He tossed the towel aside once he was mostly dry, and went to the bathroom to remove his makeup. With the water running so loudly, he didn’t even notice the door opening and closing, and was a little startled when he came back to find Morimoto standing in the centre of the room, gaze fixed squarely on Bobby, a half-smile on his face. “I came to congratulate you. 25 is a big number of wins,” he said quietly with that accent, almost making Bobby wish his voice was being dubbed here too. But he managed to catch every word nonetheless, and gave Morimoto a grin.
“Thanks, buddy.” Morimoto’s half-smile increased to about three quarters, but still seemed somewhat insincere to Bobby. “Uh... take a seat, don’t want you just standing there.” His fellow Iron Chef accepted the offer, sitting down on a chair while Bobby took the couch that faced it. Morimoto just kept smiling softly, seemingly not having anything to talk about. The generally unflappable Bobby Flay always seemed to find himself nervous around Morimoto; officially, they were friends, but he couldn’t help but feel an underlying tension in that friendship.
They’d gotten off to a rocky start. Some people still hated him for it. He stood by his actions; after all, it was just a cutting board. If you couldn’t wash a little dirt off it, it wasn’t much of a cutting board anyway. The problem was, if he stood by his actions, why was it all he could think about every time he looked Morimoto in the eye?
“...So... still think I’m not a chef?” he asked, nervousness entering his tone as he foolishly blurted it out. Way to start a conversation, Bobby. Morimoto’s smile disappeared. Way to ask a question that’s going to get you in the bad books. Why he was worried, he had no idea. He didn’t go get drinks on weekends with Morimoto, they hardly ever even spoke to each other, and they wouldn’t be on TV if they couldn’t act at least a little. Nonetheless, he almost pleadingly looked at Morimoto. Was this really such a hard question?
“...No.” Morimoto replied, his expression unchanged.
“No you don’t think that anymore, or no I’m not a chef?” Bobby asked in desperation.
“No, I do not think that way anymore,” he clarified, smiling as if he knew Bobby was going to ask that very question.
And then they made out