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Chocoerejean

Inspired by and written for the beautiful @kirslut/erejean prez. 
Her love for Jean has inspired me to start blogging again.
Thanks, lili, you’re wonderful! xoxo

“All in a day’s work,” I say to myself, wiping my hands on my rather dirty apron. I’d been on my feet the entire day and was all too ready to kick off my shoes and relax with a glass of full-bodied red wine. My eyes sweep over my little shop, looking at the empty shelves with satisfaction. Today was another good day. 

I’m an up-and-coming chocolatier, with my own bean-to-bar store at the Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés in Paris. One evening I was about to close shop when two young men walk in demanding freshly-made chocolate. 

Sighing, I am barely able to keep myself from throwing them an annoyed glance. “Je regrette mais…,” I start to apologize, more than prepared to kick them out. It was the beginning of a very busy holiday season and the store already sold out on almost everything. All the truffles were gone within an hour of opening. By noon there was not a ganache in sight. I needed to be up in the wee hours of the morning to make tomorrow’s batch.

But something makes me pause. I give the stragglers a once over: they appear to be college kids from the university nearby. They’re holding hands and being cute, introducing themselves. “I’m Eren and this is Jean,” the dark-haired one says. “Everyone calls us as ‘erejean’.” 

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“Or ‘jeanere’, but nevermind,” mutters the fair-haired one. 

Ah, young love. I sigh again: what can you do? “Attendez un moment, s’il vous plaît,” I give in, asking them to wait. Somehow I manage to whip up two different types of pralines and give one to each of them. 

Eren takes his, sniffs it, pops it into his mouth, looks thoughtful for a few moments, swallows and says to me with a bright smile, “C’est très bon!”

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I nod nonchalantly, but was honestly miffed. Chocolate connoisseurs the world over have praised my chocolat praliné to the highest heavens, yet this dumbass here could only come up with the word “good”. Nevertheless, I decide to excuse him and his poor vocabulary. Because he’s pretty and all.

I wait expectantly for better-worded praise from his companion: the handsome, intelligent-looking ash blond, but then the greedy brunet is turning to him and demanding, “Now give me yours.” 

Jean glowers at him, “What the fuck? It’s mine, why the hell should you have it!?” 

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“Because there were only three croissants for breakfast in the kitchen this morning; you ate two while I only had one,” Eren explains indulgently.

“You kidding me?” Jean protests. “I was gonna slice up the third croissant so we could share, but you insisted I eat the whole damn thing. You offered it to me, Eren!”

“Meaning now I get to eat that one, by default,” says the unperturbed Eren, pointing to the chocolate I set on the counter in front of the taller guy, fingers reaching for it. 

Jean reacts swiftly, grabbing the shorter guy’s wrist. “Au contraire,” he says, hazel eyes narrowing. “No, it doesn’t, Eren.”

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They glare at each other, preparing for a fist fight. At first I thought it would be fun to see these two gorgeous creatures pummel one another over the last piece of chocolate made by me the gifted young chocolatier dubbed Patrick Roger 2.0, but I think of my precious glass display cases and scold them in my stern girl boss voice, “Brawl inside my shop and I’ll ban you both for life!”

So Jean relents and says to Eren, “Alright then, if you want it that much, come and get it.” He puts the confection carefully between his teeth and gives Eren a meaningful look. They kiss in front of me, a deep, long, lingering kiss, the dark chocolate melting between their lips, coating their tongues. They take their time savoring the treat and each other, the scent of high-grade cacao wafting around their faces, the heady aroma made even stronger by the heat of their passion. 

I wave them to a couch at the back of the shop, and they let me watch while cleaning up. It got so hot in there they ruined the cocoa butter I spent hours extracting. 

THE END

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