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“You’re Camus, aren’t you? You’re right on time!”
A youthful man in a trendy outfit is looking up at the man in question with a smile, a smile that looks so genuine you’d think he was greeting a friend.
The man is smaller than Camus, but something about his energy Camus feels is a bit much, like he’s fully capable of persuading some poor romantic into buying out a jewelry shop just because. Even with his darker skin and bright, jade-green eyes more obviously distinguishing him from bystanders on the street behind him, the man’s posture, simply the way he carries himself with the same loose confidence of a celebrity, strikes Camus differently. The man is so radiant Camus would have thought he had encountered a movie star.
“And if I am?” Camus raises an eyebrow.
He was out anyway, taking a breather from his studies. Whenever it came to the point where he began seeing anatomical diagrams when he closed his eyes Camus would make his way into town to indulge his sweet tooth. But this morning, Reiji was being especially needy. Camus expected this errand to be more or less uneventful. “Just pick up a few things from the convenience store, ” he told Camus. “It’ll be really quick, just do this one thing for me,” he told Camus.
He only hopes that this ends quickly, such a flashy person can only bring trouble.
But this stranger, albeit a beautiful one, running his fingers down his forearm and gently curling his fingers around Camus’s own. They’re warm, warmer than he’s used to, and Camus holds back the urge to flick him away just for the sudden breach in his personal bubble.
The man senses Camus’s apprehension and gives a light chuckle. “No need to be so shy, Camus, there’s no shame in spending a date or two with a rental boyfriend. I’m Cecil Aijima, I’m looking forward to today!”
Rental boyfriend? Camus knew from a TV program that they exist, but that was the extent he knew about them. He never thought that one would be here, in the flesh, trying to squeeze a date out of him.
“You’re mistaken,” Camus says dryly and pulls his arm away a bit rougher than he intended, causing Cecil to flinch slightly, “Sorry to waste your time, but I have not, nor will I ever employ your services.”
Nobody would blame Cecil if he was scared off, even Camus is a bit surprised at himself for how brusque he’s being, and the sting only comes after the words have left his lips.
“That’s strange,” Cecil says and looks down at his phone quizzically, scrolling through countless conversations, “Your friend told me you were looking for a date, said you were stressed with exams. Must be tough being a med student.”
Cecil hit the nail on the head, but how does he know that? Camus doesn’t remember verbally complaining much about his stress levels at all, much less to a complete stranger. In fact, he’s sure the only one he expressed his gripes even remotely about the load of his studies was in passing to his roommate Reiji. Ah. Reiji.
Camus reaches into his coat pocket for his phone and scrolls his contacts for his roommate’s name, using all his strength not to crush the device between his palm.
The sight of Reiji’s full name somehow looks incredibly punchable to Camus.
Sure enough, his most recent message reads:
Thank me later ;)
And of course Reiji punctuated it with a wink. Of course.
“Aw, don’t get mad at your friend,” Cecil laughs and takes Camus’s hand again, “He paid for this date just for you! Isn’t it great? You can spend the whole day with me if you want and it wouldn’t cost you a thing, not including any expenses you choose to spend on me, of course.”
He said that last part so smoothly, Camus almost missed it.
“I don’t have any sort of date planned,” Camus says, “I was just on my way for a pick-me-up at my usual patisserie.”
“A patisserie?” Cecil echoes, as if committing it to memory, and hooks his arm around Camus’s and beams, “Perfect! I was just in the mood for something sweet. Let’s go!”
In the moment, Camus doesn’t really know why he’s so passive.
Maybe out of courtesy for Cecil, he came all this way after all. Or out of courtesy to Reiji, although reluctantly, for trying to relax Camus in his own way. Or maybe he’s just that willing to take anything that would halt the boring lull of staying inside and burning medical notes his mind for hours on end.
Cecil gapes at the Camus’s side of the table, which is covered from end to end with colorful plates of every sweet dish one can think of, before glancing down at his own solitary Mont Blanc that Camus had bought him. “You ordered, like, half the menu.”
“What about it?” Camus asks before cutting into a strawberry tart. This is the part where he has to defend his palate, as if a grown man isn’t allowed to indulge in the saccharine.
“Nothing,” Cecil assures and leans forward in his chair, his chin reclining on his hand, “I’m actually quite impressed. I like a guy with an appetite.”
“You don’t have to lie,” Camus says and stabs at the fruit, “My colleagues, and even my roommate, as carefree as he acts, all poke fun at my preferences. It’s what I like, but they say it betrays my appearance.”
“Really? I don’t think so at all,” Cecil coos, “I think it’s refreshing. It’s really cute that a guy like you has a sweet tooth. It’s fun to eat sweets together with someone like this.”
Cute, he said. That’s the first time someone had referred to him with such an endearing word. And of course it’s coming from a rental boyfriend, a guy who’s literally paid to make people feel like this, but as much as Camus hates to think about it, Cecil is very good at his job, and he's really rubbing it in.
Camus doesn’t respond. He digs at a slice of cake, and the conversation dies.
But the air doesn’t completely quiet down.
Camus feels the other man staring at him, studying him. He pretends to be focused on his food, but he catches Cecil stealing glances. He’s smooth, but not that smooth.
“Is there something on my face?” Camus asks.
“No, there isn’t,” Cecil answers. He doesn’t seem to be embarrassed at all, as if being caught staring at someone isn’t enough to fluster him. “It’s just… Not to be too forward, but I think you’re very beautiful, Camus.”
God, he’s really laying it on thick. Camus knows in his mind that this must be some kind of ploy, it only makes sense.
“Thank you for the compliment,” Camus says, hoping it isn’t too obvious how much eye contact he’s averting with the man across the table, “but I’m afraid you’re not getting much more from me. After this… date. I’ll send you on your way.”
A sulking disappointment falls on Cecil’s face. (Camus hates to admit it, but his pout has a very, very… cute charm to it.) “But I mean it,” Cecil insists with a slightly childish lilt, and he lifts his hand from under his chin and leans forward, closer to the other man. He takes Camus’s hand and gently rubs his fingers along Camus’s paler knuckles, “If this wasn’t a job, I would seriously consider dating you for real, honest.”
Camus feels his ears’ temperature rise, and everything seems to be little louder. But he is not going to let himself show this stranger how flustered he is getting. No matter how intently his tender green eyes are gazing at him, framed by long, dark lashes that brushed his cheeks when he blinked.
Anybody else would melt in this situation, but Camus forces the bite of strawberry past the bashful lump in his throat.
He swears what irks him the most is how smoothly Cecil can say these lines, words that Camus could only imagine he could willingly say himself.
It really can’t be that easy, right?
“Indulge me then, Aijima,” the ends of Camus’s lips lightly curl with amusement, but his tone stays challenging, “What exactly about me do you like?” He’s sure he’ll stump the man, who will definitely fall silent once he realizes he can only offer so much hollow praise, and Camus will finally have peace of mind.
But Cecil smiles a cheeky smile, his eyes creasing slightly. “Do you really want to know?”
Camus stares in anticipation. “I asked, didn’t I?”
“That’s true. Well to start, your eyes are very pretty, a brilliant blue. I was pleasantly surprised when I saw that my client was so stunningly handsome, you could easily score countless women for free. But, and forgive me for saying this, I have a feeling you don’t go on many dates. You’ve been giving me a look that I’m not sure you realize, like you don’t want me to know you. Or you just don’t want to be known at all. But for some reason, I feel drawn to that beautiful cold, I want to know you, and be known by you. That is, if you’ll allow me.”
The answer is yes. It is that easy.
The younger man smirks, as if he knows, as if he were psychic. “Well? Is that good enough for you?”
Camus nervously clears his throat, a bit louder than he meant to.
“I… I’ll be paying for the food.”
“I know,” Cecil beams, satisfied, and takes a scoop of his Mont Blanc.
Camus walks Cecil back to the station; it’s only courteous since he came all this way. On the crowded streets, Camus feels their fingers bump, and the warmth lingers still. And despite himself, perhaps in the spirit of the date, Camus curls them around Cecil’s. He looks down at the other man for a reaction.
Cecil’s gaze was wandering the surrounding streets before, but the sudden, yet gentle, gesture pulls his attention. Camus expected him to giggle and coo flirtatiously like he had been doing, but Cecil only smiles, not a teasing smirk but a genuine and warm smile, and silently leans into the taller man’s shoulder, squeezing their connection tighter.
“This is me,” Cecil says after a static loudspeaker announces the next stop, and the joined hands fall away.
Camus watches Cecil wave goodbye and melt away in the crowd of passengers.
He’s not quite sure what to do with this experience. He definitely seemed to like it and like Cecil ( really like Cecil), but surely Camus was treated like every other client. This wasn’t unique, and the connection was temporary. They didn’t even exchange contact information.
“Camus!”
He is snapped out of his thoughts by a familiar voice. Cecil’s face is poking from behind the crowd, and he seems to be pushing forward, closer to Camus.
“Did you forget something?” Camus asks once Cecil has scurried and stopped in front of him.
“Yes, actually,” he catches his breath before he answers and pulls his phone from his coat pocket, “Your number?”
Not this again.
“I told you, I’m not going to be a regular client for your business,” Camus huffed.
“No,” Cecil laughs, “I want to go on another date. Completely free this time.”
“O-Oh…” Camus fumbles for his phone and exchanges the new contacts.
“And one more thing,” Cecil stands on his toes so he is at eye-level with Camus, “Do you mind if… I kiss you?”
Camus can hear his heartbeat in his ears now. He doesn’t even care about the few onlookers. Cecil is just too, too good. “G-Go ahead.”
Idiot, that’s not what you say before kissing someone.
He feels Cecil smiling into the kiss, and Camus realizes that his arms had wandered around the smaller man’s waist, hugging him closer.
Cecil breaks away, and Camus just now realizes how short the kiss actually was, and he has a taste for more. Cecil steps back, his hands still resting on the blond’s chest and sighs a satisfied sigh.
“See you,” Cecil says, and Camus releases him, watching him briskly walk back to the train, for real this time.
Camus’s lips taste like Mont Blanc until he gets home.
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