Chapter 25: From Kitchens to KPOP

The Grand’s kitchen, usually a sanctuary of simmering sauces and the rhythmic clatter of knives, was abuzz with a different kind of energy that morning. As I prepped for the breakfast service, snippets of conversation, punctuated by giggles and knowing glances, reached my ears. "So, that was Sacha’s ‘boyfriend’ at the concert?" one of the sous chefs whispered, his voice laced with amusement. "He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else." Another chef chimed in, "VIP tickets though! Sacha’s living the high life."

My cheeks flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement warming my face. The photo of Stefan and me, the one where he looked utterly bored while diligently snapping pictures of my KPOP-fueled frenzy, had clearly made the rounds amongst my co-workers. And because they knew Stefan was my brother, the playful teasing took on a new dimension, a shared inside joke that both acknowledged and amplified the absurdity of the situation.

"He’s not my boyfriend," I clarified, my voice a little too defensive, a little too high-pitched. "He’s my brother."

"Yeah, yeah," the sous chef replied with a wink, his tone clearly implying that he didn’t believe me. "We saw the pictures, Sacha. He looked very attentive." He emphasized the word "attentive," drawing out the syllables with a playful lilt.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of my lips. The whole situation was ridiculous, a snowball of misunderstanding rolling downhill, gathering momentum with every retweet and every playful comment. And honestly? I was kind of enjoying it. The attention, the teasing, the illusion of romantic intrigue… it was a welcome distraction from the monotony of early morning kitchen duty.

Even Aksel, the usually aloof concierge, couldn’t resist joining in the fun. He approached me during my break, his amethyst eyes twinkling with amusement. "I saw the photos," he said, his voice a low murmur that barely carried over the clatter of the staff room. "Your… brother… seems to enjoy KPOP."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "He… indulged me," I replied, my voice softening as I thought of Stefan, patiently enduring three hours of screaming fans and flashing lights, his only solace a plastic bag full of overpriced snacks. "He’s not really a fan."

Aksel’s lips twitched, a subtle movement that I’d come to recognize as a suppressed smile. He nodded, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment before he turned and walked away, his usual air of quiet elegance restored. It was strange, how much our interactions had changed since Stefan’s brief stint as a janitor. Aksel, once a distant figure shrouded in mystery, now seemed… warmer, more approachable. He’d ask about Stefan, his questions veiled in polite curiosity, his eyes betraying a hint of… something… that I couldn’t quite decipher. It was intriguing, to say the least.

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The whispers and speculations about Stefan’s brief janitorial career continued to echo through the corridors of The Grand, even weeks after his departure. The janitors, in particular, seemed both baffled and intrigued by the whole situation. "He was… different," one of them confided in me during a rare encounter in the staff breakroom. "Didn’t talk much, but he worked hard. And he was nice. Not like some of the other guys who come through here, thinking they’re too good for the job."

The concert photos, however, had thrown a wrench into their understanding of Stefan’s character. How could this quiet, unassuming janitor, who’d spent his days scrubbing toilets and emptying trash cans, suddenly appear in the VIP section of a KPOP concert, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else? The cognitive dissonance was palpable.

"He’s… Sacha’s brother," another janitor explained to his bewildered colleagues, his voice laced with a mixture of awe and envy. "They’re… rich, apparently."

The realization that Stefan, despite his willingness to take on a menial job, was actually part of a wealthy family, only added to the intrigue. Some were envious of his ability to attend a VIP concert, while others were envious of his… proximity to me. "Imagine being that close to Sacha," one of the younger janitors sighed, his eyes glazing over with a mixture of admiration and longing.

Meanwhile, the online speculation continued to escalate. My Twitter feed was flooded with comments and questions about Stefan, his relationship with me, and his… availability. "Is he really your brother?" one user asked, their skepticism evident in their choice of words. "So, is he available? Asking for a friend 👀," another user chimed in, their post garnering a flurry of likes and retweets from fellow 4EVER stans who were clearly intrigued by the mysterious, handsome stranger who’d appeared in my concert photos.

The question of Stefan’s availability, for romance, was one I’d pondered myself, albeit in a more… abstract… way. I’d broached the subject with him once, during a rare moment of sibling heart-to-heart, asking if he was interested in dating, in… humans. His response had been a swift, unequivocal "no." And so, when confronted with the online inquiries about his relationship status, I simply replied, "He’s not available," without further explanation. Because even I wasn’t sure how to explain Stefan’s… unique… circumstances. The whole ex-monk thing was a bit much to unpack in a Twitter reply.

As the days turned into weeks, the online chatter about Stefan gradually subsided, replaced by the usual flurry of KPOP news and fan theories. But the memory of his brief stint as a janitor, his unexpected appearance at the concert, and the playful speculation about our relationship, lingered, a subtle undercurrent of warmth and amusement in the background of my life. And every time I encountered Aksel in the corridors of The Grand, his amethyst eyes twinkling with a knowing smile, I couldn’t help but wonder if he, too, was secretly harboring a newfound appreciation for my quiet, unassuming, panda-suit-wearing brother.

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Friday night at the Jacques residence was a symphony of familiar comforts. The aroma of Maman’s homemade popcorn filled the air, mingling with the comforting scent of Papa’s pipe tobacco (a rare indulgence reserved for special occasions). The flickering images of a classic French comedy danced across the large television screen, casting warm shadows across the plush living room furniture. Maman and Papa, a picture of marital contentment, occupied the loveseat, their hands intertwined, their laughter echoing through the room. And then there was Stefan and me, sprawled on the oversized sofa, our bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs and shared warmth.

Stefan had always been a hugger, a trait that, as a child, had both amused and exasperated me. I’d tease him mercilessly, calling him "koala" and gifting him an endless stream of panda-themed stuffed animals, a playful nod to his cuddly nature. But secretly, I cherished those hugs, the warmth of his small body pressed against mine, the feeling of unconditional love and acceptance that radiated from his every touch.

Even now, years later, with Stefan towering over me, his physique honed by years of physical labor and monastic discipline, that need for physical closeness hadn’t diminished. He’d still hug me out of nowhere, his strong arms enveloping me in a bear hug that sometimes left me breathless. I was still getting used to his new size, the way his broad chest pressed against my back, the way his arms, once gangly and awkward, now felt like bands of steel. It was a strange, but not unpleasant, sensation, a reminder of how much he’d changed, how much he’d grown, both physically and emotionally.

Tonight, as the comedic antics of Louis de Funès unfolded on the screen, I found myself leaning against Stefan, my back pressed against his warm chest, my knees drawn up to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. It was a comfortable, familiar position, one we’d often adopted during our childhood movie nights. And Stefan, as always, responded in kind, his arm draped casually over my shoulder, his warmth seeping into my body, chasing away the lingering chill of the Parisian night.

I closed my eyes, the sound of my family’s laughter washing over me, a comforting lullaby that lulled me into a state of blissful contentment. The scent of popcorn and pipe tobacco mingled with Stefan’s familiar scent, a clean, slightly musky aroma that always evoked a sense of security and belonging. I felt safe, protected, loved. And for a brief, fleeting moment, as the credits rolled on the screen and the lights came up, I allowed myself to imagine a future where this… closeness… this easy intimacy… could be something more. A future where the playful teasing and the brotherly affection could evolve into something deeper, something… romantic. A boy could dream, couldn’t he?

I shifted slightly, my back pressing more firmly against Stefan’s chest, my heart doing a weird little flutter-kick against my ribs. He didn’t react, his breathing slow and steady, his warmth a comforting presence against my back. I took a deep breath, the scent of sandalwood and popcorn filling my lungs, and allowed myself to indulge in the fantasy, the dream of a future where the lines between brotherly love and romantic love blurred, where the hugs and the shared laughter could be a prelude to something more. It was a dangerous path, I knew, one that could potentially disrupt the delicate balance of our family dynamic. But for tonight, in the warm embrace of my brother, my friend… I allowed myself to dream.