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It’s always nice to have a little taste of home. To Pip and Gregory, that meant each other. They were relieved the first time they heard one another speak. Gregory had feared he would lose his accent if the small Colorado town was all he could hear. Pip had feared he would become a coffee drinker if he had no one to have a proper high tea with. Luckily, there was no need to worry.
They had each other. Two Brits, compatriots through thick and thin.
And it was good, this system they had, this friendship. They both needed it. It didn’t matter that Gregory thought Pip was a coward to take the bullying and abuse the way he did, when he was perfectly capable of standing up for himself. It also didn’t matter that Pip thought Gregory could be a real ass sometimes, so condescending to everyone, including him. Someone had to be there to understand what it was like to be that weird foreigner, blond and British and, eventually, bisexual. The two referred to this as their “three Bs”.
Then the fourth B came along.
Pip’s came first, unexpected and yet completely expected. Other than Gregory, he had only one friend– Damien Thorn. Gregory found him irritating at best and repulsive at worst, as he was the son of Satan and loved torturing poor Pip. Before turning around to beat up anyone who so much as snickered in Pip’s direction. This just made Pip swoon.
“Isn’t he just… so complex?” Pip would say.
“That certainly is an adjective you could use,” Gregory would reply.
“Complex” was definitely how Gregory would describe his thought process the day he walked into the school parking lot to see the two making out on the hood of Damien’s car. On one hand, Pip was making the biggest mistake of his life. On the other hand, he was clearly enjoying his mistake and Gregory knew that he had to be there for his best British friend. Even if that meant not pointing out that he was dating a literal demon. So he just smiled and nodded politely whenever Pip would launch into a gushing tirade about what he and Damien would get up to during their times together.
Gregory’s came a few months later, though really it had been slowly building over the past three years. He had countless friendly acquaintances and admirers, but other than Pip, he preoccupied most of his free time with one man– Christophe DeLorne. Pip always did his best to simply give a tight lipped smile whenever Christophe would so rudely barge into Gregory’s house, often through his bedroom window. Just like a Frenchman to have zero manners.
“Quite the confident chap, isn’t he?” Pip would remark.
“Not confident enough,” Gregory would sigh, longingly.
It wasn’t too much of a shock when Pip was holding onto Gregory’s phone for him, felt it buzz, and saw a text from “Christophe <3”. Or that the text was in French (which was a dumb useless language Pip did not bother to learn) and so clearly was Gregory being addressed as “chéri”. He still quirked an eyebrow at Gregory when he handed the phone back and all Gregory did was blush and give him a knowing smile. He’d gone insane.
It didn’t matter that Damien’s fierceness was rubbing off on Pip and he finally began to stand up for himself, even throwing a few punches. Or that Gregory would stop himself before talking down to others now, learning from Christophe how to tell when he was being patronizing. The two boys continued their wonderful friendship built on their three Bs, hoping the other would never bring up that fourth B. Until, one day, Pip decided he wanted to break this unspoken agreement they’d come to.
“You know, I do quite enjoy your company, Gregory,” he said at one of their tea parties they always held after school.
“I enjoy yours as well,” Gregory smiled. “I wonder, though, why you’re bringing it up so blatantly?”
“Well.” Pip helped himself to a scone. “I was thinking, since it’s so lovely having tea with you, it might be lovely to add another member or two to our little party.” Gregory was suspicious, but he didn’t let on as he stirred his tea.
“Who on Earth would we add? My cousins? They rarely come to town.”
“Oh, no.” Pip shook his head. “I think Pocket is a delight but you know my history with Estella. And I couldn’t bear to invite one and leave the other out.”
“Of course.”
“No, I was thinking it might be… interesting if I were to bring Damien along one of these days. And you could invite your fro– friend.”
“You mean my boy friend.” Gregory sipped his tea, slowly. “Christophe.”
“Right-o.”
“And you would bring Damien. Your boyfriend.” Gregory and Pip stared at each other, even-keeled expressions, but there was a challenge burning in both of their eyes. The dulled butter knives on the table would be useless against the thickness of the tension in the room. Despite how polite they both tried to be, it was an open secret how the other abhorred their friend’s respective partner. Still, they were proper British gentlemen. They would not directly bring this up. They’d wait for the inevitable to blow up in the other’s face while standing by with a “I told you so” at the ready.
Pip took a small bite of his scone, chewing carefully, deliberately. Gregory set his cup down on the saucer, so lightly it barely clinked.
“I suppose that would be interesting,” Gregory finally said. “Damien is the ‘prince’ of Hell, isn’t he? I’m sure he’s hiding fantastic table manners.”
“And people say the French have good looks so I’m sure Christophe can clean up rather well.” Pip wiped the crumbs from his face with a napkin. “How does next Friday sound?”
“Sounds wonderful.”
It took half of the week for each Brit to convince their boyfriends to come to high tea and they spent the rest of the week fuming about the whole affair. They had dropped hints here and there to the men about their feelings before, but now that they knew the other was about to meet the worst scum of the Earth, they would not shut up about exactly how they felt.
“Sometimes I think he’s gotten better, but then it’s a huge slap in the face when I realize he’s just as full of himself as always!” Pip sat in Damien’s lap, ranting as the demon played with his hair.
“You should just kick his fucking ass,” Damien said. “I know you can.”
“Yes, I can, but I won’t. He’s my friend,” Pip grumbled. “We look out for one another as fellow former members of the Great Britania. But sometimes I swear he’s been replaced with someone else. What good Brit in his right mind would ever date a fucking frog?? It’s equivalent to high treason!” He leaned forward and gave a muffled groan in the crook of Damien’s neck. Damien laughed, somewhere between a chuckle and cackle. Pip huffed as he absentmindedly played with the chain of his boyfriend’s necklace. “It’s just… Gregory has choices. Why choose that one? Ugh. I’ve told you how that bastard reeks, haven’t I? And tracks dirt everywhere?”
“About five thousand fucking times,” Damien nodded. “Always followed up with something about how he probably doesn’t bathe.”
“He probably doesn’t!” Pip threw his hands in the air, frustrated. “And Gregory has the nerve to gripe about your table manners.” He put his hands on Damien’s chest, serious. “Damien, please, please be a gentleman tomorrow. I know you’re wonderful, but I couldn’t stand the look on Gregory’s face if he’s somehow whipped his dog into better shape. No crass language, chew with your mouth closed, look to me when you don’t know which utensil to use—”
“Fuck, Pip, I got it. Pansy shit.” Damien tsked and rolled his eyes, but sighed when Pip glared at him. “Really. I’ll do it.” He meant it, but mostly because he knew it meant he could leverage it against Pip at some point later. And getting what he wanted was always his number one priority.
“Christ, stay still , Mole!” Gregory wrestled with Christophe’s attempts to keep him away as he took a tweezer to his eyebrows.
“Shit! Zat ‘urts, beetch,” Christophe grumbled as Gregory grabbed his arms and pinned them above his head.
“I am going to poke out your eye if you don’t stop squirming,” Gregory warned. Christophe stopped. “Thank you.” Gregory continued to pluck his brows. “I can’t believe Pip said that about you. He knows you work in… well, he doesn’t know exactly what you do. But he knows you look the way you do because it’s your job. God. We’ll show him just how good you can clean up.”
“Chéri, why do you ‘ang out with a beetch like ‘im?”
“Because we’re friends, Christophe, fellow expats in need of something only another Brit can provide. Despite his hypocriticalness.” Gregory finished taming Christophe’s brows and got off him, rummaging through his drawers for a facemask. “He thinks I’m insane, dating a Frenchman, when he’s dating the literal Devil? Or, his son. Same thing. I bet that man gets off on killing rabbits. Wouldn’t be the first time Pip was attracted to that.”
“You said eet was puppies yesterday.” Christophe reached over for his pack of cigarettes on the bedside table when Gregory smacked his hand.
“Absolutely not! Please, darling, can you not smoke for just the next 24 hours? Get the scent off you. Pip is going to have a field day otherwise. Some little dig about the French and cigarettes, I just know it.” Gregory cupped his boyfriend’s face in his hands. “I know it’s a big ask for you but—”
“D’accord.” Christophe cut him off and lightly kissed the inside of his palm. “No cigarettes.” He lived to see that small smile of Gregory’s, the real one. Not to mention he could use his good behavior now to get away with bad behavior later.
Friday came and the school day went by quicker than any of them had ever experienced before. It helped that they were all seniors in their spring semester, so nothing much was expected of them anyways. Gregory had long known he was accepted at his top choice, Yardale, and Pip had made the hasty decision to move down to Hell with Damien, where he would take college courses online. Christophe already had a job and Damien was an heir (of sorts). This meant they could all save their energy for the afternoon event.
Pip would be playing host. He claimed he had more space to accommodate all of them, which Gregory knew wasn’t true but allowed him this. Sure, it meant that Pip could control when the whole affair stopped and started and could make Christophe uncomfortable, shaming him for not knowing the rules of his household. Because Pip knew it also meant Gregory had more time to prep Christophe while he was busy prepping the tea. This was war and the British refused to concede— not to the French, not to the Devil, not to each other.
There was a knock at the door as Pip was busy flitting around his dining room, last minute adjusting the table settings and serving plates. He cursed under his breath. They were three minutes late— a perfect amount of time for the host to have prepped and then settled.
“Just a moment!” Pip called as he hurried into his living room before catching sight of his boyfriend. “Go sit at the table, Damien,” he commanded. “Back straight, hands in your lap. I don’t want Gregory to see you lounging on my couch when he comes in.” Damien, who was indeed lounging on Pip’s couch, smirked as he complied.
“I like this new tone of yours. So forceful!” He wrapped his arms around Pip and bit at his ear. Pip, against his personal wishes, pushed Damien off and towards the table.
“Later!” he promised, shooing Damien off. His eyes did follow him, though, as he sat down and took on the part of the perfect gentleman. He’d never realized until then how attracted he was to that idea.
Outside the door, Gregory was using his final moments to smooth Christophe’s new shirt. They’d bought it just yesterday after he discovered that all Christophe owned were ill-fitting T-shirts and a few fraying turtlenecks. The new shirt was also a turtleneck but it was clean, unwrinkled, and matched perfectly with the new dress pants Christophe was also wearing (he only owned canvas cargo pants and a single pair of jeans).
“Now remember,” Gregory said. “No smoking, limit your French because Pip will assume you’re gossiping about him—“
“I would be.”
“And you have to drink the tea!” Gregory ran his fingers through Christophe’s hair, fixing it again. God, he was attractive, all spiffed up like this. Something in Gregory’s face must’ve betrayed his thoughts on this because Christophe smirked. He leaned over to nip Gregory’s neck before he got pushed off.
“Later,” Gregory assured. He was ready to knock again when Pip opened the door.
“Oh, jolly good, you’ve both made it!” Pip threw his arms around Gregory, then turned to Christophe and did the same. He was never usually this forward but he wasn’t usually trying to sniff his guests. Both smelled disappointingly wonderful. There was a sharpness to Gregory’s scent, some kind of citrus for sure, whereas Christophe smelled surprisingly of honey or vanilla (or a combination thereof). Not a single whiff of dirt or nicotine on them. Gregory’s smile suggested that he knew this frustrated Pip.
“May we come in?” he asked.
“Right-o, Gregory. And Christophe.” Pip added the second name as an afterthought. The pair stepped in through the doorway and Pip watched as Christophe watched Gregory remove his shoes and place them out of the way. He copied him. There was a no-shoes inside rule at Gregory’s house as well but Christophe knew he never actually needed to follow them there. Pip led them all into the dining room, where a perfect set up lay on the table. In the center of the small table was a selection of scones and biscuits, two bowls of sugar, two tiny pitchers of milk, and two boxes full of a variety of teas. A place card (with beautifully caligriphied names) let them know which seat was theirs. At each seat was a plate, big enough for a pastry or two but small enough to discourage overeating, and they’d each been given their own tea cup. Gregory did not fail to notice that Christophe’s was decorated with frogs on a lily pad.
“You spoil us, Pip,” was all he said as he sat down, kitty corner to Damien. The man was wearing a black button up that was unbuttoned lower than Gregory ever personally liked his orange Oxford. It wasn’t salacious, though. A tasteful amount of skin. He was also sitting very properly in his chair, no back slouch or elbows on the table. That bastard.
“Oh, well, since it’s such a special occasion, I thought it would be fun to be a little nicer than usual.” Pip sat down as well, smiling at Gregory to let him know he had noticed Damien’s posture. Christophe took his seat, next to Damien, and the two exchanged looks. It was their first time really meeting one another. Damien skipped nearly every class he had ever had and Christophe had been, theoretically, homeschooled since fifth grade. They regarded one another cautiously, wondering how much they’d been told was true and how much was their respective boyfriends’ exaggeration.
“Salut,” Christophe said, then cleared his throat as he felt Gregory kick him under the table. “Ah, ‘ello. You must be Damien.”
“And you’re Christophe,” Damien said. They nodded to one another.
“How about we pour the tea,” Pip suggested. “Damien?” Each of them chose a tea bag from the center and placed it in their cups. Damien grabbed the teapot of hot water, pouring it into his own cup, then glancing up to see a completely mortified Pip staring at him. He’d obviously fucked up, but he didn’t realize in what way until he’d finished pouring water for everyone.
“Is that customary in Hell?” Gregory asked, so innocent and snide as he stirred a single spoonful of sugar into his tea. “Pouring your own cup… and before everyone else, no less?”
“Yes,” Pip quickly lied. “Damien thought it would be a fun… cultural exchange. You’re a man of culture, right, Gregory?” The man nodded, obviously still amused as Pip plastered a fake desperate smile on his face.
Much to everyone’s surprise and relief, the tea continued mostly uneventfully. Pip and Gregory did most of the conversing, making eye contact with their boyfriends when they felt it’d been too long since they last spoke and any longer would be rude. There was the occasional kick under the table when Damien reached for something he should ask to have handed to him instead or when Christophe slipped into using French because he was too lazy to translate something over to English. Eventually, all their heads perked up as a pleasant alarm went off in the kitchen. Pip clapped his hands.
“Right-o! I’d nearly forgotten!” He hadn’t, really. “Since I knew Christophe was coming, I thought it would be nice to try and make some macarons. I suppose they’ve just finished baking. We’ll be having them rather fresh.”
“How kind of you.” Gregory was livid. He could tell where this was going.
“I’ll go get them and then put the finishing touches on.” Pip stood before purposefully hesitating. “Oh dear. Now that I think about it, it might take a while to do all of them on my own. Gregory, you’ve always been so good at efficiency. Would you mind terribly if I asked for your assistance?” They locked eyes, tension once again palpable. It was another challenge– which boyfriend was really better without the constant supervision and monitoring? When left alone, could they be trusted? If Gregory refused to go into the kitchen, he was admitting that Pip was right to trust Damien to behave when alone. That Christophe was the inferior one. He couldn’t let that happen.
“After the gracious host you’ve been, Pip, it’s only fair.” He rose to the challenge (and out of his seat). They walked through the door between the dining room and the kitchen, letting it close behind them. The boyfriends were out of sight. Pip took two trays out of the oven and set them down, then hummed predictably.
“You know, I’ve never made these before,” he said. “But it seems we ought to let them cool before we put the cream in the middle.”
“I believe you’re right about that,” Gregory’s smile was tight lipped. The kitchen was now a handcuff, trapping them while they knew the time bomb that was the dining room could blow at any possible moment.
Left alone, the two men watched each other out of the corner of their eyes. If either broke character for one second, they knew the other would report back. Perhaps, if they broke mutually, it would be fine. However, they didn’t know one another well enough to coordinate such a maneuver. It wasn’t as if they weren’t willing to sit in silence until the Brits returned, but after a minute, Christophe decided he would try.
“So,” he said. “You’re really ze son of Satan?” Damien raised an eyebrow, surprised that the other was more impatient than him as he nodded.
“Yes.” There had to be more on the Frenchman’s mind than that. He was suspicious of anyone who had a name so obviously religious like “Christophe”. The man chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking about this for a moment.
“‘ave you ever… met God?” It was precisely the follow up question Damien had predicted.
“I have.” He looked Christophe up and down, then decided to indulge himself a little bit. “He sucks.”
“Knew eet,” Christophe chuckled. Wait, chucked? Damien sat up straight, now out of interest rather than politeness.
“Thoughts on God?” Damien didn’t care about the facade anymore and he hoped the misotheist in front of him was ready to drop it too.
“Zat cock-sucking ass’ole makes my life miserable.” Christophe was indeed done playing polite party guest. “I ‘ate ‘im.”
“Your name–”
“Ees what my beetch of a mother gave me.” The Frenchman waved his hand dismissively. “Gregory loves ze sound of eet so I let ‘im use eet but, just between you and me? Zere ees a reason everyone else calls me ‘Ze Mole’.”
“I’m not calling you that, ‘Ze Mole’ sounds fucking stupid,” Damien decided. “Got anything else?”
“Euh… my last name ees DeLorne?”
“Then I shall call you DeLorne.” Something between a genuine smile and wicked grin spread across Damien’s face. “Wanna learn about Hell?”
Five eternal minutes later (Gregory sped up the cool down process by opening a window to the frigid winter air), the macrons were all sandwiched and plated. Pip and Gregory could hear talking coming from the other room and the occasional laughter. It terrified them. If they didn’t return soon, they knew they’d start greying from the stress. Plate in hand, Pip was the first to scurry out the kitchen door and into the dining room.
“Terribly sorry for the wait!” He momentarily forgot how to breathe as the men in front of him looked up from Damien’s phone. The air in the room had shifted, drastically. Gone were the stiff yet awkwardly polite stances they’d kept through the tea party. Christophe’s hair had been tousled out of its neat, brushed style. Damien had his elbows propped up on the table and his napkin crumpled by his plate. There was a dark horse on its way to win the war.
“Glad to see you two kept yourselves entertained.” Gregory took his seat, feeling just as nervous and wary as Pip.
“Mon cher, you never told me zat Damien and I ‘ad so much in common,” Christophe grinned.
“Oh, you do?” Pip wanted nothing more than to go and scream into a pillow for the rest of the afternoon and evening. He set the plate on the table instead.
“Yes! We’ve been discussing… religion.” Damien shared a look with Christophe that made both of them laugh.
“I’m getting a tour of Hell zis Sunday.” Gregory wanted to throw himself off the nearest cliff. His boyfriend was willingly going to Hell… and on a Sunday, no less? Of course he’d find that irony so amusing.
“Zese are ze macarons?” Christophe reached over to the plate and took two, giving one to Damien.
“Er. Yes. They’re all lemon, I figured it would be the most neutral flavor to pair with any of the teas.” Pip didn’t know why he was over explaining himself. He just felt incredibly on edge as he watched Damien shove the whole thing in his mouth, chew twice, and swallow. Nothing could’ve prepared Pip for what came out of his boyfriend’s mouth.
“Ce sont les pires macarons que j'ai mangés de toute ma vie.”
It took every muscle in Gregory’s body to not spit out the tea he was in the middle of drinking. He did, however, choke on it. Christophe’s eyes widened as his face broke into the biggest grin in the world.
“Ah bon?” He popped the macaron in his mouth, chewed, then started laughing. “Tu as raison! Ça a un goût de merde!” Damien laughed along with him, both of them nearly in tears. The difference in energy between the two sides of the table was greater than the parts of the sea that hadn’t been explored. If they weren’t so preoccupied, heads thrown back as they howled with laughter, the boyfriends would have noticed that Pip hissed at Gregory and demanded a translation. Gregory would not look in his eyes.
The rest of the tea was spent uncharacteristically raucous. Gone were any front of manners and politeness. Instead, Christophe and Damien talked back and forth about their mutual disdain for the church, ways to kill a man, government corruption, and anything else they’d been told was a forbidden conversation topic. It turned out that, as aspiring world conqueror and ruler, Damien was fluent in many languages and longed to practice anything that wasn’t English. And Christophe, as a mercenary who couldn’t waltz but still danced with Death, was simply interested to see where he’d eventually find himself. The poor Brits simply sat, dumbfounded and furious, providing little more than nods or shakes of their head when prompted. Eventually, Christophe looked down at his watch and tsked.
“Eet’s getting late. I zink Gregory told me zis would be over soon.”
“Pip said the same thing.” Damien glanced at the time on his phone, then up at Pip. “So what’s going on? Is this an etiquette thing? Guests have to ask to leave?”
“Zat ‘as always been something I will never understand.” Christophe looked back and forth between the men in front of him. “Les Anglais sont si passifs et agressifs.” This made Damien laugh and Gregory huff indignantly.
“Then I guess I’ll start the whole ritual of politely leaving.” Damien winked at Pip, then looked at his naked wrist. He gasped sarcastically. “Oh no, look at the time. I really should get going, especially when you have so much cleaning up to do, Pip. But, uh, thanks or whatever. You were a good host.” He stood and walked over to Pip, kissing the top of his head, then grinned at Christophe. “So, DeLorne, you’re not busy, right?”
“And eef I was, beetch?”
“I’d say you’re fucking lying. C’mon, we’re gonna walk and smoke.” Christophe happily stood at that proposal, giving Gregory a quick peck on the cheek and saying “Merci!” to Pip as he ran out the door with Damien.
It was a good five minutes of total silence before either Gregory or Pip spoke.
“They are NOT allowed to come to another tea.”
“Right-o.”