Chapter Text
The restaurant was bursting, which was weird, because Christmas was still two months away, the weather was dogshit and no christmas markets built yet to attract tourists. But still, they came, and still, they wanted food.
Remus was sweating. The kitchens were always a sensory nightmare, but even more so when it turned colder and people thought it necessary to heat up the three floors of the Bavarian hellhouse. Not that the food was bad, it was actually one of the few advantages of working here. Free food, tip money, money overall. Plus, discount on alcohol. He stared blankly at the stainless steel on which currently three plates were arranged. Sausages, amazing. The stamp machine on the wall read 8:30pm, which meant two more hours of lugging food. His hands had given out at around six, but who was he to complain about pain. It was actually, weirdly enough, an okay shift.
His colleagues, Max and Vincent, were anything but calm, and their sole talent lay in entertaining themselves. They were also three years younger than Remus, which made him feel better in his thinking of them as overexcited puppies. The only actual friend he had made here was James, the barman. They went to some Uni courses together, and the surprise of spotting each other after ever evading shifts was a welcome one. Right now, for instance, when Remus was fuming. “A glass of ice with tepid water and a gun” he grumbles, setting down the tribute of pretzels in front of James. The man, somehow, looks even happier. Was it the bar lights? How does he manage to literally smile at all times? “Oh Remy, what happened now?” Great, so he wasn’t hiding it well. Maybe it was the gun thing. “Some people told me the order I brought their neighbouring table was theirs. It took me five minutes of arguing to have them understand the wild concept of cooking certain meals more than once throughout the day.” No subtlety attempted, even though he held back the curses. No need to get fired, either. James just keeps on beaming and pouring beer, easy going as always. “Well, see it this way, you’re clearly higher evolved than them Rem.” That, he amended, was a nice thing to say.
Still, when he shows up in the kitchen again, frustration lingers. It was small things like this; unnecessarily rude tone of voice, ignorance when asking who gets which meal, treatment as lesser basically. Everything put together, maybe this wasn’t a good shift. Remus resumes watching the kitchen work. Two plates, fried potatoes, egg (both ordered the egg fried on both sides, which he thought a commendable choice), meat. He puts them on his left arm, then makes way downstairs. Table 134, so that's the terrace. Let’s hope it’s nice people, or he may actually explode at a guest. There’s a first for everything, as they say. He clambers down the stairs (another advantage of this job, not waiting on people but just moving plates, full and empty, around) and heads on straight out. First row, second table from the back, so right across the door.
The two black haired people are, and there was no doubt about this, family. They also looked as uncomfortable as Remus thought possible. He sighs, albeit they were an interesting pair. “Two Leberkäse for ya’ll” he rumbles politely, setting them down with a perfected fake smile. His eyes trail back up and- oh. Eyeliner. Grey stormy eyes. Sharp cheekbones- Remus clears his throat, mumbling “Enjoy” before they can even react, then clambers back in. Smooth, he scolds himself quietly. Max catches up to him on the stairs, babbling about the new game he bought, blonde hair bouncing as he practically jumped up the stairs. Remus nodded along. Most of the things people at work told him went through his mind like a sieve. Back in the kitchen, he quietly ponders. The person at the table had been illegally attractive, especially for a German town. Which, of course, didn’t really mean anything. The pure thought of actually going beyond silent admiration makes him want to visit the bar downstairs again. (He can’t tell if that’s for James or for the alcohol, but to keep a part of his sanity, he tells himself it’s the latter.)
“And what do you think about that, Remus?” He looks up from the tile he had been studying. One of the few nice cooks, Cara, and Max, apparently had been gossiping, and Vincent seemed to find it important to get another opinion. Remus' heart does a weird jump. People including him or acting as if they’d known eachother forever was such a lovely thing. “Uh-” “Oh, he’s ever the impartial one” Cara cuts in, beaming at him. She was right, even though in her eyes, that seemed some kind of moral choice. Truth was, he couldn’t be arsed about the petty drama everyone was getting into. He gives a hesitant smile, nodding slightly. Then, instead of continuing to awkwardly stand, he chooses to make another round for empty plates.
It was 10:27, meaning this would be his last circle. 134 had left their two plates neatly assorted, cutlery over folded napkins. On his way back up, he catches one of the servers giving him a weird look, but shrugs it off. Can’t dwell on too much, especially not here.
Unlug plates, grab keys, change shirt. His binder was killing him, but he’d actually rather pass out than be all out. He punches his code into the time stamp machine, then stops by James. “You have an admirer.” Not what he is usually greeted with, but alright. “I’d rather have a shot of vodka, my leg is killing me.” The mumbled request is met with a broad, excited smile, as James just plows on, pouring the liquor. “Left a number with Yassin.” Remus grunts. He didn’t want to outright say he wasn’t very keen on dating some random guest. The sunshine doesn’t seem to care. “Was a right out beautiful bloke. His sibling, too.” Finally, the shot glass slid over to him. “Thanks. I don’t think I’ll follow up on that, though.”
James seems to be quite unhappy with that, but surprisingly for another reason. “Come ooon Rem, I don’t have the siblings number, he wouldn’t even look at me. Pleeease, for me?” Oh dear Lords, big brown eyes staring right into his soul. “I’ll think about it” Remus mumbles, if only for James to stop staring. That seemed to settle the man, who promptly announces the shot was on him and to “Get the hell home and rest those brittle bones.” Which is just what Remus does.