Twenty minutes later, the three of them were seated at a plastic table in the Galleria's sprawling food court. The space was massive and crowded, filled with the overlapping smells of a dozen different cuisines and the constant hum of conversation and clattering trays. Kota had led them to a burger joint with a bright neon sign and a line that moved fast, the kind of place where the food came wrapped in wax paper and the fries were salted within an inch of their lives.
Theo stared at his burger like it was an alien artifact. He had unwrapped it carefully, peeling back the paper with the same precision he probably used for important documents, and was now examining each component with the intense focus of a scientist studying a new species.
He picked up his plastic fork and knife, which he had requested from the cashier with a polite "Pardon me, but do you have any proper utensils?" and began to deconstruct the burger. He removed the top bun and set it aside. He lifted the lettuce leaf, examined it, and placed it on a separate section of the paper.
The tomato slice followed, then the pickles, then the onion rings. He used his fork to carefully separate the patty from the bottom bun, then cut the patty into small, neat squares. He ate the squares first, one by one, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. Then he moved on to the vegetables, eating each type separately. The buns were last, torn into small pieces and dipped in a little puddle of ketchup he had squeezed onto the corner of his tray.
Kota watched this entire process with his burger held halfway to his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "Theo. Have you never eaten a burger before?"
Theo looked up, his fork poised delicately between his fingers. "Of course I've eaten a burger, darling. I'm not a complete shut in. I've just never eaten one in this particular setting." He gestured vaguely at the food court, the plastic tables, the screaming children two tables over. "This is the mannered way of eating. You separate the components so you can appreciate each flavor individually. The chef intended for each ingredient to be tasted on its own merits."
"The "chef"," Kota said slowly, "is a teenager making minimum wage who probably spat in this. You're supposed to pick it up with your hands and eat it. Like this." He demonstrated by taking a large bite of his burger, the lettuce crunching, the sauce dripping down his fingers.
Sebastian sat between them, his own burger untouched, his mind spinning into overdrive. He looked at Theo, eating his deconstructed burger with a fork and knife like he was dining at a five star restaurant. That was the mannered way. The proper way. The Oxford way. If he ate like Theo, he would look sophisticated. Cultured. Like he belonged in the same social circles as the Hawthornes. But he would also look like he didn't know how to eat a burger, which was true, but admitting that felt like a weakness. He looked at Kota, holding his burger with both hands, grease dripping down his fingers, chewing with obvious enjoyment. That was the cool way. The normal way. The way that said "I'm not trying to impress anyone." If he ate like Kota, he would look relaxed. Confident. Like someone who had eaten a hundred burgers in a hundred food courts and didn't care what anyone thought.
But what if Theo thought he was uncivilized for eating with his hands? What if Kota thought he was pretentious for using a fork? What if he chose wrong and ruined the fragile friendship they had built over the course of this very strange day? What if this single decision, burger eating technique, was the moment everything fell apart? He had been invited shopping. He had been called a friend. He had been given a suit. He had been kissed in a car. He had been fucked until he passed out. His entire social standing hung in the balance, and the fate of it all rested on how he consumed a sandwich. (Fuck you yes a burger is a sandwich)
Kota took another massive bite and spoke around it, his voice slightly muffled. "Is that really how rich people eat burgers? Separating everything?"
Theo set down his fork and gave Kota a teasing smirk. "You mean poor people, darling."
Kota's eyes went wide with mock offense. He pointed his burger at Theo like it was a weapon. "Excuse me? I'm not poor. I'm normal. There's a difference."
"Of course, darling. My apologies. You're not poor. You're simply... financially unremarkable." Theo's smirk widened into a full grin.
"Financially unremarkable," Kota repeated flatly. "You're lucky you're cute."
"It's a gift."
Sebastian was still staring at his burger. The internal debate had reached a fever pitch. Fork and knife, or hands? Mannerly, or cool? Theo, or Kota?
He made his decision. He picked up his burger with both hands, lifted it to his mouth, and took a large, messy bite. Ketchup dripped onto his fingers. Lettuce crunched between his teeth. It was glorious. It was terrifying. It was the best burger he had ever eaten.
Kota grinned and extended his fist across the table. "That's more like it. See? You're learning."
Sebastian stared at the fist for a moment, his brain struggling to process what was happening. Then he reached out with his clean hand and bumped his knuckles against Kota's. The contact lasted maybe half a second, but to Sebastian it felt like an eternity. His first fist bump. His first real fist bump. Not a practice one in the mirror. Not an accidental one when reaching for the same book. A genuine, initiated by someone else, congratulatory fist bump.
He was glowing. Actually glowing. His face had broken into such a wide, dazed smile that Theo had to hide his own grin behind his fork.
After they finished eating, Theo carefully wiped his hands with a napkin and stood up. "Shall we continue? There's a store on the upper level I want to show you. They have excellent accessories. Ties, pocket squares, cufflinks. The little details that make a suit truly exceptional."
Kota stood up, crumpling his burger wrapper and tossing it into a nearby trash can. "Lead the way, Mr. Hawthorne."
Sebastian followed, still smiling, still flexing the hand that had received the fist bump, still mentally replaying the moment over and over in his head. He had eaten a burger with his hands. He had been fist bumped. He was a new man. An American man. A man who understood the simple pleasures of greasy food and casual physical contact. Oxford had never prepared him for this.