by Matthew Lang
An errant breeze drew his attention to a square of pale yellow paper that was stuck between the door and the welcome mat. Picking up the Post-it note, he read the message scrawled in hasty block capitals in a thick black texta.
JUST COME IN ALREADY, ZHANG!
David wasn’t sure which was scarier, the fact that Patrick knew him well enough to predict what he’d do, or the fact that he didn’t find that thought as scary as he ought to.
The apartment inside was neat, and if anything, hotter than outside, even with the fans going. Looking through the living area to the corner kitchen, David saw a wok bubbling away on a low heat, a large steamer basket sitting inside. There was the familiar smell of rice starch and ginger and something buttery that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The dining table in the far corner was set for two, covered with a crisp white table cloth, the woven placemats they’d brought back from Vietnam a year ago, and the unchipped—and virtually unused—good bowls Patrick had bought from Made In Japan when he’d first gone through his would-be chef phase. There was also a battered blue Eski, which would have been out of place if it hadn’t been one of their traditions. Eski plus ice plus a bit of water equalled a place for beer.
Ditching the backpack at the door, David put the beers into the cool ice and wandered into Patrick’s bedroom—the only other room in the house where Patrick could have been, given the door to the bathroom was open and the facilities obviously not in use. The first thing he noticed was the bed, which was made, and the sheets looked freshly laundered—he could still see an indentation from a clothes peg. The second thing he noticed was the clean floor space, which, while not technically unheard of, wasn’t exactly normal. Both of these things were noticed in passing, however, a quick glance as he took in the differences to the usual state of affairs in Chateau Gorman, which was probably best described as “inhabited” if you were being generous, and “pigsty” if you weren’t.
The newfound cleanliness was, however, nothing next to the sight of Patrick standing before the mirrored door of his wardrobe—barefoot, in formfitting black pants, a baby-pink shirt buttoned up, and a skinny tie knotted around his neck. The man himself was holding his left arm in front of him and muttering swear words underneath his breath as he struggled to get links into the cuffs of his shirt.
“Are you dressing up for me, Mr Gorman?” David asked, leaning against the doorframe. “I mean, I know how you normally look, and I’m already aware you clean up well.”
“So that means I shouldn’t try?” Patrick asked, his voice slightly on edge. “Damn these fiddly things. I could have sworn I had enough time to get them in, but….”
“Here, let me,” David said, relenting and walking over. He took Patrick’s hand, lined up the folds of fabric, and pieced the four buttonholes with the silver and opal cufflinks that probably hadn’t been used since their school formal. It was a simple, deft motion born of long practice, and David wasn’t entirely prepared for how it made him feel. He was slower in putting in the second cufflink, and when he was done, Patrick’s hands gripped his gently.
“That was… um….”
This kiss was different. Less alcoholic for a start, but also more certain. More wanted. More accepted. Suddenly David found his back up against the bedroom wall and Patrick’s body pressing against his, and he had his tongue in Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick was sucking on his, just like it was… well, longer, larger, thicker, harder and attached to a different point on his body. Tightening his grip on Patrick’s wrist, David pulled him closer, feeling the fine wispy hair on the back of Patrick’s neck twist around his fingers, leaving a slight gritty residue of hair product as Patrick’s favourite cologne filled his nostrils.
Patrick pulled back then, his face flushed and eyes dark. “Sorry,” he said. “I had thought we were going to eat first.”
“I thought you wanted me naked in that bed with clean sheets,” David said with just a touch of disappointment.
Patrick grinned and pushed his hair back into a semblance of what had been artfully messed, but was now more mess and a bit less artful. “Oh I do, but I intended to feed you first, and some of what I’m cooking is timed.”
“Or you’re just not going to sit through dinner with haystack hair?” David asked.
“Well… we can’t all have perfect Asian hair that looks good no matter what you do with it.”
“You should see it in the morning when it gets long,” David muttered.
“I have. You just slick some water and gel through it and it behaves. Do you have any idea how long it takes for me to—”
“Yep,” David said with a grin.
Patrick laughed then, and suddenly David felt more at ease. This was the Patrick he was used to, albeit in a suit. “Come on,” he said. “Time for food.”
“I brought Fat Yak,” David said as he let Patrick usher him into a chair.
“Cool. Do you want to be fancy and have a glass, or we drinking from bottles again?”
“Bottles are fine by me,” David said. “It’ll go with your shoes.”
“I’m not wearing shoes.”
“Exactly.”
First course was a ceviche of barramundi with chilli, coriander, and lime topped with flying fish roe served in a brandy tumbler on a salad of picked cucumber. It was fresh, summery, and made David’s mouth water. “This is pretty good, Patto,” he said. “Remind me why you stopped working in kitchens again?”
“Unsociable hours and abusive chefs, mostly,” Patrick said with a shrug. “And you know, spending too much time at work and not enough time with my… uh… partner.”
“Oh yeah,” David said. “Story of my life.”
“You don’t work weekends,” Patrick pointed out.
“Don’t I?”
“Okay, well… you’re not supposed to.”
The steamer basket was next, but David peeked, leaning over the kitchen island while Patrick pulled eight large white steamed buns from it. Patrick sliced them open with deft strokes from a serrated knife and filled four of them with barbequed pork in a sticky red sauce, spring onion, rocket, and a sliver more chilli. The other four were filled with sliced duck breast and crispy duck skin that was almost crackling, fresh cucumber, hoisin sauce, and a touch of spring onion again.
“Cha Sui Bao and Peking duck?” David asked around the not unpleasant beer buzz he had going.
“As sliders,” Patrick said with a grin. “I was going to do steamed dumplings that would have been faster to serve, but it’s almost too hot for yum cha.”
“It’s never too hot for yum cha,” David disagreed.
“It might be if you have to sleep in the same apartment that the yum cha was cooked in and it’s a warm night,” Patrick said with a grin.
“You weren’t actually going to kick me out after, were you?” David asked as they migrated back to the dining table.
“Well… no, but I’m not going to make you stay if you don’t want to.”
David grinned. “Okay, we’ll talk about it later. Or just fall asleep and not talk. Whatever works.”
Patrick smiled, and it was such an open, happy smile that David’s breath caught as he felt it filling him up inside and making him feel slightly gooey. Or it might have just been the alcohol. Still, he couldn’t quite shake feeling elated at how well the evening seemed to be going.
“Zhang. Earth to Zhang, come in Zhang…” Patrick was saying.
“Huh?”
“Stop overanalysing and start eating.”
Shaking his head, David did just that, and as the flavours exploded on his tongue, he felt his throat tighten almost in pain as saliva flooded into his mouth. “This is fucking good,” he said after he’d finally managed to unclench his jaw enough to swallow.
“No, that’s later, after dessert,” Patrick said blandly.
“Shut up, Pat. You know what I mean,” David said. “You should be selling this stuff. Seriously. I mean, you could easily open up your own place on the back of these.”
“Right, because I want to become an angry, sweary chef with a giant business loan and chain-smoking co-workers.”
“You could always do a food truck,” David suggested. “I only know one dim sum food truck in Melbourne at the moment.”
Patrick looked thoughtful as he chewed on a piece of spring onion that had worked its way free of the slider. “That could work. I’d never get the loan for it, but it’s something to work towards.”
“Why wouldn’t you get the loan?” David asked, trying to work out whether licking his fingers was acceptable and then deciding that yes, it definitely was.
“I don’t have a steady job for one,” Patrick said.
“But that’s the point. This would be your job,” David said, carefully licking a splatter of hoisin sauce from his index finger.
“Yes… um….”
David stopped and looked up. Patrick was staring almost hungrily at him, eyes intent and mouth slightly open. “Patto, focus.”
Patrick shook himself, almost messing up his hair. “Sorry, I was—but… damn that was hot.”
“You just need a business plan,” David said gently. “They’re usually helpful in talking to banks.”
“Yeah… they didn’t really cover that one in the kitchen,” Patrick said, looking away.
“That’s okay.” David grinned. “I wrote them for five years before transferring into my current job.”
Patrick looked up. “I can’t ask you to do that, Dave.”
David shrugged and bit into the next slider, sticky BBQ sauce squirting out the side of the bun and dripping over his knuckles. “You didn’t. I offered. And it’s not as if you wouldn’t do the same for me if you could.”
This time, Patrick grabbed David’s hand and licked his fingers clean.
“Hey, I wanted that,” David protested weakly.
“I’ll make you more,” Patrick promised solemnly.
“Do we have to have dessert?” David asked. The words were out of his mouth before he could decide if he really meant them.
“No,” Patrick said nonchalantly, getting up and heading to the kitchen. “But if you don’t want your egg tarts, they’ll probably burn, and—”
“You made egg tarts?”
“Flaky pastry and everything.”
Dessert happened.
Chapter 4
DAVID HAD never quite worked out where the phenomenon that was egg tarts had come from. It wasn’t an Australian thing, as they were eaten throughout the Cantonese-speaking areas of Southeast Asia, and there was a certain similarity to the Portuguese egg tarts that sometimes cropped up around the various food markets he frequented, but in other places, egg tarts simply were. Sure you could get them in shops like BreadTop or at dedicated dim sum places like Dragonboat in the city, but when general bakeries tried, they often got it wrong, putting the custard into shortcrust pastry casings that went limp and soggy with the wetness of the filling.
He didn’t know where Patrick had got the recipe, but these were real egg tarts—the good ones that were probably made with lard and butter to get the pastry that soft and flaky. The outside of each tart reminded him of an open rose, pastry petals breaking off even as he delicately lifted the treat from its paper casing. Somehow Patrick had mastered the timing of the egg tart perfectly so the pastry was cooked, crisp, and just golden brown, and the sweet, yellow, eggy custard in the centre was just firm, still glistening, and tasted like it must surely have been steamed, not baked.
“You know, you could probably just sell these off a truck,” David said, wiping crumbs from the corner of his mouth. “Like the American Jam Donut truck at the Vic Markets.”
“With lines around the corner to that place selling coconuts? It’s a thought,” Patrick said with a laugh, and maybe it was the beer, but David found his eyes lingering on Patrick’s mouth and lips. “Maybe I’ll look into doing a trial run at a craft market or something.”
“Go on MasterChef,” David suggested.
“Fuck no,” Patrick said. “I don’t want cameras invading my entire life.”
“Come on, you’re hunky, good-looking, have a down on your luck story the public will fall in love with….”
“Hunky, huh?”
“I have always maintained you’re an attractive man,” David said, attempting aloofness even as he felt a blush touch his cheeks. Maybe that was just the beer.
“Yeah, but you’ve never called me hunky before—I’d have remembered that.”
“I didn’t want to make it weird.”
Patrick turned his beer bottle this way and that on the surface of the table. “I kinda wish you had.”
“I think I’m past weird, Patto.”
Patrick’s smile was tentative. “Okay.” Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’m still not going on MasterChef.”
“But if you get to the top ten, the banks will give you whatever you want.”
“Can I try it the other way first?” Patrick asked. “I really… I’m not really… no.”
David chuckled. “I’m teasing you, Patto.”
“Mostly,” Patrick said darkly.
“Well, you are a hunk,” David said with a wink. “And the show would be good branding,” he added, polishing off the last of his beer.
Patrick laughed. “I’m sorry, Dave. I grew up on a farm, remember? You say branding, and I think of a hot iron searing into flesh.”
“Hah, you and your implements of farming torture,” David said, stretching. “You know, I think I’m just at comfortably full,” he said. “Not stuffed, but any more food and I would be.”
As he relaxed, his calf brushed against Patrick’s leg, and they stopped, staring at each other.
“So um…,” he started.
“Yeah…,” Patrick breathed.
“You um….”
“Ah….”
“Fuck, I thought I was past the weird,” David muttered.
Patrick deflated. “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” David said. “I’m just… I don’t know what I’m meant to be doing here exactly. What do you want, Patto? What do you really want right now? Damn the awkward, just tell me.”
Patrick hesitated. “I… want to kiss you.”
David smiled. “Okay, that can be arranged. And anything else?”
Patrick closed his eyes. “And everything,” he said softly. “I don’t know how this is supposed to go either.”
David swallowed hard and stood up, holding out his hand. “What say we find out?”
DAVID HEARD the soft sound of felt over industrial carpet as he pushed the chair away behind him, and in two steps he was around to the other side of the table, Patrick half rising to meet him. He placed one hand on Patrick’s strong jawline, tilting his head back, and Patrick made a slight sound of surprise that was swallowed by David’s mouth as he pressed their lips together. Their kiss was passionate and sudden, and the tastes of sweet custard and buttery pastry crumbs mingled with the scent and taste of Patrick that flooded his senses. His thumb stroked the roughness of Patrick’s evening stubble, the blond hairs almost invisible against Patrick’s fair skin but prickly to the touch.
Wood creaked as Patrick stood up, and then it was David with his head pivoted back on his neck, Patrick’s large hands stroking up his back to support his skull as Patrick’s tongue slicked against his. He felt the warmth from Patrick’s palm skim over his shoulder, eventually coming to rest in the centre of his chest. The stretch cotton of his shirt released, pulling away from his body as Patrick popped each button one by one, his fingers drifting in slow motion down David’s torso, occasionally reaching in to greet David’s flesh with a touch that seemed hotter than his own flushed skin.
Reaching forward, David grabbed the belt loops on either side of Patrick’s waist and pulled him closer, crushing their bodies together and momentarily trapping Patrick’s hands between them. Patrick’s breath was hot against David’s neck as their kiss broke for a moment, and David buried his head in the nape
of Patrick’s neck.
“Dave?”
“Mmm.”
“You okay?”
“Mmm.” David pulled back, just enough to drink in the sight of Patrick—hot, bothered, and hard, lips wet and eyes sparkling. He could feel the smile on his face as he tugged Patrick’s shirt out from the waistband of his pants, slipped his fingers into the gap between fabric and flesh, and ran his fingertips around to Patrick’s front. The wiry scratchiness of Patrick’s treasure trail tickled the back of his hands before he let go to grab hold of Patrick’s belt and unbuckle it with the ease of experience. Pulling the length of black leather free from its cloth supports, David dropped it to the floor. When he looked up, Patrick’s eyes were boring into his, and what had been a smoulder of lust was now definitely a flame.
Patrick grabbed him and pushed him backwards towards the bedroom, David struggling to escape the cloth confines of his shirt without breaking their kiss. The garment fell to the floor and nearly tripped them both before Patrick kicked it over towards the couch with an impatient growl, where it joined at least one button from Patrick’s shirt and the thin suit pants that had all but fallen off Patrick’s body when David undid the waistband catch and tugged down the zipper. By the time Patrick shoved him up against the wall just inside the bedroom door and pressed their naked torsos together, his lips pressed against David’s neck, David could feel the dampness of precum inside his shorts, and he groaned as Patrick’s hips thrust against his own, pushing the hardness of their cocks together, separated only by a few thin layers of material.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” David panted.
“You broke my shirt,” Patrick said, not looking up from where he was trailing hot kisses up the column of David’s neck towards his ear.
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
“I like this shirt.”
“Then get it off before I rip the sleeves off,” David said, his voice sounding shockingly husky in his own ears.
“You’re stitching the buttons back on,” Patrick said reproachfully as he paused to pull his hands out of his sleeves. Or tried to anyway. “You normally just pull your hands straight out of your sleeves,” he said, squinting accusingly at the metal links in the fabric.
