol, the clumsy intern, happens to drop his egg beater. And a whole set of metal components when Sehun doesn’t seem to realize the loud chattering rise above him.

But none of it seems to matter, as Sehun flings out all of the jars and parcels, bangs open stored barrels and tears the labels off of new deliveries, makes cloudy sandstorms out of milk powder and nets out of caramelized sugar, pots of bubbling syrup, and probably some four, five dozen batches of everything the kitchen has captured and hasn’t captured with their own bewildered pupils. He doesn’t stop until his nail beds are painted in spices and the fridge has been emptied of a whole month’s worth of stock ingredients.

“Try it,” is the first thing he says after six and a half hours of blind fixation, a little breathless but low and steady per usual. Perhaps a hinge of anticipation by the edges.

The kitchen ceases to breathe. All attention migrate to Luhan as he reaches out with a shaking hand to pick up the first of a whole chocolate battalion, still bleeding caramel and sputtering bourbon and vodka fruit puree.

“It’s um,” Luhan doesn’t close his eyes or tilt his head back like Daehyun or their normal customers. He doesn’t swoon and he doesn’t flutter. He simply bites his lips, endearing and awkward, “The filling thing is um, it’s sweet but… also not really? Bittersweet.”

“Okay,” Sehun nods, and pushes the rest of the endless brown ocean a little closer.

Glancing at the sheer number left, Chanyeol almost feels sorry for Luhan. But then again, there’s nothing bad about tasting through an afternoon of priceless paradise.

--

“Xiumin told me that this is the first time you’ve…?” Luhan struggles to find the right expression, the tip of Sehun’s unused apron absentmindedly. His knuckles crack. Sehun doesn’t move. The pungent scent of coddled liquor and warm cocoa fills their lungs to the brim, thick as smoke and clear as the night.

“Invited anyone into my sacred kitchen,” Sehun fills in, drizzling caramel off the ends of an open-ended whisk into neat patchworks. Dribbling art and fire and gunpowder from the fingertips.

“Why me though?”

“There’s something about you,” he looks up from the rows of little cream pebbles, picking a still-wet one up carefully, “It’s very right,” and places it between Luhan’s lips, pulling his fingers away to off the liquid lingering, “and extremely, addictive.”

Luhan forgets to swallow. A weak sigh escapes his lips, one that he can easily blame on the depraved scent of overfilling sweetness in the air. Sehun reaches forward and covers his eyes with a little whisper, “That look is going to drive me insane one day.”

Everything combusts with the spark of dawn.

Riding on a wave of impulsivity and boastfulness, Luhan tears Sehun’s hand from his face and pulls away. Throwing Sehun’s hand away as far as possible with all his might.

“I—I’m in a relationship. I have a boyfriend. We’re not going to break up.”

The emptiness clouding over Sehun’s features as he nibbles on his thumbnail is so frightening that Luhan doesn’t realize he’s gasped in relaxation when a smile cracks on the other’s aspect. All teeth and simple kindness, “Don’t worry yourself, Luhan-sshi; I feel nothing of that sort. I do not want or have the need to be your significant other. I do not diverge towards you. I diverge towards perfection.”