Fanfic su attori > Cast Heroes
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Autore: somethingtobelievein    02/01/2011    0 recensioni
Zachary Quinto/OC
Maybe it was the alcohol that clouded my judgment or maybe it was something else, but I filled the distance between us with three steady strides. I only hesitated a moment, just enough time for him to turn towards me, and then I did it. I uncovered his face.
“Zachary” I stated simply.
Genere: Romantico | Stato: in corso
Tipo di coppia: Het | Personaggi: Altri
Note: nessuna | Avvertimenti: nessuno
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When I was little, my mother used to let me fall asleep next to her in the double bed. She would pick a book and read it to me, make me dream even though I wasn’t yet asleep. When my father came home, she’d carry me to my room and carefully put me to bed and tuck my sheets, trying not to wake me up. But no matter how hard she tried, I would still wake up sometimes, just for a few seconds, just long enough to see her kiss me on the forehead and hear her whisper into my ear that “We're not given dreams without the means to make them come true.”
I couldn’t help but remember that as I stepped inside my new home, 412 W 44th Street NY.

The apartment was tiny indeed, but big enough for me and at a reasonable price, for sale! But finding it had been a lucky strike; I’d scanned the internet for two months before I’d found it, and now it was mine. I looked at the keys in my hand and millions of butterflies started fluttering in my stomach.
I placed my bags in a corner and pulled out my camera. This moment I would remember for the rest of my life.
As I walked around, things to do started to sprout like mushrooms in my head, and I realized it was time to do one of the things I most hated: make a list. I sat on the dusty parquet, near the huge window that opened onto the emergency stairway, pen and paper in hand.

  1. Clean windows
  2. Mop floors
  3. Buy mattress + pillows
  4. Buy fridge
I stopped writing and checked my cell-phone for the time. 11.37. It was still quite early; much could be done. I scribbled one more thing in my list and left.

     5. Buy wall clock
 
Two weeks later, my list had pretty much become a book, and even though I’d done more than half of the things I was supposed to, the road ahead was still long.
Little by little, I had bought most of the furniture I needed, filling up my square meters, and ten boxes of my stuff had been delivered to my new address from my homeland, Italy. Each one came with a letter from my mom that would both cheer me up and depress me. She wrote about her life in Florence, my old life, about my younger brother and my grumpy old father. She wrote about how much she missed me, about how beautiful her vegetable garden was, and about how much nicer it was to take care of when we did it together.
All I could do was write back and be a little angry both at mother and myself. My dream was slowly turning into reality. How could I feel the slightest bit of sadness in such a time of joy in my life?! And why did my mother tell me of things she knew would make my heart ache?
But it wasn’t her fault, I knew that. All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves.
We must die to one life before we can enter another. And I could actually feel that other life slipping away from me.
Unfortunately, that was not the only thing leaving me. Money, it seemed, had decided I was not worthy of its company anymore, and my poor wallet had become discouragingly thin, my bank account dangerously empty.
 I was definitely ready to start my new job as a small but renowned Italian restaurant’s Chef de Partie.
To be honest, I couldn’t wait to pick up cooking again. A crazy idea popped into my head, and before I could think twice I grabbed my jacket. Why wait until Monday? I would head to “Il Cantuccio” right away! Even if they didn’t pay me these three days, it wouldn’t matter.

While walking I noticed something in my pocket—a card.
Zachary Quinto.
First, remembering the wonderful time we shared, a wide smile crept on my lips.
Second, I realized what a complete idiot I was. The most wonderful guy had given me his number and I hadn’t called him. Someone, please, slap me!
Third, realizing that the two weeks Zach had mentioned as his staying time in New York had gone, I stopped in my tracks (causing an extremely angry and expensively clothed middle aged business woman to almost run me over).
Fourth, the most unlikely strong gust of wind stole the precious business card from me. And shoved it into a manhole before I could even process what had happened and look ridiculous and clumsy while trying to catch it.
 
To say that the owner of the ristorante was surprised to see me was an understatement. And the Chef de Cuisine was at least as glad to have me there as Pamela (that’s how she told me to call her) was surprised. It was definitely a busy evening, and the kitchen could use as many hands as it could possibly get.
I tied my hair, pinning every rebellious tuft of it to my head with my good old hairgrip friends, wore the new blindingly white apron I’d been given, changed my shoes into a more comfortable pair, took a deep breath in, and stepped out of the chef’s office into the bull ring. Let the show begin.
The spot I had been engaged to fill was that of the pâtissier, the pastry chef, and I must confess, I had my head spinning with how fast I had to work.
I mixed, broke, cut, mashed, diced, added, floured, poured,  baked, boiled, milled, sprinkled, grated, shaped, tasted, steamed, frosted, washed, and cleaned, stopping only to pour down my dry throat some water once in a while.

Once peak time was over, I had my forehead covered in sweat and was in urgent need for something that was not sweet, so I chewed up one of the grissini I’d just taken out of the oven. Hmm… perfectly crispy, but a little more salt could do no harm. 
I peeked through the fire doors to see how many customers were still waiting to be served dessert and, to my great relief, no one was. I sat on one of the many counter tops and watched as everyone cleaned their stations. The camaraderie of that kitchen was amazing—even as a novice, I could feel how everyone tried to help each other out. As soon as someone had noticed I couldn’t find something or couldn’t make it in time with an order, they had come to my rescue.

I got back home quite late that night and crashed on my bed, exhausted. As soon as my body hit the soft latex mattress that I’d temporarily placed on the floor, I fell asleep, fully dressed and all, hugging the contents of the eleventh box I’d received, my favorite pillow Dean.

Yes, I named it. So what?
  
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