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There’s a bouquet on the dining room table when Damen gets home. It’s massive; what must be two dozen blood red roses interspersed with purple irises and great flashes of bright pink lilies, little white filler blooms he doesn’t know the name of cutting down on the riot of color. It’s the color scheme his father used to favor. His stepmother is staring at it pensively.
Damen looks at her face and aims for some levity. “Got a new main squeeze already?" He offers a half-hearted grin. "Is he at least ten years younger? Cause Dad would have wanted that.”
She doesn’t smile. “They’re from your father.” She finally looks at Damen, turning her eyes from the vase for the first time. “Apparently he and the florist had a standing arrangement that no one knew to cancel.”
Damen drops the bag of laundry he’d brought to the house to do and steps forward until he can read the card. Theomedes died back in the fall, but even with a will and an advanced directive, it felt like they were still being bombarded by more things that needed to be done. It will be time to think about filing his taxes soon.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells her, and steps out of the room to make a few phone calls
“You also have a dinner reservations at Le Couteau and two tickets to tonight’s opera. Dad had standing arrangements with them too.”
Her face twists into something wry. “Your father was nothing if not efficient.” She’s back to looking at the flowers again. They are not a family who talks much. Hypermenestra has lived with them since Damen was six, and he still can't read her well enough to tell if she’s touched (that his father’s last gifts reached her from beyond the grave) or irritated (that he'd set things up to run automatically without effort on his part) or grieving, that he's not there to share this with her.
Damen thinks bitterly of Kastor. He should be here, dealing was this. This is his mother, and it's his responsibility to be there for her instead of off gallivanting with Jokaste. But that’s not fair. However complicated Damen’s feelings may be about that relationship, Kastor has every right to be with his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. Damen is the one who is here now. And what is Valentine's Day if not a time when men are expected to step up and center the women who've taken care of them?
“Do you have plans with the Black Widows’ Brunch for tonight?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “What an awful name,” she murmurs, but it was the other ladies with longer dead husbands who came up with it, not Damen.
“Then put on your best dress,” Damen says, checking his watch. There should be enough time for him to go back to his apartment and change into his tux and still make the reservation. “You and I are going out on the town.”
They make a very handsome couple, if he does say so himself. It’s been a long time since he needed to wear a tuxedo, but he hasn’t changed sizes since and the custom tailoring still looks sharp. Hypermenestra is wearing one of those evening dresses for older ladies, with sheer long sleeves dotted with delicate beading and enough ruching to show that she still has a good figure without looking like she’s trying to be too young in showing it off. Hypermenestra didn’t come from money, but she’s been married to Theomedes long enough to pick up a veneer of class over her natural grace that lets her effortlessly outshine all those old blue-blooded bitches who would have once sneered at her background, and walking into Le Couteau with her on his arm, he feels so proud of her he could spit.
Still he’s not sure, once they are seated, that coming here was the right idea. Their pre-theater reservation puts them in with the early dinner crowd - a group of mostly older couples enjoying their golden years together as she no longer can, and Damen’s kicking himself for not thinking of it earlier, for bringing her in among them. Her eyes are fixed on the other diners instead of the menu, and he’s just about to suggest that they ditch this place in favor of a hole-in-the-wall without memories when she says, “Just look at that sweet young couple.”
Damen follows her eyes to two young men at a corner table, easily the youngest people in the room. They look even younger than Damen, although it can't be by too much as they are looking over a wine list and Le Couteu's is strict about carding. They look almost as young as Theomedes and Hypermenestra were during their first go round, when they made Kastor by accident and caused a scandal among the upper class families. He wonders if she's thinking of that, what it had been to be young and in love and foolish, a whole life in front of them that would continue to involve each other in one sense or another until it was time for one of them to go. Then one of the young men turns his head and,
“I know him.”
“Which one? The blond?”
It is the blond, though Damen doesn’t dignify that with an acknowledgement, and now that he’s turned slightly in their direction, Damen is positive that it’s who he thinks it is.
“His name is Erasmus,” Damen says, “We dated for a while in college, when I was a senior and he was a sophomore. When we split, he was talking about he and his high school best friend going to try dating. I think that's him.”
Erasmus had never shown him a picture of the mysterious Kallias, but he'd described him well enough that Damen thinks he recognizes the combination of chestnut curls and large blue eyes that Erasmus had still been swooning over.
“They must be doing well to afford a place like this," Hypermenestra comments.
“Not in those suits,” says Damen, who knows absolutely nothing about fashion but can spot the difference between the rack and tailor-made at 500 yards. “One of them saved for this. I think it's the boyfriend.”
He keeps anxiously pointing out things on the menu as if seeking Erasmus's approval.
“Are you sure that's the same boy he was talking about when you knew him? He looks awfully nervous for a relationship of three years.”
She's right, Kallias does look nervous, but -
“He kept rubbing his pocket earlier when Erasmus was talking to the waiter. Look, there he goes again.”
She leans forward watching them. "Do you think ...?"
"There's a ring in there?" At the other table, Erasmus smiles at something Kallias has said, and then blushes. "Yeah, I do."
"Oh," she says, and Damen looks back to see that she's blinking back tears. She looks sadder than she has all day, but she looks warm too, like it's a good kind of sadness. The tightness that was around her eyes when she was staring at the flowers is gone.
She lays a hand over his. “Let’s send them a bottle of champagne.”
"Yeah," Damen agrees, smiling softly, "The finest in the house."
Dinner at Le Couteau is incredible, as always, and they both find themselves sneaking little glances at Erasmus's table from time to time, Hypermenestra's smile widening every time she does so. Damen understands why. When Kallias does get on one knee and the whole restaurant applauds as Erasmus says yes, his stepmother tells the waiter that they'll be covering their bill too, and he feels just like Cinderella's godmother must have on the night of the ball.
Everyone assumes, looking at him, that Damen would be the sort of man who doesn't get opera. But while it’s true that it’s not his go-to entertainment for an evening or his usual choice of music in the car, for special occasions he can appreciate the sheer artistry of the medium, and the emotion flowing through the music and the poetry of the words. He sets the translator displayed before his seat to transcribe in English what’s going on in the story, and loses himself in the drama of it all. Next to him, his stepmother doesn’t bother, already long familiar with the airs and arias arising from the stage, able to close her eyes to the music and still know, from sheer memorization, what every word in unfamiliar language means.
“Your father used to hate the opera,” she confesses to him during intermission, “He only started taking me because that was what he thought men did to impress their wives, and at first I was too embarrassed to tell him that I hated it too. Then we kept coming and soon I didn’t hate it anymore; listen to it enough and it gets inside your bones and makes you love it.”
At the close of the show, they walk out into the February night and look at the row of taxis. The crowd surges, pushing past them to jostle their way towards the cars, and Hypermenestra pulls her wrap more closely around her shoulders. Tonight is the most they've talked about his father since the funeral, and he wonders if she spent as much of it remembering as he has, flashbacks playing in his mind to jumping around on the bed as they got ready, the smells of his aftershave and her perfume, his father's spiel for the sitter so deeply ingrained that he knew exactly where they would have been - waking from the couch as they clattered back in through the door, Hypermenestra leaning on his father's shoulders to remove her heels as soon as they set foot in the foyer, on the nights that it was Kastor sitting for him because his brother never even tried to make him go to bed on time.
He thinks she looks better than she did at the start of the night. Happier. She does look cold though. She demurred when he offered her his coat, and he's wondering if he should drape it across her shoulders anyway, if that's what his father would have done, when she turns her head to the side.
“There’s a little club not far down this street,” she remarks, no doubt referring to the kind of club where the music’s played on violins and all the patrons are people who’ve had their family names on the list since their grandfathers started coming in 1895. “Your father used to call for a car to meet us there so we could have a few drinks and dance a little instead of waiting for a taxi out in the cold.”
“What time do you want me to schedule the pickup for?” asks Damen. The show had not started late, but operas run long and it’s past 10:30 by the time they made it out to the sidewalk.
She straightens her shoulders. “Twelve,” she says, “I want to be able to tell the brunch ladies that tonight I danced until midnight with a handsome twenty-five-year-old.”
Damen throws back his head and laughs. “Your wish is my command, my lady,” he says, and bows, offering her his elbow.
Laurent looks around the room and allows himself a small smile of satisfaction. The bored, rich husbands have supplied themselves with enough good whiskey to compensate, and their equally bored but more subtle wives have gathered into little cliques to console themselves with equally good gossip. On the dance floor, old battle-axes and new third wives drag their reluctant husbands into a show of happiness, while at the tables peckish diners order round after round of Auguste’s finest amuse-bouche.
All in all, it’s something of a dull and horrible place, but it’s one of the most exclusive in the city, and it was a real coup for Auguste to make it as head chef here so young, and even more so to be able to suggest that Laurent, who is barely old enough to taste the wines that he’s recommending, start covering maitre d’ shifts for 83 year-old Pierre: too much an institution to be let go, but too old to handle some of the longer hours. It’s good money and convenient to his schedule in his last year of college, and Laurent is determined not to let Auguste down.
At this hour, most of the guests have entered, and he allows himself a moment to make the rounds, trading insincere smiles and inane compliments to the music and the food, making sure all the guests feel sufficiently boot-licked. There’s only one couple that stands out in this crowd of guillotine-able rich people, and it’s an impeccably lovely older woman dancing in the arms of an extremely young and handsome partner. Unlike everyone else here, they seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves, and she’s practically glowing as he spins her about. Not that he blames her, with a partner like that, but still - this kind of thing can’t be allowed.
He doesn’t get an opportunity to intervene until they retire to their table and the lady excuses herself for the powder room. The man looks up with entitled interest as Laurent approaches, and Laurent has to hand it to him: he exudes an aura of wealth and privilege far better than any gigolo he’s ever seen, and Laurent would never have made him if he’d come in with a woman his own age. Still, there’s only one reason a man with a smile and biceps likes that would hang on the arm of a middle-aged woman, no matter how lovely she is.
“I have no personal objection to your profession,” Laurent begins amicably, “But I’m sure my bosses would wish me to tell you that you cannot work here.”
His brow wrinkles in such bafflement that Laurent feels tempted to nominate him for an academy award.
“Excuse me?”
“No, you’ll have to excuse me,” Laurent says, “I’m aware that it’s a living as honest as any, but this is practically a temple to old prejudices, and you should know that you can’t practice it here.”
“I’m afraid there’s been some mistake.”
“No mistake,” Laurent says, breezily but firmly, “But you will have to tell the lady you are with that she must enjoy her escort’s company in the privacy of her own home.”
Understanding dawns on the man’s handsome face, and his nostrils flare like an angry bull. He stands slowly, rising to his full height, and the imposing bulk of him weighs on Laurent as it hadn’t when he’d been lightly waltzing with his partner or sitting harmlessly at the table. The man is much taller than he thought. Laurent is suddenly certain that he is about to be punched in the face.
“You owe my mother a most sincere apology,” he says, in tones of grand righteous anger worthy of a duke, “But as the explanation would upset her, I will accept it in her stead.”
For the moment, Laurent is caught. Insisting on what he knew to be true would make a scene, and scenes were above all things to be avoided, particularly when he was without proof. Of course, he could get proof, and the getting of it would likely involve several blows to this man’s dignity and future ability to ply his trade, but if he remained stubborn there was little Laurent could do but make a strategic retreat to come back with avengence.
“You could make this easy,” he says, letting menace drip from his voice.
“I am making this easy for you,” the gigolo insists.
There’s a significant pause.
“Of course, sir,” Laurent says with a bow, “I apologize for any implications against you or your companion.”
And Laurent excuses himself to seek out Google and ruin this man’s life.
Two can play the game of standing on their honor to make the other party feel uncomfortable, and Laurent sends a free bottle of wine to their table “compliments of the maitre d’” while he starts on the research that will wreck the gentleman’s career.
But the lady knows nothing of the passive aggressive sniping that’s actually going on between them, which must be why she looks interestedly in Laurent’s direction when the waiter brings the wine over before dragging her escort over to where Laurent is stationed. He partially closes his laptop in a way that neatly advertises that he’s hiding something.
“Are you the young man who sent us that lovely bottle of Cotes du Rhone?” she asks, and at Laurent’s nod continues, “Pierre must have told you about my husband’s passing.”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Laurent says automatically, but internally he side-eyes the escort harder than it was before. Accepting money to give a woman of a certain age some fun is one thing - taking advantage of the loneliness of a recent widow is something else.
“It’s been hard,” she says, rubbing the arm of the man next to her, whom Laurent is sure can accurately be described as hard, “But my boys have been such a help to me.” She pushes her escort forward. “This is my stepson Damen.”
Laurent raises his eyebrow at the confirmation that their stories don’t match - mother to stepmother - but before he can formulate a response, she continues,
“He’s bisexual,” pronouncing the word precisely as one who has taught herself not to be embarrassed by it.
Neither one of them was expecting her to say that, and there’s a moment of silence where they both blink at her into which she says,
“And single.”
“Ma!” the man protests, so earnestly that Laurent is suddenly very certain that he has misread the situation entirely.
But just because he’s the one who should be embarrassed doesn’t mean he’s the one who’s going to be the most embarrassed.
“Are you single, Damen? What a pity.”
“It’s a shame,” she agrees, while Damen squirms, “He has so much love to give, this boy.”
“Let’s go back to the table,” Damen says, tugging gently at her arm.
She looks like she would have liked to say more, but she only thanks him again for the wine before she follows her blushing stepson.
Laurent watches them go with an amused smile until he is certain neither of them is looking at him. Then he retreats to the kitchen to scream at Auguste about what just happened and bury his head in his hands for a year.
When he comes back to start closing, he finds Damen standing just inside the doorway without his female escort.
“My stepmother made me promise I’d go out again for a drink after I’d dropped her off,” he explains, “She says the night is for the young.”
She thinks the complimentary wine was an expression of interest and has match-making schemes, you mean, he thinks, and feels a surge of resentment that this huge man let that tiny woman push him around like that instead of disappearing from Laurent's life forever.
“We close the bar at 12:30,” Laurent says, though now that he knows who he is, Laurent is certain he's the kind of guest the staff would be forced to make an exception for. Damen seems disinclined to bother the bartenders though, and leans against the wall like he's waiting for something.
“I really must apologize for the assumptions I made about you, and the way they reflected on your mother,” Laurent says, uncomfortably.
“I only said that to make you squirm,” Damen said, “She thought it was hilarious. I told her about it in the car.”
Damen looks him over in a way that Laurent finds … not as unpleasant as he usually does, which is interesting.
“You assumed I was an escort because you thought I was too hot.” He has one dimple when he smiles. Laurent noticed that earlier.
Laurent feels his ears redden, “Once again, I must apologize-”
“Yeah, you should,” Damen interrupts, “But actually, I find it kind of flattering.”
A beat.
“You know, I’ve been told that it is extremely rude to ask people out when they’re at work.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Because they’re not allowed to tell customers to fuck off, even when that’s the honest answer. It puts them in an awkward position.”
Carefully, Laurent matches Damen’s posture leaning against the wall.
“And of course, it is highly unprofessional to ask customers out when you are at work. One might even say, a fireable offense.”
Damen nods. “But you’re closing soon.”
“As soon as the last guests leave,” Laurent says, meaning that they should have closed already.
“I think I’ll have that promised last drink at Finnegan’s,” Damen says, naming a pub-style bar that is both close by and cheap enough for Laurent to buy his own rounds if he wanted to, “I’ll probably stay at least an hour, maybe longer, just in case anyone wants to join me.”
He shrugs off of the wall and starts towards the door.
Laurent lingers, watching him go.
And if Laurent takes him up on his offer to meet him there after close, and goes home with him, and lets Damen ravish him at least three times before morning - well, that’s nothing he needs to tell Auguste about.
Not yet, anyway.