I AM WARNING YOU NOW. this is going to be a long chapter, like, almost two of my long chapters. (there's also some bad french and sketchy foreign currency exchange stuff, but it aint the point.) in order not to puke with the info overload, im recommending splitting the reading in half:  read one part, go listen to some beenzino or smthn, then go finish it. unedited, as always, but darn, it took such a long time to write this (go ahead and beat me virtually for this transgression). sorries :( keep on commenting and upvoting, bbys! hope y'all enjoy!

LESSON HIGHLIGHTS:

Skills You Should Have Before You're 4 (Pierre's Edition)
Best Private Tutoring Ever 
Anger Management Therapy
An Idiot's Guide to Scoring A French Tutor

Luhan leaned his head on Sehun’s shoulder, sighing contentedly. Sehun could smell Luhan’s shampoo—was it that strawberry-scented Elmo one? Sehun can’t remember at the moment—and he smiled, as he took Luhan’s hand into his and laced their fingers together. Luhan’s weight on his body felt comforting, and his warm, soft scent filled Sehun’s oxygen, breathing in Luhan, his boyfriend. A strange, though admittedly lovely title.

“Your hands are soft,” Sehun murmured into Luhan’s hair, breathing in a lungful of Luhan’s scent. Christ, he couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t get enough of Luhan. He hears Luhan laugh, albeit quite bashfully, and he smiles. My lovely angel. Sehun leans forward and kisses Luhan’s forehead, then the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, and Luhan responds, gently, but he could feel the longing. Luhan wanted to go further, but Sehun thinks he’s too shy to tell him, although Luhan would never admit that.

It’s alright, Sehun had told him more than once. Luhan just has to ask.

Sehun moves down and kisses the side of Luhan’s mouth, down to his jaw, his neck, and he could almost feel the thrilled tingle from Luhan’s skin. Luhan’s hands find his neck, the back of his head, and his fingers gripped at Sehun’s hair, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Luhan’s skin was warm, and it tasted of him, that particular delicate kind of Luhan that Sehun couldn’t exactly place. Something of innocence, of sunlight and spun sugar, of sweet lilies and peonies.

He moved up and kissed Luhan on the mouth again, and when Sehun pulled away, he heard Luhan’s soft, whining protest. He laughed lightly and went back to where he started, kissing Luhan’s forehead as if punctuating a sentence.

“That’s it for now,” Sehun says, and Luhan gives him a look. Sehun laughs even more.

“Wow, way to go,” Luhan muttered, pouting. Such an adorable, pretty boy. “Thanks for nothing.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”

Luhan socks Sehun in the gut, but even if he really tried, Sehun doubted he could do much damage. Sehun kisses the top of Luhan’s head despite of this, and Luhan, much like a sleepy child, wraps his arms around Sehun’s neck and clings tightly, wriggling closer to his boyfriend, as if there was any more room to wiggle closer to. He hums something slow and sweet, something that sounded like a lullaby. His throat moves against the skin on Sehun’s neck, warm and gentle. Sehun’s arms move up, cradling his little love closer, his arms perfectly fitting around Luhan. His hand holds the back of Luhan’s head, and his other arm was wrapped around Luhan’s waist.

Perfect. If God is a photographer, Sehun would want Him to capture this moment, a snapshot of a perfect embrace.

There was a slow, burning sensation in Sehun’s chest, warm at first, like a shot of strong alcohol, growing hotter, hotter, and Sehun had an increasing… languor. A corner before the fireplace… a spot before the embers. The heat began to constrict Sehun’s breathing, hotter, hotter, and he could barely make himself open his eyes—the heat was unbearable, the lethargy’s weight heavy like lead. With great struggle, Sehun looked down.

On his chest was a spray of magnolias, white flowers that were caught in his very flesh, and he could see the blood from the spot the flowers pierced, and the crimson stained the petals, dripping, dripping, like kerosene. Flames his skin, blistering. He could hear a shrill, thin sound from somewhere, somewhere Sehun couldn’t place… He was sleepy.

Luhan. Get Luhan. Where’s Luhan? His arms felt cold, empty.

The harsh sound grew louder and louder, and Sehun tried to shake his torpor away, fighting to stay awake—the sound, loud, harsh, jarring, like an air raid alarm from human throats, louder, unbearably louder, much like the searing heat on his chest. The magnolias burst into flames, an infernal bouquet, and when he finally mustered the strength to look up, he saw Luhan, bloody and cut in innumerable places, screaming with impossible volume, screaming beyond what his vocal chords would’ve handled, screaming out—

Sehun’s eyes shot open. Luhan was screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice barely muffled by the walls’ concrete; without any thought, he threw off his sheets and sprinted to Luhan’s room, kicking the door open with a solid crack.

Luhan was writhing on his bed, kicking and screaming with his sheets crumpled at his foot, and Sehun paused only for a heartbeat of a moment before he turned the room’s lights on and grabbed Luhan, gently rocking him on his lap, holding down Luhan’s flailing arms which fought against him quite fiercely.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something blink, a green light flicking on and off. It happened again, although it was pretty hard to focus on something when there’s a thrashing person in the middle of some nightmare. Luhan would’ve been backhanding Sehun in the face if the latter wasn’t paying attention.

After what seemed to be hours of gently shushing, shaking, and cajoling, Luhan quieted down, although he was shaking as he slowly fluttered his eyes open. His eyes fixed on Sehun’s gaze wildly, desperately, as if he was on the doorstep of a gas chamber; like a condemned man at the edge of hell, frantically calling for a God, any God.

“You’re okay,” Sehun gently whispered for what may be the thousandth time tonight. He wasn’t entirely sure about that, though. “You’re safe, darling. Nothing’s going to harm you. You’re alright.”

Luhan’s breathing was shallow, matching his heavy, strong heartbeats, his lip trembling, his lashes shivering like leaves in a draft. Without warning, he clung to Sehun’s neck tightly, shaking and sobbing as his arms squeezed Sehun’s body with wretched need, an orphan child to a dead mother’s corpse. Sehun held him close:  one arm around Luhan’s waist, the other hand on the back of Luhan’s head, holding him protectively from whatever phantom nightmare chased him into waking consciousness. His fingertips tingled from the moisture of Luhan’s scalp, as if he could feel whatever nightmare haunted Luhan through the liquid, like poison seeping through his skin.

“You’re safe here, darling, okay? Don’t cry, honey, please don’t cry.” Sehun tried to make his voice as soothing as possible, low and only audible enough for Luhan to hear. Why was he crying? Damn it, why was he crying? “Don’t cry, dear. You’re safe.”

Was he?

Luhan slackened his death grip for a fraction of a centimeter as he stammered out, still shaking, “Sh-she was there again, just-just luh-lying on t-the—she’s—s-staring at me. She was staring at me, after th-those people w-were gone, b-blood, there was blood everywhere, and—“

Luhan buried his face in the crook of Sehun’s neck, and Sehun could feel hot liquid on his skin, could feel Luhan’s entire shaking frame, but part of Sehun’s mind was someplace else, his thoughts running at a thousand miles per hour.

She? Who’s the she? Blood, he said. There was blood everywhere. Sehun’s fingers wove through Luhan’s soft, clean hair, slightly damp from sweat.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sehun gently asked. “Do you want me to get some water?”

“No! NO!” The volume and desperation in Luhan’s voice startled Sehun momentarily. “S-Stay with me. Don’t leave me here alone, I-I don’t want to be alone, don’t—“ A shudder ran through his body, and Sehun thought that Luhan had never looked so small, so childlike. His delicate hand trembled on Sehun’s neck. “Please don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Sehun. Sehun.”

The green light blinked again, and Sehun was positive that something was there, placed just below the corner of Luhan’s desk. There was another one near the hinge of the door, and another at the tip of one of the wrought-iron decorations on the headboard of the bed, seemingly part of the entire thing save for the green twinkle. It turned red when Luhan stopped to breathe. Turned green when Luhan whispered something.

Bugs.

Of course.

Sehun wanted to laugh. Honestly, he was impressed. How refreshing, Sehun thought as he whispered gentle reassurances to the crying boy in his arms, as his thoughts ran at a thousand miles an hour. Of course. Of course. Forewarned is forearmed, isn’t it? If there were bugs in the Luhan’s room, there would be similar ones in the entire flat, even the entire school. If they could plant bugs when it was barely a week since the first day, then they—whoever they are—have spies all over campus in order to have such easy access to the dormitories.

Employees, teachers, janitors… Students.

First blood was theirs, whoever they were. Dad had never quite discussed the specifics of this particular case, as if it were a touchy old love affair gone awry, and Sehun had realized early on that further probing would go nowhere. It was up to Sehun to do the fighting, here, in this battlefield where the only directives are to keep Luhan alive and safe, no matter what.

St. Pierre’s is a void of a battlefield—Sehun has no targets. Fighting against a phantom enemy, grasping in the air and frustrating yourself was most unwise. Sehun doesn’t fight like his father, who had been faced with an almost identical dilemma during Luhan’s mother’s time. Despite of his father’s clandestine job, he has morals, operating under rules and moving within constraints of peers’ opinions.

Nobody fights fair in war. Through years of schoolyard bullies, politics, odd jobs and the like, Sehun knew that morals are bull once the war is waged, and with this visible attack, the war’s been waged, all right.

Forewarned is forearmed, they say. All right, then, Sehun thought, a cold smile playing on his lips. Game on.

Mardi – La Semaine 2.  St. Pierre École du Culinaire, Seoul, la Coreé du Sud.

Luhan had always been a student on fire—well, in subjects where only the brain was required to participate. He was a master of taking notes more comprehensive than what the professor has on the board. You know that one student that whips his hand in the air before the teacher even finishes the question? Luhan was that type of guy. That one example project you stared at for hours while your teacher droned on and on about carbon dating? In every classroom that Luhan happened to be assigned in, that belonged to him.

Now, Luhan was determined to keep his number-one streak going, even in St. Pierre’s. To hell with the placement test—he could always work his way up, right? As a matter of fact, he figured he should treat St. Pierre’s as more of a test, as a whole—if he can’t take pressure in the kitchen, then how would he fare in the board meetings, in the project proposals? And so, with a pen in his hand and a thick notebook in his lap, Lu Han, valedictorian of one of the most prestigious colleges in the country, would make his Papa proud, one page of notes at a time.

Right until he got hopelessly lost after sheet number five.

Chef Bertrand was their instructor, which switches every week depending on the unit they were on. Since Chef has no knowledge of English nor Korean, a translator was provided during demonstartions, which happens in, you guessed it, the demo room. Matt—or was it Mark? Christ, these lo fon names—translated and abridged Chef Bertrand’s lengthy, cheerful instructions and explanations into somber English. To Luhan, he sounded like he was reading off of an obituary.

Luhan was drowning in the boatloads of information thrown at him in a just a single go—mincing, dicing, crushing, proper knife grips, peeling fruits and vegetables in such a way that none of the edible parts were wasted. He remembered that 50’s chick-flick Eunmi made him watch with her, the one with Audrey Hepburn in it—wasn’t it Sabrina? Yeah. He had watched it so many times that he could recite the thing verbatim. In the movie, lovesick little Audrey was sent to a cooking school in Paris, and they were taught how to boil water the first day, and how to crack an egg the second. Apparently, St. Pierre’s learning curve’s going to be a little bit steeper.

Every little thing that Chef Bertrand mentioned seemed to be so simple and complex at the same time. Core this, julienne that, rock the heel of the blade when mincing, make sure that your fingers are curled in. Luhan wanted some Tylenol to go with this lesson.

For the past few days, they’ve been doing pretty much nothing but getting their gear, schedules, and the like organized, and there was little activity in the practicals room. The students of Cuisine de Base, Lvl. I, were informed of how their daily classes would go—first, take roll; then they would be seated with their class in the demo room to watch the chef for the week prepare a dish. However, Tuesdays are practice days, so no dishes are prepared. On every other day of the week, they have to remember every step of how to replicate every technique in the dish exactly, how much of each ingredient is going to be used, which tools to get ready.

The hope is that we show you how the dish is done first, and for the process to stick in your head, Chef Bertrand had said through Chef Kim Junmyeon, who had translated last week. For people teaching rich kids how to cook, thought Luhan dismally, you’ve got some unrealistically high hopes.

Samples of the dish would be distributed after the demo, and they have to remember how the chef’s dish tasted like, for they were to replicate it in the practicals. After this, they would be shipped to the locker room, if they haven’t put on their chef’s whites and trousers yet, then go straight to the kitchen, where they would work with their assigned teams in their respective stations, which they will get assigned to today. Shojo-manga schoolgirl, that newly settled (but still very much resisted against) entity in Luhan’s brain, hoped they’d end up somewhere close to Oh Sehun. She’d pay to watch him chop tomatoes again.

There’s a 30-minute lunch break, and then it’s up to the instructor if he or she wants the students to clean up or to do some practice on chopping or some other bambin connaisances—literally toddler skills in French. If you can’t chop garlic properly, they’re going to seriously doubt if you even know how to sing your ABC’s.

Lost and busy in a world full of French culinary terms and ink, Luhan fully forgot the dregs of his nightmare this morning. However, he didn’t forget the fact that he had been sobbing—Luhan winced—into Oh Sehun’s neck, crying so hard he was incomprehensible with hiccups and stammering. Nor did he forget that Sehun spent the rest of the ungodly morning hours sitting beside Luhan’s bed, patiently reassuring Luhan that nothing was going to get him, until Luhan finally fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

For the record, Luhan also remembered Sehun calling him darling and honey, along with dear. It sounded so musical. Darling, honey, dear, he slowly repeated in his head as his hand stopped taking notes altogether. Crying is for sissies, he had been taught at an early age. It was on the level of wearing a pink skirt to school. Crying in another male’s arms is an act of sheer—

Oh, shut up, counselor, shojo-manga complained. We both know that’s bull and even if it isn’t, you’d still want to sit on Mr. Oh Knight-In-Shining-Armor Sehun’s lap and hear him call you darling again.

Luhan glanced over to several seats across, where Mr. Oh Knight-In-Shining-Armor Sehun was sitting at. He was wearing perfectly faded jeans with his chef’s jacket, which was against the dress code, but anybody who had the heart to call him out when he looked that good should be shot.

Luhan immediately flushed. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, get a hold of yourself, boy! Be a man! Real men do not check out fellow men! Real men do not enjoy being called pet names! Most of all, real men do not cry!

Balls, shojo-manga snorted, the first one (well, the first in Luhan’s many mental voices, anyway) brave enough to defy the voice Luhan had called the Male Instinct. (It was more of a version of Papa than any in-born instinct, except this one had alpha-male expectations ludicrous enough to make Lao-lao sound like Isaac Newton—but not that Luhan would admit that.)

Luhan hoped that the dimness of the demo room was enough to camouflage his outright staring—and blushing—at Sehun, who was seated comfortably against the back of his chair, looking almost bored compared to the students around him, who were struggling desperately to catch up and on to Chef Bertrand’s neat little tutorials on how to cut a vegetable exactly six sides to ensure even cooking.

…in which Luhan forgot to take notes on.

Peeling his eyes reluctantly away from his roommate, he went back to watching Chef Bertrand maim russet potatoes with jolly cheer. Luhan was already too deep into his notes again to notice that Sehun was smiling slightly. Perhaps the demo room wasn’t as dim as Luhan hoped it would be, although Sehun didn’t mind.

Life in St. Pierre’s is at times, militaristic. They had to arrive to school at promptly 7:50, and if they weren’t seated in the demo room at 7:55, they were booted out of the class, no exceptions. Following that was a strict schedule that they have to follow, plus replies and behaviors that are expected of them to say and do like machines. Strict dress code—only chef’s whites and the black trousers; no jewelry; no facial hair. You have to look like you’ve been sanitized in a quarantine area. No gum, no food, no slouching, no cellphones, nothing. Nearly all the freedoms you’ll ever get in the kitchen is your blood type and your skin color.

In addition, French is the language here—the only things you were allowed to say in the practicals room are Oui, Chef, and Non, Chef, if you didn’t know anything past bonjour and merde. Korean and English are not allowed, even under Korean or lo fon instructors, and so, they have no translators, too. The students that were not endowed with the gift of tongues either murmured with panic to their nearby friends or had this look that said they knew they were fully well screwed.

Luhan’s heart jumped a bit. Papa knows French, right? So does Momma, he thought.

Or so did Momma, a ghostly voice whispered.

Luhan pushed the thought away, like a stray mental insect. If his parents could learn it, then French would be a piece of cake! He was around fluent speakers in the kitchen, and it would be almost every day he’d hear it. He could buy a Rosetta Stone packet on French online using—

Your credit cards are cut, sir, he bitterly remembered. Great. Cash? Zero. Nada. Zilch. He had spent it during his date in La Cocotte with Eunmi, which turned out to be a disaster. He ended up arguing with her about where noodles came from—China or Italy?

Eunmi had brought up Italy because she thought France was in there. Or was it Italy that was in France? Luhan didn’t bother to give her a crash course on geography, and instead corrected her on the fact that the Chinese, his ancestors, came up with noodles, not the Italians. It’s been in tombs for 6, 000 years—no, wait, but Eunmi heard something about Italian merchants’ pizza dough getting all dried up, and so they cut it into strips and boiled them, or something like that. The date ended with Luhan getting this close from strangling his girlfriend.

But anyways.

He had absolutely no resources with which he could learn the language of the kitchen from. He had a savings account, but they were in the outskirts of Seoul, meaning he either would have to use a car (Peter Parker was tucked away in his garage at Gangnam) or walk (which isn’t realistic, since the bank was about 20 miles from the campus).

These happy thoughts were affirmed when Chef Bertrand unleashed a whole speech in AK-47 French again. Most of the students just looked at each other and shrugged. Luhan only understood ‘quatre légumes,’ or something along that line; he supposed it meant four peas, but he wasn’t positive. Chef Bertrand consulted the clipboard in his meaty hand and waded to the first kitchen station, D1, meaning Class D, Station 1. There were six spots in each station.

Chef announced the names of the occupants as best as he could in his guttural, trilling accent. Kim Yungjun came across as Keem Yee-oohn Zhoon. Meez-tur Keem took his place in the kitchen station. The spots were randomly assigned, or so had Chef Kim said.

It was a painful process, but Chef Bertrand eventually got to D4, starting with a particularly problematic one to his French tongue—Bae-yi-oohn Bah-eek-he-yoohn. Luhan winced from the pronunciation. Byun Baekhyun. A delicate-looking wisp of a young man came forward with a confident, “Oui, Chef.” His hips swayed subtly as he walked. Next came Do Kyungsoo, another one of the petite league. He looked rather severe, in his crisp white jacket and perfectly ironed trousers, with his no-nonsense look contrasting with his rounded features.

“Lou Hahn,” Chef Bertrand announced, and Luhan was thankful that his name was shorter than most, or else it would’ve taken Chef another sixty seconds to struggle with the syllables and get nothing comprehensible out. Luhan replied with a polite, “Oui, Chef,” and proceeded to his spot, his shiny black shoes click-clacking on the sterile white tiles. He was facing the window, an empty spot just right in front of him.

Next was Kim Minseok, a round-faced, friendly-looking guy that smiled boyishly at Luhan as he took the spot next to him. His short-shorn brown hair perfectly accented his amiable demeanor. Luhan smiled back, letting his tense muscles loosen up. Minseok looked like those friends you only saw in the movies—the type that immediately clicked with you, like a preordained best buddy. There were only two spots left.

Luhan heard Chef Bertrand say ‘absent’ quite clearly for the spot in front of Minseok, albeit a little weirdly accented, and moved on to the last name. Luhan already knew it was coming.

“Oh Se-hoon,” Chef Bertrand called out, and didn’t give Sehun’s jeans so much as a second look. Luhan could swear Sehun just smirked at him when he took his spot. This guy, Luhan seethed. Why was he just everywhere Luhan is?

“You’re blocking my window view,” muttered Luhan contemptuously. Lu dear, let’s not lie to ourselves, shojo-manga sighed dreamily. You got to admit, he’s way hotter than the grass and weeds from your ‘window view.’

Luhan expected Sehun to reply with some kind of dry-witted comment, like ‘It’s not my fault you’re too short to see above me,’ or something of that kind. Sehun only looked over at Luhan like he would a stranger and started to reply to Do Kyungsoo’s remarks as if Luhan was talking to somebody else, or not talking at all.

Wow. Did he seriously just do that?

The shock turned into a slew of complicated feelings. Irritation, confusion, worry, and disappointment all rolled into one jumpy bundle of emotions bouncing around Luhan’s gut. Why did he just ignore me? What the hell? What’s he playing at? Did I do something wrong? Was it that nightmare episode? Was I, like, a creep or something like that? Did he catch me staring and decided I was gross? Is he going to do this thing from now on?

A part of him wanted to kick himself for whatever wrongdoing he had committed, and another wanted to cry. Another wanted to grab Sehun’s shoulders and shake him, Eunmi-style, wailing miserably and asking him what the hell is wrong.

Shojo manga couldn’t decide which one she wanted to punch—Oh Sehun or Luhan. The motherer just gave you the cold shoulder, boy, what the hell did you do? It was like a child dropping a pretty glass vase on the floor, and that moment of bewilderment and confusion was expanded and tripled.

And I thought you were having a great start with him, shojo-manga pouted.

Well, if the guy doesn’t want to talk, then let him! Luhan snapped back, quite like a wounded animal. Who needs him, anyway? I didn’t want him around in the first place! Real men don’t get hurt by those types of things, dammit. They don’t get hurt.

Shojo-manga snorted. Keep telling yourself that.

Instead of replying, Luhan started a conversation with Kim Minseok, his preordained bestie. (Who needs Oh ing Pest Sehun, anyway?) (You do, darlingheart, shojo replied.)

As Chef Bertrand announced the remaining spots, Luhan had immediately found out that he liked Minseok. He wasn’t as snappy as Yixing (not that Luhan acknowledged that as more of a good trait), and he didn’t have quite as much shared experiences with Luhan, but he was chill, to be honest.

Minseok told him that he came from a family that owned a major coffee-producing company in Southeast Asia. He had wanted to go to law school, and did so for about a year, until his mother pulled him out to study in St. Pierre’s. For a guy that just got disrupted from chasing his dream, he was remarkably agreeable with his situation (well, compared to Luhan, anyway), even though he could barely cook instant noodles.

Chef Bertrand clapped his meaty hands together, a glutinous smack-smack sound that echoed throughout the sterile practicals room. He started yapping on with his AK-47 French, and Luhan presumed it was the instructions or something like that. He noticed that Byun Baekhyun, Do Kyungsoo, and even Kim Minseok nodded, as if they understood, while Oh Sehun was looking off into the window, with an expression that told Luhan he was most likely off daydreaming.

I wonder what he’s daydreaming about, Luhan thought absently, as he smiled a bit. Then he caught himself. No, man. No. This er didn’t want to talk to me, so hell to the ing no I’m not giving any fond thoughts his way. He could go my .

Oh, I’m sure you’d like that, shojo-manga nodded. Shut up, Luhan bit back.

What really bothered Luhan was that almost everybody else in his group understood French, or at the very least, some of it, whereas Luhan only caught some words that are similar to English, and regardless of what the people say about French being somewhat related to English through Latin origins, it was hard to decipher words through a filter of heavy French pronunciation.

Luhan’s grip on the countertop tightened a bit. He knew he wasn’t the best, and it had been painful to acknowledge that since Day 1, but the fact that he was still out of his group’s linguistic depth—his group in the class of the second-to-the-worst cooks in the entirety of St. Pierre’s—stung like a mother. Luhan swallowed his pride and a mouthful of saliva with difficulty as he asked Minseok, “What did Chef say?”

“Oh, we’re supposed to do everything he did during the demo, then make it look pretty for inspection later, basically,” Minseok answered casually. Then he frowned. “At least, that’s what I understood.”

In each of the students’ kits, there is an armory of knives and other kitchen tools that look like they’re better off used in a lobotomy, not a vegetable. The stainless steel glinted in the cheery summer sunlight from the window, cold and surgical. During the first week, Chef Bertrand had introduced what he dubbed their bon ami, or their good friends. Most of their good friends were couteaux, or knives, and Chef chatted about them fondly as he introduced them:

Their translator for that week, a pretty African-American lady named Naomi, explained that Chef tells students these because most beginners, being males, become a nuisance to everyone by seriously injuring themselves as they try to play real-life Call of Duty. She had such a serious look in her face that time that nobody laughed. She wasn’t kidding.

Chef Bertrand had picked through the set like choosing from a box of chocolates, yakking on about the tool in French for a couple minutes before putting it neatly back into its original place. He discussed the roasting fork, which he said was perfect for positioning meat while cooking, but never to pierce, lest the cook releases the meat’s natural juices. He treated the melon baller, the trussing needle, citrus zester, whick, shears, and like tools that had a medical cruelty to it as if they were sacred relics from an ancient dynasty. Luhan drew them all in his notes that day, with accompanying descriptions in neat handwriting.

Too bad Luhan forgot to bring those notes today.

Screw it, Luhan thought grumpily. They’re all knives, anyway. He slid his gaze over towards the rest of his group, who were busily chopping potatoes into matchsticks using the chef’s knife, the éminceur. Byun Baekhyun, the pretty boy, sliced through one spud with difficulty before he slammed his knife down and glared at the potato as if it wronged him personally. After a few moments of contemplation, he decided to just chop the thing unceremoniously, mutttering curses as he did it. Do Kyungsoo beside him was already on his third vegetable, slicing the tomato at top speed with mechanical precision. Kim Minseok produced some mangled results, but results nonetheless, while Oh Sehun—

Luhan’s not even going to look over there, that annoying pest.

As he unsheathed his knife, Luhan eyed the unpeeled potato as if it could jump to life and grow into a root-vegetable God of War. Oh dear God, he thought with dismal gloom. Help me. He vaguely realized that he must be growing more and more religious since his enrollment into St. Pierre’s, invoking the name of the Lord and the Holy Family almost 24/7, even more so when he’s around Se—

Shut up and peel the thing, will you? one part of him cut him off exasperatedly. Seriously, what is wrong with you, Lu Han? Did the vodka you drink, like, 3 weeks ago never drain yet?

Gingerly clutching the handle of his knife—Christ, the thing felt like a meat cleaver in his hands—as he would the wrist of a person with a contagious disease, he chopped off the potato’s skin… along with what must be 40% of the entire edible potato part. When he was done, he ended up with what looked like a small water bottle’s size of potato to julienne.

Take a look at the bright side, Luhan told himself. Less to chop, right? Balls, he answered himself.

Now that he had a skinless potato, the next problem he encountered was how to hold the knife itself and chop the thing. Don’t get him wrong, he did pay attention to the demos, but things tend to be forgotten when you cram into your mind all the ways to chop radicchio and the proper angle with which to hold your citrus zester. The knife was pretty damn heavy to carry with one hand, and Luhan’s wrist had ached as he tried to do it the professional way, so he surrendered to a two-handed grip, which proved to be pretty impossible to work with.

When the knife went down, the potato slid away. On try two, not only did the potato glide around the cutting board, the cutting board itself decided it was going to go marble-skating on the countertop. On the next try, Luhan attempted to saw through the damn vegetable, and in his mind, the knife would be doing some kind of productive back-and-forth motion that would at least slice this damn root, but the knife just lodged in there.

 After what seemed like a thousand tries, the potato looked like a survivor of the Black Plague, discolored an ugly brown and horribly mauled like it was bit by something that had a bad dental job. It looked like it was ready to shrivel into itself just to get away from Luhan and his knife skills.

Luhan desperately glanced at the clock. He had 34 minutes left to chop four different vegetables in varying ways, each of them perfectly equal, and he hadn’t even sliced his potato in two yet. Without thinking, Luhan held down his potato and smacked his knife down, and—

Luhan hissed a colorful expletive as he squeezed his thumb, staring at the deep red blood that was oozing and presently soaking into his poor potato. Oh God, that’s disgusting. He didn’t know which one to do first—get a Band-Aid or throw the potato away or go on trying to chop something at the very least.

Damn, Luhan, you’re your usual accelerated self, he thought, his eyes stinging with frustration. Everybody else is still doing vegetables and you’re butchering meat already. He blinked away the stupid tears away and washed off the blood, gulping in horror as he realized that at the rate he was going, he sure as hell ain’t gonna finish in time, if he’s ever going to make progress.

When he looked up from the sink, Oh Sehun was there, as if he teleported without a sound by magic. He wordlessly took Luhan’s hand and dried it off, applying a bandage with which Luhan had no idea where it came from in just a few seconds’ time. He looked at Luhan and simply said, in a low voice meant for nobody else but Luhan to hear, “If you kept up chopping like that, you’re going to kill someone.”

Luhan stammered out something intelligent like Uhh.

Sehun dragged him back to his spot by the hand, since Luhan must’ve made no signs that he was okay enough to walk on his own. Without warning, Sehun stood close behind Luhan, his body pressing close against Luhan’s back, as his hands wrapped around Luhan and clutched Luhan’s hands, guiding his fingers in the right position.

Oh God Oh God he’s backhugging me was the most Luhan’s fevered brain could muster out. He felt as if he was overheating, going short-circuit, the wires of his brain snapping and popping as his lungs breathed in Sehun’s scent, and dear God Almighty didn’t he smell like heaven-infused oxygen, firing up what must be Luhan’s hormonal glands even if he was a grown man—

“You grip your knife with your dominant hand like you would in a handshake, like this,” Sehun softly said, into Luhan’s ear, a private lesson that made gooseflesh rise over the soft insides of Luhan’s arms, melting Luhan into a gooey mess. His hand was bending Luhan’s fingers, and his breath glided over Luhan’s neck softly, oh so softly. “And you should hold down the vegetable with your fingers facing the knife, but remember to curl your fingers in.”

Luhan wanted to squeal. Like, full-on makjang fan girl squeal. He knew his face was red, possibly redder than the tomato Kyungsoo had just finished dicing.

You know that word, sim-kung? Luhan was getting the full meaning of it—his heart felt like it was going to burst from pure giddiness. Hello, operator, I think I’m having an emotional cardiac arrest. Oh my God.

The knife glided through the fresh potato with ease as Sehun guided Luhan’s wrists. Luhan’s hand on the knife was clamped on the rubber handle like a death grip, and oh, Jesus he couldn’t breathe, hell, didn’t dare to breathe. He’s so close oh dear God, he’s so damn close to me, he thought deliriously. He gulped and his throat felt parched, but not that he wanted to get water right now. Everybody else in the peripheral of Luhan were well ignored by the young man. Luhan just wanted to cry (and possibly jump up and down and squeal and fan himself, something like that) because damn, Sehun is fine as .

“Your ingredients should be chopped as evenly as possible, so everything would cook evenly,” Sehun said. His voice sounds so good, so impossibly good that Luhan wanted to cry. “Understand?”

Luhan nodded dumbly, only half-hearing Sehun’s words (mostly he was stuck thinking about how good Sehun sounded at this impossibly close distance, but let’s not talk about that). He was petrified, with a tingly feeling crawling all over his body, something like a pleasant chill, and he was afraid to move because he didn’t want Sehun to go anywhere else but here, holding Luhan.

Within just a few minutes, Luhan—through Sehun’s guidance—turned the new potato (where the mutated spud went, Luhan didn’t know nor care) into a handful of evenly sliced matchsticks, lying cleanly on the white slab of a chopping board. Like magic, Luhan thought dazedly. They look like they weren’t cut by hand. Oh my God, I really did this!

Well, a voice inside him started. Technically you didn’t, since—

Oh you shut up, boy, nobody asked you, shojo-manga snapped.

“Un quart d-heure!” Chef Bertrand yelled, somewhere from the back of the class, and the magic spell over Luhan was broken as Sehun released him, walking back toward his area as if he’d just passed by Luhan from washing his hands or something. As if he hadn’t just displayed such bold skinship to people he must’ve barely known. He simply glanced at Luhan and said, “Chef said fifteen minutes left.”

Luhan’s back and his arms suddenly felt cold, those areas where Sehun had pressed against him with a comforting force. It felt as if a major organ suddenly was missing. When he caught his reflection at the side of the knife, he saw that he had been pouting.

Pouting, for the love of God. Pouting! Almost immediately, Alpha-Male inside him shoved shojo-manga to the side and satarted barking like a drill sergeant, Lu Han, what kind of impropriety is this?

Luhan winced. Sorry, sir.

Did you think your father would’ve approved of that behavior? Alpha-Male continued, pacing the back of Luhan’s mind with heavy combat boots. Luhan didn’t know if he should cower or stand rigid straight (why he had the urge to react like that to a voice in his head, he had no idea). You disgrace! You damn well better be sorry! You better take a scalding hot shower to purge all of that disgusting fermenting inside you when you get back to the flat, boy, there’s no room for homoual germs in this world!

Sehun’s fingertips grazing the soft insides of Luhan’s arms, rough against smooth, his hands on Luhan’s, his voice, so low, so quiet, only for Luhan and Luhan alone. Luhan shivered at the memory, before Alpha-Male caught him in the act and barked out sermons that could make a Puritan cry, as if he had just caught Luhan in the middle of a ory act (well, it kind of is a mental one, but it’s not the point). Luhan looked up at the clock. Eleven minutes. Time to get your going, Lu.

As he hastily strode towards the pile of vegetables near the sink, he caught sight of his plate, where all of his cut vegetables should’ve been placed, only that it was pitifully empty before Sehun had, ah, “tutored” him. Now, though, on his plate were four handfuls of diced tomatoes, julienned potatoes, minced garlic, and a small root vegetable that Luhan can’t remember what at the moment that’s been cut into six equal sides and resembled a football. What was that cut called again? Oh! That—is it a yam or a sweet potato?—it had been turned.

His gaze slid automatically to Sehun, who was diligently cutting an onion as flawlessly as Chef Bertrand had in the demo. His plate had some of his own finished product, too, but Luhan can’t help but think that it’s Oh Sehun who placed those vegetables, already cut for Luhan.

Luhan’s mind couldn’t help but associate him to some kind of modern-day guardian angel—always there, ready to rescue. The hike at the stairs, his appearance after that… event at the Glass Cathedral, and that one night when it’s seemed like he knew Luhan would be starving… All Sehun needed to have were some wings, and he’d get a free pass into heaven. He’d even look the part without them, Luhan thought.

But isn’t that quite a bit insulting, hey? I mean,